When I was fourteen, two of my friends tried to commit suicide together. Two boys that I had known since second grade. We all went to Sunday school together:

The guys were hanging out together, which turned into a session of mutual masturbation; which lead to kissing and other things that adolescents do when they’re discovering each other’s bodies.

Afterwards, they decided it would be less complicated if they just killed themselves. A combination of Catholic guilt and social shame…

(Being a bisexual, fourteen year old girl was embarrassing and sometimes terrifying. I was one of the first out girls at school — though, not at home. Embarrassing because I couldn’t even sit with my first girlfriend at lunch because people would crowd around us (I shit you not) and demand that we make out for their entertainment. Terrifying like one time a jock passed me a note saying that my girlfriend and I needed to be “raped straight”. 

I can’t imagine what it must have been like for gay boys. I do know that all of them were deep in the closet. I know that because even the kid who went “EWWW!” when someone mentioned or referenced female genitalia, even he had a “girlfriend”. 

It’s hard to gauge if that was actually the social climate or if it was just because we grew up in the south… )

No one had bullied them. No one had screamed “fags!” and chased them down to stomp them. 

No one would have even guessed either of them liked boys — well, except for me.

(Both of them had felt me up during a church lock in. I had tasted both of their tongues and rubbed against them in the dark. But when I kissed one and then the other — it wasn’t just me that each boy was kissing. I would catch moments where one would be watching the other’s lips as they pressed against mine. When the other would let his hand move closer to where the one was touching me… )

That’s what hit me the hardest. That it was just the thought of being ostracized and rejected. It was just the potential to be humiliated and assaulted that made death seem like a less scary option.

The gravity of that… to know that we were living in a world where death seemed like the better choice than sex and/or/with love? That some sick fucks were probably proud that they had helped to create an environment that contributed to two kids feeling so ashamed — about having natural feelings and desires — they tried to take their own lives?

There are no words. I was so angry. I thought that the world was fucking us queer kids over, all of us…

Both of my friends survived. One got sent away to a Catholic boarding school and the other got shipped off to military school. 

And it occurred to me that neither of those boys was even going to try to speak to the other. Not just because it was forbidden by their parents, but because the artificial shame would be too overwhelming to face. They would just see the faces of their irate and disappointed parents. They would be told things like “it’s just a phase.” Or “It’s a sin” Or “You’ll go to hell.” 

It didn’t matter one bit — to anyone, including them at the time — that they were in love. 

That’s when I felt the incredible weight of sadness. Because that’s when I realized queer kids weren’t just being royally fucked over… we were also being severely fucked up.

Sometimes life shits on your heart. 

People will read longer pieces on Tumblr. I’m not going to lie and say that I believe most readers on Tumblr have the time or inclination to read a piece over 1200 words via their dashboard, but I’m also tired of people accusing the Tumblr audience of “never” having the patience for long pieces.

I’ll be honest, even I skip over some of the longer pieces. I can’t speak for everyone, but here’s the number one reason and it has to do with formatting, no matter how good I think the “quality” of the writing is:

Wall of death text

There is a world of difference between formatting for print and formatting for digital consumption. This has to do with eye strain.

Lack of white space can REALLY make your eyes hurt when you’re reading off of a computer screen. 

This is why it’s vital — especially if you’re going to post a longer piece — to break paragraphs down into smaller, easier to read chunks. Big blocks of text begin to blur together after a certain point in reading. 

It’s so distracting that it makes it a struggle to focus any of my attention on the actual writing. 

The same goes for funky experimental formatting: ALL CAPS. All bold. All italics.

The absolute worst is a huge block of text with no punctuation.

True, there are always exceptions, but if you’re trying to coax an audience into reading you (which I’m fairly certain the people who curse because “no one reads” their long work are), at least meet them half way and format for their reading comfort. 

If you choose to format your writing in such a way that it makes reading your work a chore — more power to you — but please be realistic with your expectations about the anticipated response to or projected popularity of the piece.

I love my online persona. Seriously. I like people think I’m a literary ninja or femme fatale who wants to fight or fuck the entire world.

I used to describe my dad a a Woody Allen type, which was perfect until Woody Allen fucked that up for me. I didn’t want to have to add, “except he’s not trying to sleep with me.”

