Your Little Writing Stories Thing (Patreon)

7.15.22 / 7.26.22

“When are you going to give up your little writing stories thing?” His voice is flippant and casual. He finds no issue inquiring after the end of the very thing that makes my soul sing.

I am driving, and my hands remain locked on the wheel. My knuckles go white from how hard I squeeze my fingers. I do not look away from the road.

“I’m not going to give it up,” I say. I keep my voice steady and firm, but offer a lightness to its denial in hopes of indicating I didn’t wish an argument. I turn into the parking lot for the restaurant we intended to eat at.

“Well, your husband might think it’s cute for a little bit, but eventually, you know, with kids—“

“If he doesn’t support my writing, then he wouldn’t be my husband.” There is no lightness in my voice this time. I park the car.

“Lauren, don’t be--” he begins with a scoff and chastization.

I open the door, step out of the vehicle, and close it again. “I’m going to lunch and I’m not talking about this anymore.”

I think about that conversation now, my feet aching and my back tense from hard work at the bakery. Dough cakes my fingers as I knead it into a loaf to put in the oven. The machines rumble and roar around us workers, any music thrumming from the overhead speakers drowned out by noise. Without the trill of a song to distract me, I cannot stop my thoughts - I have no buffer against the way in which my mind churns and twists and frets. I grasp this thread - this memory with a man I do not claim as family any longer - out of all the threads of thought knotted inside my skull, because this, at least, gives my heart a sort of soreness I find comforting.

Sweat coats my back. I think of the way you said you want to support me, support my writing. How your voice purred low, how I diverted my eyes. I think of the way I ran my hands down your back and massaged the muscles there, tender from the prior day’s tattooing. How I sat by your hips. You were not looking at me, and yet I still found myself instinctually keeping my gaze away from your face. Something about my eyes always gave me away growing up - internalized messaging of “eyes are the window to the soul?” Or were all the many secrets I kept in my youth brimming and ready to spill from their hidden places deep inside me, ensuring secrets would never be kept should I meet someone’s glance?

I do not know, and I keep myself focused on your hand, dangling off the edge of the bed. I will focus on this, then, and keep these whispered desires caged.

Perhaps, however, between me and this page, I shall offer a few.

I taught myself how to write, grabbed a pen and scratched my first words in ink upon a notebook’s interior. I mimicked what I saw in the books I read, I showed it to a trusted few, I received the feedback required to make small steps forward.

I stumbled through this path alone, bearing my ego on my sleeve and witnessing it bruise and bleed and tear each time I found myself making a mistake, writing something poorly, being told I would never make it.

My love for storytelling survived the pain of learning and growth. I told my blood relatives I desired to be a full-time writer one day, that I wished to make the meager funds and earn enough just to get by. I knew authors made incredibly little off sales. I knew paying bills would be difficult, getting by would be a struggle every pay period. But I would do it, I declared. I would make my dream a reality.

They told me to be reasonable. Be a teacher. Get a different job. Your husband will never allow you to do that. Who would take after the kids?

I persevered despite the pain of unsupportive relatives. I dragged myself forward through books about writing, devouring every ounce of knowledge I could to further develop my craft. I would not let them stop me. I would not let them damper my future plans.

In college, I majored in creative writing, with an emphasis on fiction. I did this despite my parents’ wishes. But I paid for my classes, I attended the lessons, they could not stop me from putting all my eggs in one basket.

I did not have some foolish belief I would make it right away. I knew I would need to work other jobs until the writing took off. I knew I would need to make a living elsewhere until I could survive from the pennies offered by royalties. I knew the numbers. At least eight books before you could make a living. Anything less than that was lucky, anything more was to be expected.

My parents came around eventually. They started to support my endeavours to be a creative, only after I had persevered despite their disbelief. They claim otherwise - they always supported me. From the very beginning. We just remember things differently - “you always make us out to be the bad guys.”

