Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Making Pasta With Morrissey

This is such an old story,

so predictable,

well trodden boards, and all that,

but I gather everyone I know and I tell it again anyway,

because my heart feels like she has never been heard.

I am currently attempting to live in the moment.

I am currently attempting to “have fun” and enjoy being young,

but as I knew before,

and as I already know that I will know after,

I am having a dreadful, stressful time,

because I’m the kind of girl who needs to know how things turn out,

so that she can decide if the inevitable heartache will be worth it.

There is always inevitable and unavoidable heartache.

I am trading texts with a man,

who has an deep desire to tie me up,

and fuck me up (and likely in various other directions) in his living room,

and I think that he thinks my hands are hurried inside my silk underwear,

but in fact,

I am not wearing underwear (please don’t tell him),

because I am home alone,

watching concert videos of The Smiths on YouTube and preparing pasta,

but we are in the moment,

so I play pretend,

in case he wants to fuck me in a more palatable way,

or maybe even wants to fall in love.

That would be nice,

but like heartache, disappointment is also inevitable and unavoidable,

so I try not to get my hopes up too much,

I try not to give myself a headache,

my heart warmed at the thought that I will at least have a hearty meal this evening.

The water bubbles with excitement,

but I do not.

When Morrissey muses about “Girl Afraid”,

he means me.

He might not know it,

but I’d know my anxious agony anywhere,

so, yes, I am girl, and yes, I am afraid.

Where do his intentions lay?

And what are mine?

When does “having fun” translate to having a good time?

I’m sorry,

but I will lose my shit if I have to say to myself

“Jennifer, Jennifer, it was really nothing”

again,

because again,

I am having absolutely no fun,

in my summer of love,

where no love is actually found,

and I am profoundly worried about the safety of my body and soul.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Cannibal Holocaust

I am human,

so they tell me,

dragged from the river,

forced into the ritual.

I heard a cheerful whistle,

far away in the trees,

a soul who had escaped,

perhaps?

Nobody who knew this horror could craft such a beautiful tune,

and let it escape from their lips,

into all this.

I want to be uncontacted,

untouched,

but the human race has hungry hands,

and I lay here,

with my soul and my insides outside of my body,

washed up on the bay of a busy town.

There’s more to life than books, you know,

but I don’t want to hear about it,

because the pages are the only peace I have ever found,

and, God, they’ve already taken so much,

so leave me with Carol Ann and my Marlowe,

let me rest in some kind of peace.

I watch cannibal movies, when the sun has gone down,

and a man who still holds onto my heart asks if I’m awake.

I have made many mistakes in my life,

and some may ask “What’s another?”,

“What’s the harm?”,

but God, he’s already taken so much,

so I stare blankly as arms are torn off,

hearts are eaten,

wishing that mine could be cuisine too,

so that I couldn’t hear her hopeful whistle every time I am drowned and reborn.

Could the ones we labelled as savages, do me this kindness?

They shake their heads,

shaking my hand,

offering a salad.

My girl is whistling again.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

How Soon Is Now?

I am on display,

throwing heartbreak on the airwaves,

waiting outside of your house,

humming How Soon Is Now?

Knowing I will never get an answer,

from the fiend,

who found me,

quite happily alone,

addicted me to his strange love,

then sent me away,

a stranger.

I don’t recall,

if I remained a human,

after the torture,

but love is my whole life,

survival of the seasick,

homesick,

lovesick,

lonely but still leaning against your door,

flowers in my hair,

and on my wrists,

each petal,

poisoned,

by the pain of endless waiting.

Waiting,

just in case,

now knocks on the door,

and takes me out to dinner.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Go To Waste In The Wrong Arms

I guess I never learned to paint my nails properly,

like everything in my life,

I can’t quite keep between the lines,

but you don’t seem to mind.