Today is Father’s Day and my father’s birthday. He’s 70 today. As Freudian as this sounds, he will always be the most influential man in my life. He will always be the person who upsets and annoys me the most. He wasn’t a great dad, I have a lot of reasons to resent him, but he’s getting so old and I’d rather spend the rest of the years I have with him in my life beng grateful, not bitter. I love my dad very much.

Did you know there’s a better, more satisfying way to vent your frustration about “bad” writing, that also feeds our writing community in a positive way?

It’s called: Write something better. 

In the time it takes to sulk and then write nasty anon messages, you could be writing something better. 

Hate everything you see on your dash?

Write something better. 

I’ve read several posts over the last few days that have asked: What the hell is a writer’s voice anyway?

Wait, isn’t this just a pretentious phrase people use when they’re trying to sound like they know something about writing? The answer is: well, sometimes. But, I think it’s a valid concept. 

Your writer’s voice is essentially the unique blend of your vocabulary  phrasing, syntax, flow (often manipulated with punctuation and formatting), aesthetics, and style (including themes, motifs, character development, how you push the narrative forward, genre, etc.) All of these elements combine to give your writing a personalized quality to it. it’s not just what you write, it’s how you write. 

Also, on a deeper level, it’s the aspect of your writing that is the essence of you that shines through, no matter what you’re writing about. It’s your point of view (even when you’re filtering it through characters). It’s your signature. 

It’s the reason why a million writers can write about the exact same topics, but we can still create a million variations — no matter how subtle the differences. 

Your voice is what sets you apart. It’s the one purely original thing you can share as a writer.  I think this is why it’s vital to develop. This is not to say you shouldn’t push past your comfort zones, or that you should limit yourself to a certain topic/style. But somehow you have to find a way to make whatever you write “yours”. Otherwise, there’s no reason to go looking for it. There are already tons of other writers who have probably already written about what you were going to write about anyway.

Your voice is what makes the difference. 

Everything has been written before… but not by you. 

- Have an idea

- Spend hours (even days or weeks or months) loitering on the internet, eating snacks, reading comics, writing other things, masturbating, smoking, sleeping…

- Type story in 30 minutes or less.

- Spend the next couple of hours discovering annoying typos… after it’s already been reblogged.

-  Facepalm (repeat this step as necessary.)

A woman tastes like something impossible to accurately describe. 

She’s a complex assortment of delicate seasonings and subtle spices that equally defy and delight your tastebuds to try to identify all of her ingredients. But no matter how hard you try to deconstruct her recipe, she’ll always remain perplexingly undefined. All you can ever really be certain of is that she’ll linger for days — like an insatiable craving — at the corners of your lips and the tip of your tongue. You’ll suck your fingertips in remembrance of her unique essence, but you’ll never be able to extract her from your skin. 

A woman tastes like all of your childish hopes and adult fantasies. Light initially, but heady as she stews. She tastes like all of your unrealized ambitions and unmanifested dreams; a hint of bitterness with explosions of the sweetest of sweet. 

A man tastes like something easy to identify but impossible to reduce.  

He’s a complex mixture of obvious parts and specific components that equally infuriate and entice your senses to try to sniff him out. But if you butchered him down to his pieces and put him back together again, you would never quite be able to reconstruct his special blend. All you can ever really fully grasp is that he’ll cling — like an unbeatable addiction —  to the of passageway of your nose and the roof of your mouth. You’ll lick your palm, in memento of his signature aroma, but you’ll never be able to distill him from your pores.

A man tastes like all of your youthful wishes and mature desires. Mellow at first, but pungent as he simmers. He tastes like all of your unfinished goals and untapped fantasies; a note of sour infused with bursts of savory.

Of course, there are also a million other flavors, between women and men, a variety of fusions, all delicious and all distinct…

There are as many flavors as there are palates. Each one perfectly balanced and satisfying in their own right. 

But… all humans essentially taste measurably different, and yet always the same. 

I wonder if I would have made a good high school English teacher. I say high school because it would be super cool to see people developing their writing skills at an early age, but I curse way too much to be around younger children. 

Write for yourself, from yourself, of yourself.

