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Sometimes I think about putting my essays on substack or something but the idea of getting no views while actively feeding the ai scrapbot makes me want to
So.
ON FICTIONAL ESSAYS, AND WORLDBUILDING
I love writing. That is a truth; one that I will hold onto for probably my whole life.
I really do love writing, especially for my baby. It is a behemoth of a book that I’d started when I was 11, and continued adding onto it until I started actually writing it when I was 17. I have too many ideas—too many headcannons, too many bits of lore that I want to incorporate into my story.
Again, I think I need to reiterate—I really do love writing. That doesn’t mean I don’t get tired of it. I will go weeks, sometimes even months where I don’t want to even touch it. Where the thought of writing and seeing that cursor just … blink makes me shudder.
But just because I don’t want to write the story doesn’t mean I don’t want to continue with my lore.
Here is another thing about me: I love history. It was my favourite subject at school. I got an A* in it. I love how history is rich, how it’s a long, long story that is still continuing. I love thinking about how people felt. How a decision made hundreds of years ago (if not thousands!) impacts us today.
I also, secretly (guiltily) love essays. Oh, sure I complained about it with my friends whenever it got assigned. But doing the research, finding the right words to articulate your thoughts, being able to read back on your writing—sometimes even just formatting an essay—I really did love it.
And that brings us to the topic I wanted to start today.
Fictional essay writing.
When I can’t stand the thought of writing the actual story, I open a blank document and start writing an essay as though I’m a character in my book needing to write a history assignment. I add actual quotes (albeit fictional), use actual dates, even reference as though I’m the character.
It can be therapeutic sometimes. There’s no pressure to move the plot forward, no anxiety over pacing or character arcs. It’s world-building, but in a reflective way. A way that forces me to know the world I’ve created as deeply as the characters do. It makes me question my decisions, makes me stopper up plot holes.
Sometimes reading back my work—it reads as though a seasoned academic had written it. But they hadn’t—I wrote it. I wrote that battle, that political treaty, that royal lineage. It makes me strangely proud of myself; as though I’ve actually done the work to research and trawl through endless websites until I’ve snagged on one that actually fits my essay. As though I’ve spent hours agonising over it, and sending draft after draft to a professor.
It makes the world feel alive, like it’s breathing outside of the story I’m struggling to write.
And it’s funny, because half the time those essays never make it into the book. They’re tucked away in a folder no one but me will ever read. But I know they’re there. I can always re-read them when I feel the need to; when I’ve forgotten a simple fact, or a food or a certain dialect.
It really is very useful—and it helps that I love it.
MJ’s Substack
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Excerpt from 'For you I am a child'
I couldn’t see the letters my hand formed, black against blue on black, but I knew they were there. After this blind exercise was completed, I returned the pen and wrapped my cold feet back into the blanket. Now, it was easy to fall asleep, and if I dreamed that night, I do not remember.
If a poem can be anything, I could’ve written anything. How to make avocados ripe, directions to a church of law, a vow, an elegy, how to rig a sailboat, fold a fortune teller, French inhale, sin, make good oatmeal, kiss without teeth, escape self-delusion, write a novel, give a blowjob, be less, be more, leave everything behind, get blood stains out of white sheets, hold eye contact, not get lost in New York City, find the nearest body of water, win at solitaire, be alone, write in dip pen, build a portal, be with others, float, harmonize, unlearn shame, learn guilt, . . .
Excerpt from 'I might say something stupid'
This summer was spent hotboxing my closet and eating mangoes on the living room couch. I forgot things as soon as people said them.
Nothing bad has ever happened. Not to me then and not to me now. I scrub at the wine stain on my jersey. I love open bar events.
I spent two weeks as a camp counselor even though looking at children makes me feel sick to my stomach. In each one I see myself and wonder how anyone ever hurt me.
The path forward is power—not through proximity, but through possession. Not by begging men to be better captors, but by becoming better architects. Women have to start designing their lives with intention, rejecting every dependency that leaves them voiceless, and refusing to perform weakness just to feel safe. Because safety bought through submission is a scam. It’s a temporary peace built on the condition that you never grow.
From: What's the holdup on getting rid of patriarchy? | ensainte
(Finally. A young lady who writes like she goes outside.)
I do not know who James Burks is, but I was recommended an artistic post of a stop motion this James Burks made. When I looked at it, liked it, and his message to continue making art was meaningful. So, I thought to share it with you.