Underneath my yellow skin

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I will write a novel this November (part two)

In the last post, I was writing about how I want to use November as novel-writing month once again. Even though NaNoWriMo is (deservedly) disbanded, I still think of November as the time to write a novel. I have not written a complete one since my medical crisis, so I’m going to give it my best shot this year.

One problem I’ve had all my life (and it’s only increased since my medical crisis) is that I constantly edit what I think because I don’t want to upset/offend anyone. The reason I do that is because it was drummed in my head at a very early age that other people’s emotions and feelings mattered whereas mine did not. More than that, mine were bad and not to be shown, especially if they were negative. In my family, the only emotions/feelings that mattered were my father’s and if he wasn’t around, my mother’s.

What’s more, I was severely criticized/chastised if I dared to let my emotions show. Add to that the fact that I’m weird so I tend to keep my opinions that aren’t important to myselfd. Meaning, pop culture. I’ve joked/not joked about how I got dumped for my opinion on Pulp Fiction (hated it), and while that was a very particular situation, I’ve found that many people do not take it well when you don’t like something they love. No matter how gently I phrase it, it’s not taken well by the majority of people, so I don’t bother saying it until I know someone well enough to be assured they are not going to freak out.

I will say that I’m not trying to be contrary when I don’t liek something popular; I really am not. I usually know what I will and won’t like because my taste is very definite, but I have been surprised a time or two (in a positive way). I did not think I would like The Royal Tenenbaums, (Wes Anderson) but much to my surprise, I enjoyed it immensely.

When I write, there’s a soft, but persistent voice in the back of my mind telling me not to write this and not to say that. I can write pretty gruesome things without blinking an eye. I don’t find horror stuff scary, so I can throw any amount of that into my writing without a care in the world. But I can’t say shit that would be hurtful to people I really care about, even if it’s for the sake of fiction.

I have to get past that if I’m going to write a novel worth reading. I don’t want it to be safe, bland, or boring. On the other hand, I don’t want to just parrot shit that is hurtful without being intentional about it. I’m tired of hipster hatred. It’s not funny; it’s not clever; it just allows people to say shit that is hurtful under the thin veneer of comedy. There’s a YouTube content creator I watch that is starting to do this more and more, and it’s turning me off.


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Planning my next move

It’s time. My brother has left me his little camera, and it’s time to get shooting. I have a hatred of pictures and videos, which has been lifelong.

Brief primer: I have been fat for most of my life–except for the two times I deal with anorexia (and bulimia the first time). Well, to go back a bit more, I was a chunky kid, but I wasn’t out-and-out fat. This is an important distinction because my mother put me on my first diet when I was seven and hated on my body since that moment. She never had anything positive to say about my body, and when I was so skinny I was passing out from lack of food, her only comment was that my waist was smaller than hers–and it was said with much envy. This is something that scarred me for most of my life. I had to actually institute a ban on her mentioning my weight because it was that bad. She protested that she was only concerned about my health, which the previous anecdote has proven incorrect. But more to the point, she only harped on it looks-wise, saying things like, “You have such a pretty face and would be beautiful if you lost weight.” When I pointed out to her that I was the only one in the family with low blood pressure, she ignored that.

It’s not a nice feeling to know that your mother thinks you’re a grotesque pig. Pigs are so cute, by the way! I love them. So let me rephrase it by saying my mother thought/thinks I’m grotesque.

Because of that, I have hated the way I look all my life. To be fair, it’s not just her; it’s society in general. America is not kind to fat people, especially women. It’s one way, sadly, that women bond–over dieting and counting calories and exercise. If you don’t participate in the discussion, then you are considered suspect.

I understand bonding through shared experiences. It’s one reason I identify more with women than other genders. But, on the other hand, after a lifetime of being told that I am not a woman because I don’t do anything that women like to do or act in a way that is congruent with how other women act, well, it’s difficult for me to feel warmly about it.


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