Write to capture an idea, a fantasy, a nightmare, a desire, a feeling, a sensation, a mood, an experience, a lesson, or a memory. Remind yourself that you were here; you are here. You still exist. You have survived. You will endure. 

Write to maintain authenticity. Commit to sharing your thoughts and feelings, even if it leaves you feeling vulnerable or anxious that people are going to think you’re a sick-perverted-twisted-miserable-asshole, a psychotic, a whore, a fool, a romantic, a cynic, a hypocrite, or a jerk. Chances are you’re already all of these things — in one way or another, at one time or another — there’s no shame in it. You’re human. Your only birthright is the privilege of imperfection. Indulge. Savor. Celebrate.

Give a piece of you back to you. Sacrifice some of yourself to your Self. 

Write to an audience, for the right audience, the one that makes you feel right when you write.

Share to evolve your perception of an idea, a fantasy, a nightmare, a desire, a feeling, a sensation, a mood, an experience, a lesson, or a memory… by setting it loose to incubate and metamorphosize in the minds of others. Give it the opportunity to adapt — becoming something more complex and useful. Or grant it the permission to perish — making space for something fitter to thrive. Each external perspective is a fresh incarnation, a new generation, increasing the likelihood that something, anything, will survive. 

Share to inspire, motivate, and challenge your peers. Don’t lose good, talented (wo)men to sloth, despair, anxiety, fear, or stagnation without a fight. Art is the collective reflection the human “soul”. Music is the aggregate beat of the human “heart”. Writing is the voice of the human mind. All of these blended together, telling the bittersweet story of the human condition. This is our legacy. Write for the people who you’re proud to share in it with; for the people who make you feel ashamed to be human at all; for the people who haven’t found their passion to contribute. 

Write to, for, and about the person who makes you want to be the best version of yourself; as a writer and as a human being. Every piece is a love letter, a note of appreciation, a record of how thankful you are they exist — even if you haven’t met them yet. 

Write for no one; write for everyone. 

But please, just write. 

When I was younger (I may have been about twelve or thirteen), I went to one of my first coed parties. It was a pool party hosted by a boy who was a friend of a friend. In Florida, during the 90’s, parents seemed more like shadows on the wall. They were always somewhere, hanging out, but never really monitoring our behavior.

Naturally, us kids ended up playing a game of truth or dare. I remember watching people french kiss and staring a little too intently. I have to admit, I’ve always been something of a voyeur. The sexual experiences and conquests of people I’m attracted to really excite me.

(That was the only great part about breaking up with my first boyfriend for the last time. I rode him slowly, as I had him describe the lurid details of who he had been with since we were apart — increasing in speed and fervor the more vividly he made me picture it — until I had a clear enough image to put my hand over his mouth so I could just enjoy the borrowed and reconstructed memory in silence.

I’ve never been a sadist, but there was something particularly satisfying in knowing that he knew I wasn’t really fucking him. I was fucking his stories.

He could have been an audiobook and a vibrator for all I cared… and how he looked a bit sad because he finally understood what it must have been like for those girls — only desirable when he wanted something from them — who loved him but he didn’t love back; not unless he was trying to get inside of them  or until they decided to leave; myself included. Anyway… )

Eventually, someone dared me to flash my tits. For some reason I did. I don’t know if it was residual excitement, or peer pressure, or just curiosity as to what the response would be.

The kid who was hosting the party titled his head, and then blurted out, “They’re very small, aren’t they?” The other boys snickered. It was one of those comically humiliating experiences that stays with you. I mean, I laugh about it now, but at the time? I felt like my ego had just been eviscerated. My embarrassment and shame were bloody entrails splatting onto the floor.

“Shut up, Nick.” The friend who had brought me to the party snapped. Then he put his arm around me and said, “Let’s go for a walk.”

As we made our way towards the driveway, my friend, without really looking at me (which I was grateful for because my cheeks were bright red) told me, “Those guys are idiots. You have great tits. Those assholes are lucky they got to see them, because when they get older they’re gonna realize that they’ll never have a chance with a girl like you. I hope you realize that too…”

Some boys know how to make a girl feel beautiful and special without simply placating her or being lecherous about it…

Those boys grow up to be men.

And when they do, we call them gentlemen…