You tell me they look nice,

and your voice,

soft and reassuring,

is all the convincing I need,

to keep splattering black nail varnish,

in the vague direction of my nails,

with half gay abandon,

(In case you didn’t know, I’m bisexual, and it’s basically the rules that I have to loudly announce it as often as possible).

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I’m painting my nails,

with only a Morrissey vinyl for company,

waiting for you to call,

though I know you’re busy today,

and I’m setting myself up for a mid evening crash,

where I lay under my covers,

refuse to eat dinner,

(which isn’t nearly as dramatic when you are the only person who’ll notice if YOU don’t get up and make dinner for yourself),

and cry myself to sleep,

because like Tinkerbell,

Rachel Berry,

and instagram influencers,

(and I suppose, Morrissey, although, I am TRYING not to give into him at this point)

I need attention to live,

and darling,

I am DYING.

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One can’t exactly go to waste in the wrong arms,

if no arms come to call.

I’m sorry to be so obvious,

but my loneliness is life and death.

That’s how we almost lost Britney,

and you wouldn’t want that end for me,

surely?

My nails still look a mess,

Morrissey is almost done,

and thank God,

because I feel guilty even letting him,

and what he became into the house,

and,

of course,

you haven’t called,

so I’m going to the park,

to cry under the stars,

for a change of scenery.

 

Posted in Blog, Personal, Thoughts On Writing, Writing

Twilight

Jennifer Juan selfie

When I was seventeen, I decided to go to university. I had considered, and dismissed it before, but at seventeen, an English teacher remarked of his hopes for me to continue my studies at university, and I decided “why the fuck not?”

So, off to university I went. I decided to do a course in creative writing, and was excited at the prospect of meeting people like myself, and I did. I met a lot of wonderful people, but I also met quite a few people that I’m going to discuss further.

Before university, my writing was isolated. I occasionally shared it in english classes, when pushed into it, but it never went further than that. I had never really met other writers before, but they always seemed nice in books and movies, and so I wasn’t too concerned.

In one of my first classes, there was stifled laughter from one corner when a student stated that Twilight was her favourite book. Now, I’ve never read Twilight, and I probably won’t, but this moment highlighted a big issue in the writing community for me.

There is a startling problem with elitism among students in writing classes (and writing in general). I’m not sure why I was so surprised to discover it, in hindsight, because it’s incredibly visible. Of course, all writing is subjective, and there would be no point in writing continuing if we all read and enjoyed the same content, and with that in mind, why should someone be laughed at for enjoying Twilight? A student inspired by Twilight is still capable of writing to the same level of somebody who has been raised on a diet of Keats and Wilde, and it’s unfortunate that people still think otherwise.

Every writer has limitless potential, and the way they discovered their passion for writing is valuable, regardless of who pointed them in that direction. There is no reason a person should be written off immediately, due to their creative influences, because it potentially throws away future best sellers, books that will change lives and open minds. Drowning out a potential writer’s voice with obnoxious laughter at their influences only isolates writing further as a medium, and continues to present the stereotype that writing is for a small section of the population, and that no other voices are worthy, which is hardly the image writing needs.

There are expectations, of those who attend creative writing classes, to consume a certain type of writing, and then produce the same, which completely undermines the word “creative” in the title of the class. No writer has the same journey, and your journey being full of Plath and Morrissey vinyls doesn’t make you more intelligent, or more entitled to be in a writing class, because a learning environment should be for anyone who found their way there, and wants to learn more.

If a person has something to express, and decides writing is the best medium for them, they should be encouraged, and not mocked, because their influences don’t match up to your own expectations. The content of their inspiration isn’t important, the existence of the inspiration itself is the key factor that earned them a place in class, and you don’t get to tell them otherwise. It doesn’t matter where it comes from, passion is the only prerequisite to advancing their writing journey.

I’m now twenty three, and while I have understood this for a while, I am aware a lot of people still struggle with the concept. The truth is, it doesn’t make you a better writer if you laugh at somebody who read and was inspired by Twilight. It just makes you rude.