© Copyright 2018 Giselle Melendres - Mad Sounds Magazine

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The Peculiar Process

February 3, 2017

Photo by Elijah Spoelstra 

 

I am unapologetically a brain hurricane, hoping that you actually read rather than just skim board over my words. My ideas are all over the map, widespread on the kitchen counter with coffee rings and sticky notes. Much like hopping on a train heading north but with no destination in mind. I write, not for affirmation or a goal of perfection in mind, but because it really kind of turns me on (figuratively because I’m a lady). This specific article is written in hopes of you somewhat understanding the process of that.

 

In all honesty, I find it quite difficult not to let negative thoughts consume me. Sometimes it hits you like a punch in the gut: “being an intern for a magazine and making coffee runs won’t get me anywhere in life” or “how did I even write this piece” or “this joke isn’t a real joke, Naomi” (you get the point). I feel I’ve had my fair share of ill-inspired nights. Nights like tonight where I write this article and will rest my head knowing that at least I am brutally honest with myself. And at the end of the night, there are emotions, boys and dreams to pull inspiration from -- so pick your poison.

 

For those who write, do not stop. Tear it all apart just to build it back up, without letting your doubts get to you. Although your words might not always flow like honey off a babies bum (graphic, I know), it is completely yours to fiddle with and recreate until your pen runs dry. It is where you can escape empty small talk and scream without any effort of lungs. I hope you read yourself well enough to express your idiosyncratic style, devilishly partnering with lack of sleep.  


It’s all a part of my peculiar little process: the realization that writing is my own form of art and only really needs to seek approval from my eyes (and the senior editor if we decide to be technical). I am coming to terms with my inkless pens and crumpled pages. All the “once was” epiphanies until proven otherwise to me. All the love stories written for someone in love with me, yet he had no name. I am coming to terms with the embarrassing mess I have made of blank pages. Now knowing that if I start and don’t finish where I want to be, there will always be more pens, and paper grows on trees.

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