You write like a child

“Why do you write like a kid?” Maybe because I am one? When I write of love, in my book it is always as innocent as my words portray it. I express love as that old-school admiration: silent glances from afar, love postcards, and picnics on hilltops. It’s running together in sunflower fields and carving our initials on ancient oak trees.

 

I write what I know I will never experience; daydreams aside, by the time I fall in love, I’ll be too old for my childish wishes. I write like a kid because I don’t want to objectify my muse; I don’t want to describe his physique. In my script, he’s not tall and handsome. His face is pudgy, he wears the same clothes he wore in his 20s, and he doesn’t know how Twitter polls work.

 

I write like a kid because I’m tired of romance novels being too physical for my liking. I write like a pre-teen because I want you to view this life from my rainbow-tinted glasses where chivalry is not dead and love blooms in all the colors of the spectrum.

 

I write like a child because my entire life is a G-rated, young adult fiction, where everything is gradual, and you have to read at least a hundred pages before the characters muster the courage to kiss. Because in my world, blushes are eternal and innocence doesn’t withdraw at any age.

 

This whole adult world dismantles my love for the sweet, childish days where daisies are the token of a timid love between two shy humans. I write like a child because I want you to live in spring all year long, to be enveloped by April for eternity, even when I am gone.

Currently//

August is one of the few months I anticipate eagerly; it’s the season of dark, autumnal poems, and the month the summer heat lessens. After July’s bitterness, August didn’t necessarily come to wipe away the ashes, but it promised me clouds and a lunar eclipse, which was good enough for my soul.

Listening to Sayın Seyirciler by Ozan Doğulu feat. Ece Seçkin + Sen Olsan Bari by Aleyna Tilki

Wearing navy blue pajamas

Drinking Costa’s caramel lattes

Ticking off new cafes from my cafes-to-visit list

Feeling very moody

Reading The Pull of Gravity by Gae Polisner

Watching Turkish movies on Youtube

Craving pancakes, waffles, and ice cream (not all at once)

Eating milk and cereal

Obsessing over tic tac mints

Restraining myself from spending money

Lacking words and inspiration

Wrapping up my summer bucket list goals

Also wrapping up my third bullet journal of the year

Falling madly in love with nature and the moon

Buying second-hand books

Wishing for brighter, cooler days

Anticipating September

In my mother’s garden

My mother has built a soothing getaway within the perimeters of our residence: a humbleyet it’s so heavenlygarden. The glass front door of the house always teases us into taking a stroll outside, as dusty palm trees sway to seasonal winds; so we wear our sandals and head out, never tired of that view.

In my mother’s garden, there’s a vast yard covered in patches of evergreen grass. Our stray catsthat we’ve fosteredfind their way to the frostiest spot and nap the day away. They only awake upon the sight of my little brother, who feeds them every evening. (Funny story: when they see him opening the gate door, they run to him knowing he’s paying the delivery guy in exchange for their canned food.)

 

Adorning the walls of my house are assorted plants and trees, planted purposefully to conceal every inch of the yard from its white. The desert rose plant twirls over toward the light purple basil, which has invited everyone to its aromatic presence: the bees, the cats, and the curious humans.

My favorite tree is the Sapota, which has been a beautiful feature of the house for more than 25 years. It stands two stories tall, covering up my bedroom and bathroom windows, and I’m always comforted by its shade. They say the oval, brown fruit it produces every summer, the chikoo, is quite tasteful. I never mustered the courage to try it, though.

 

We have fountains that are so calming to the ear, adding more beauteous elements to the silence. Our recently-acquired gazebo is my favorite place to lounge in; when the days are nippy, I would grab a notepad and write until I heard Maghreb prayer call, which was cue for me to go inside. (I still head out after I pray at times, regardless of the humidity).

If I’m ever caught laughing in the garden, it’s either because a pink paper-like flower falling from the Bougainvillea managed to scare me (it’s happened too often, yet still alarms me), or because the sprinklers were about to go off on me while I was sitting on the grass.

 

Summer peaking in its 40-degree weather never stopped us from enjoying the evenings there; ironically, we even take our sizzling hot tea outside. I love how busy this place has kept me, with the tiny chores my mother would give me of either watering the reedy Poinciana or fixing the placement of the chairs.

She’s given us a park within our convenience, where we get to witness the seasons change, taking point of what bloomed and what has wilted in the heat. She’s given a blissful escapade to walk around in when we need the consoling embrace of trees. She’s given us a hidden garden to bury ourselves in when the days are too treacherous to withstand.

 

In my mother’s garden, I chase the clouds in my heart-patterned pajamas. In my mother’s garden, I question my ability to recreate such a hideaway in my future house. In my mother’s garden, I am at peace.

The challenges of writing 100 blog posts a year

In my recent years of blogging, the tally for my blog posts would reach around a hundred posts per year. With my consistency and love for the blogosphere came haphazard challenges and difficulties that I would love to share today.

 

Repetition

One of the biggest difficulties I face is my repetition, whether it’s topic-wise or wording or sentence structure, there’s always duplications in my expressions. I’d argue that writing too much makes me forget I wrote the same line before, and that my style forces me to stay within my own guidelines.

 

Lack of content

As much as I try to squeeze my mind, sometimes my head is entirely empty of words, so there’s always that fear of not finding inspiration and content for the posts.

 

Commitment

If you want to hit a certain blogging goal, you’re going to need a lot of patience and commitment. You have to have the same enthusiasm you had when the month started in order to fulfill the goal.

