creative nonfiction


We are so much our parents. They expand beyond our skin, and hair color. They are the tongues that form our words. They are the eyes that see our world. They are the sulci and gyri that interpret thoughts and make decisions. Our parents are in our beds because they are in our heads. Rooted insecurities and desires grow from the seeds planted by our parents long ago. 

We are more of our parents than we will ever admit. Not wanting to make their mistakes, we disown their flaws and claim the traits that mimic their successes–though all of these are only perceived from the viewpoint that was shaped by your parents. Our silence is their silence. Our judgement is their judgement. Our happiness is theirs. And they are their parents, too.

All in some way. 








All in some way, many ways, we are so like our parents.



“Writers write”: that is what I tell myself every day because it has been hard to put more than a paragraph into a document. I start, with a concept in mind, and as I continue feelings pour out and the piece goes in a different direction. 

“No, that’s not what this piece is about. Wait, what is this about?”

I push through and tell myself to worry about editing later and just get out the thoughts. This approach works for awhile, until I am interrupted by something, and by the time I get back to writing the feeling just isn’t there anymore. 

Writer’s impotence. Is that a thing?

This is a test, a challenge, to just write. Do not proofread, do not edit. Just write and say what you’re trying to say. Forget contractions and dangling propositions. Fuck grammar for a moment and just spit it out. 

But wait, what was this about again?…

Ignore what’s happening next to you and keep going. Deal with the consequences later. This is important, too. Shit…what was the point of this?! 

Scroll back to the top and look for a reminder. 

Ok, yes. I’m writing about this, this that is happening right this moment and the struggle I’ve had writing. It seems as though I’m not very adept (damn near incapable) of writing anything for myself that isn’t creative catharsis. Ugh…this tone and line of thought is not what I was planning on and I swear I was going somewhere else with this when I started. I just can’t remember where. As soon as I start getting it down, it’s all wet sand that seems to dissolve in between my fingers. Words like particles lost without me knowing they were ever there. The end product is ramblings. 

This is what writing has been like lately. This

No, I did/will not edit or proofread this. 

Latticed cell

Ideas crystallize into words—monocrystalline beryl letters that grow to a golden termination. Sharp by nature, not intention; and still they stick and stab. So easily and quickly formed. So seemingly fragile, yet impossible to destroy once hardened. Words that can’t be undone.

Here, as a trigonal crystal system, each utterance of a thought adds to the network of columns of aquamarine and dolomite that jut in every direction. Minerals that capture light to reflect soft teals and rainbows in the most brilliant of prismatic prisons. Pillars of stibnite, dark and shiny—an arm’s length away.

Around me crystals grow and spread with each exhaling attempt to explain, as if any emotion can be completely clarified. Words can never capture the pure essence of a thought, let alone a feeling, and each confession is only a vaguely translucent shade of cornflower striving to be transparent as new, longer hexagonal columns of emerge. Behind me. On the far left side.

There is no point in speaking now—or remaining silent. My presence is sufficient enough for this rhombohedral lattice to continue to grow. Maybe my eyes are too loud and leave me in this cage of rose quartz and amethyst and emerald. I sit, surrounded by minerals, and shrouded in rainbows and whispers of color. Buried by the complexity of feelings and the trappings of my own words. Waiting for time to weather all the fragments away.

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