This was inspired by catvalente 's post Let Me Tell You A Story
This is personal and kind of messy, and clumsy, and flaily, and bear with me this time. Please. If you would not like to read about my personal thoughts, then I would that you rather close the tab than comment and tell me what a selfish jackass I am or something else. I am choosing to leave this out in the open, because I want this to be known. I want that if somebody reads my journal, they will also be able to read this post.
Here goes. *deep breath*
I have always made stuff up. I started reading when I was 4 or 5 and have not stopped. I started writing about things when I was about 7 or 8. Now I am 18. There is a need inside me. It is a need to tell about things. I was born a storyteller, yet I feel clumsy and rough, and undelicate. English is not my first language, but it is the language with which I can reach the most people.
I need to tell stories. I have ideas in my head, characters living, all playing out their own tales of love and hate and discovery and growing up and pain and hurt and loss and all those other things.
I am not a very good writer. I write my ideas down, and I start stories. I have rarely finished. I have times when I procrastinate, and spend time on the internet doing the stupidest things instead of writing. Instead of doing the thing I need to do. There is a drive inside me, and I stumble along, and sometimes I just crawl, and sometimes I want it to go away. But then my soul would die, and I would not want for that to happen. And I can't walk away from it, even if I wanted, you know.
Stories. I want to tell them. I need to tell them. I need to tell the stories that are not be told, about people like me, and people who might not seem like me. All kinds of people, just not just the default of the straight white man, which tends to dominate. And...obviously I stumbled into SF/F, having started with Greek myths. And I thought that this is it, now I can write stories that are awesome, and go beyond the mundane. I lived with this conception of SF/F as somekind of a holy idol of freedom and crossing boundaries.
My pain is just a speck in this torrent, and my broken illusions are of no consequence but to me and the people who care about me. I find it...I do not know. I wanted to close my eyes at first and pretend that this was not happening, that the people who were supposed to be heralds of the new age of truth had not just flushed all of their credibility down the drain. I wanted to pretend so much. But then I stopped. Then I looked at myself and found it ugly that the pain of others was less important than my own discomfort.
I am still angry. I have been angry a very long time due to my past, and the society, and my family. But I have said to myself that I would be defiant (defiance has pulled me through many years of my life), and despite my voice feeling hoarse, I have to speak. I will speak. I will tell the stories, even as they tear me apart, and I will find glory in it.
I am very privileged - my only visible lack of privilege being the fact that I am a woman. I used to be ashamed of myself, I used to hate myself for not being a man, for not being free. And then, then I saw that freedom is not a thing that you are granted. Freedom is something you take for yourself.
Tell your stories, please. Bleed, and cry your heart out, and live. And defy, speak against those who would rather see us silent, against those who would continue their own little system of comfort that invalidates the rest of us.
We have souls. All of us have souls. All of us have stories.
I defy you, who label themselves as progressive and better than the rest of society yet continue to perpetuate silencing. I defy you, you who would tell the stories that are not yours to tell. I defy you who would claim the right to speak for me. I defy you, I have a voice, and I will not stop. I am not going to be silent.
I will go to walk my path now, and it is a thin and shadowed one, but there is still sunshine and the glory of one's freedom. You may join me, if you wish. I hope that you do.
- my curse and blessing