 

Readership

The more you write, the less likely you’re going to have all your posts read. And it’s understandable because people are selective, and it is impossible for them to read every article. (But that shouldn’t stop you as long as you blog for yourself).

 

Short posts

A majority of my blog posts would be usually 200 words or less, and that’s never because I am not inspired enough to go beyond. However, writing too much forces me to save my words for other themes and prompts

 

Hasty writing

This is perhaps the worst challenge of all because hasty writing makes me so regretful; I know I have potential, but I choose to write so fast and hit publish. Editing the post after it’s been up is quite futile, as readers have already read what you had to share.

 

 

I hate when a blog posts would come out different than I had planned, which happens too often. But the fun part of committing to such a number is watching your writing grow. I am pushing myself out of my comfort zone, writing about this and that. It now takes me a lot of scrolling through my blog pages in order to find a post as recent as a few months ago.

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How to always generate content

If you are a content creator, one of the most prominent issues you face on the daily is the lack of content. You try to squeeze the creative juices out of your head, but to no avail. With deadlines and tight schedules, the pressure and stress levels rise to the maximum, so how can one always generate content without losing their originality?

Take mental note of people’s conversations

Always be an attentive listener to try and grasp the latest gossip on the grapevine. Immerse yourself in the hot topics and hear both sides; see what the public is talking about and write an article about it.

 

Go on a nature walk

Whether the content you create is writing, photography, videography, or art, a silent walk around the block could easily nourish your dead cells. Strap that camera around your neck or stash that journal in your back pocket and let nature speak to you.

 

Be mindful and attentive

A simple visit to a new coffee shop or lounge could also storm your mind with endless ideas. Watch the interior closely and try to describe it on a notepad. The setting you’re jotting down could assist you in a short story when you’re describing a place.

 

Read other people’s work

See what others are writing about and get inspired by their words and opinions. Do not copy what you see, but let their sentences speak to you.

 

Diversify your content

Going through your old writings helps you grasp what kind of content you need to write about. If you’re written a lot about a certain topic, find something new to share with your readers. If you’ve never written a short story, even if it’s out of your comfort zone, give it a shot.

 

Look for prompts

Pinterest is a perfect place for writing prompts, in my opinion. Whether it’s a photo prompt or a blog prompt, the site is brimming with ideas to get you out of a writer’s block.

 

Watch tv series/movies/videos

As bizarre as it may sound, watching Youtubers play Daddy Dating Simulator has opened my mind about dialogues. In the game, the commentator reads the conversations out loud, which kind of sounds like an audio book in a video format. This kind of goes back to the point of being mindful because without mindfulness, a regular person would just watch for entertainment and won’t notice the lessons he/she could grasp from it. The same thing goes with movies and tv series.

 

Change your setting

You can’t sit in one specific spot and expect yourself to always create content. Your eyes and mind are in dire need of change, and one of my best pieces came from sitting on my arm chair with all the lights switched off (the idea sounds iffy but it somehow stimulated my fingers into writing). Drag your laptop to a local café or build a fort and write under it.

 

I hope those tips are handy enough to get at least one content creator out of their rut. Good luck!

Rock bottom

I find it pretty intriguing how I constantly reach the already-learned conclusion of: you’re alone in this world. And I’m left to ponder: that’s what I get for being distant and pushing everyone away?

 

And my concern with being alone is that I do not mind the solitude; I never need people anyway. It just shatters my heart into pieces knowing that I am not worthy of anyone’s care. It’s always just me and God.

 

Not a day passes where I am in a good place in life. If I don’t get a bumpy start to my morning, then it’s definitely awaiting me at night. I keep holding it all in, keeping matters away from even my siblings. I’m constantly keeping a strong front, and absorbing even the snarky comments that’s meant to either hurt me or my family. And I keep them away from my mother because that’s the last thing she wants to hear: people not minding their own business.

 

And I stand there, in my blush dress and kitten heels, with a smile wider than my scope of comfort, and I do not feel a dash of guilt for “faking it.” If they wish to see me down, why give them that pleasure?

 

However, I was hysterically crying last night, and I never hysterically cry unless I’ve reached rock bottom. I was mid-journaling, trying to escape my reality, but the tears flowed regardless. And I gulped because the gush of unstoppable tears reminded me of my teenage days, and God knows I do not want a flashback to those days. I cried so much that my earphones and t-shirt got dampened. My lips started shaking uncontrollably, my nose got severly red, and my eyes puffed.

 

I am there comforting everyone, saying “it’s no big deal,” and “it’s not the end of the world,” and when I head upstairs after faking my strength, I am a wreck.

 

But I got up eventually, dusted myself off and took a deep breath. I did ask God to make me cry anyway because I’d rather cry than feel compressed in the chest.

 

My life is just a series of injustice, unsolved problems, and insults. I am constantly made to feel that I am less than anyone, unworthy, not pretty, distant, unsocial…etc. But those things are matters that never make me cry; I WISH I CRIED FOR SUCH STUPID THINGS.

 

All I’m trying to convey here is that rock bottom is such a messy place to be in, yet I am always here at least once a month.

 

My world collides and I can’t even get a hug or a pat on the shoulder to get me through. It’s just me and those four white walls, but I am somehow comforted by the thought that at least God sees this. You were never there for me since day one, but God was always there.

 

I am at least comforted by the thought that God has ALWAYS gotten me out of the messiest places, so this will end sooner than I think, and it will all be forgotten. To my future self, if you are reading this a few months later, please remember that you’ve made it out of this alive. You’re the strongest woman I know.