The only person who ever supported me from the beginning was Teresa, a blood relative I no longer claim - a blood relative that wants queer people like me to die and go to hell. She kept all my writing through the years, she wrapped it up in a binder, she stashed it somewhere safe where she would never lose a piece of it. She listened to me talk about my story ideas, offered suggestions, gave input. She was the only one I believed actually thought I could make it.

And then she said queer people should learn their history - and their future - from the story of Sodom and Gamorrah a week after I came out as a lesbian.

I lost the one blood relative who ever showed me any support, and even then, she offered it only when I fit the mold she crafted for me.

I have stumbled through this existence without affection or belief placed upon these tired bones. I pursued a future no blood relative thought I could achieve. I published my first book. I published my second. I languished on my third.

I’m used to being alone in my bloodline - I’m used to being the only one out of the entire tree that believes I can accomplish what I set out to do.

And then you said you’d support me. You said you’d support me doing writing full-time, that you want me to succeed, that you want to see me achieve what I’ve dreamed.

Why?

Why have you managed to offer me a love that no one has ever offered me before - that no one has ever decided I was worthy of? Why am I worthy of that love to you?

I set dough rolled into a loaf into a pan. My fingers groan from overuse. A weight hangs from my lungs and pulls them lower in my ribs. It is hard to breathe, and an itch grows on my spine, an itch to run.

Why do you care about me in a way no one ever has? Why do you love me in a way I’ve never been worthy of?

Instinct tells me this is new, this is frightening - it tells me to run. Who is the person who offers what our own blood cannot? Who is this person who wishes to see us succeed when our own blood does not? Who is this person that makes us feel so loved and cherished and safe?

I fill the bread pans and set them on the baking racks. Oil and grease color my hands in orange and brown. I clean them on my apron, staining the fabric dark. I find my face has twisted to display my troubled feelings - my brows weave together in tense, tight knots, and my lips have formed a line. The beast in me does not understand the kindness offered, does not see why now a hand has touched her snout not to chain her to an identity she does not claim, but to run a thumb along her cheek, to brush aside the fur, to place a tender palm over the scars and let me relax in the safety and peace built around her. The beast in me has not yet settled in this new reality. She is afraid something about her might make this reality shatter if she is not careful with her footsteps.

I drag the baking rack towards the oven, out of the way, so that the loafs can rise. I drag an empty one back to the cutting station for us to fill up with more bread. I have spoken little words to my coworkers today. The beast in me asks a question. She nudges my hand and sits with claws dug into the cement beneath our feet.

How did she know you want nothing more than to live a domestic life with her? How did she know? Why else would she have known to bring it up?

She has a point. How could you have known - how could you have ever thought to bring it up? To mention it, to whisper this idea of a life in our future with such gentle, casual words? Certainly it is my fault for remarking on how you did not shoot down you friend for suggesting I quit my job and let you take care of me. Certainly, I opened the door to the conversation, but you strode in without an ounce of concern on how this would rattle the reality I’ve known all my life - that those that are meant to love me the most will never support my dreams.

And here you are. The one I love the most, supporting my dreams.

Days have passed. I clocked out of my shift. I went home to you, and we lived life together. I sit now in the living room - our living room? I’ve done the laundry, I’ve swept, I’ve cleaned up a few of our messes and created some art. I dream of doing this full-time one day, and I always have. Except now, the beast in me has settled. She is not prepared to run from this, she is not itching a scratch festering with fear and terror at the thought of peace and love given so freely. She is dozing in our room, comfortable and happy. I think she has settled in at last.

I hang our wet clothes on the clothesline, letting them dry in the sunroom’s heat. I pause to look at one of your shirts, trail my fingers across the fabric. I am a wild thing. I never believed I would find myself wishing I could spend my days tending to our home between hours of writing and crafting stories readers will adore - just so I could see you walk in that door after work, and offer you something cool to drink on hot summer days. I never imagined I would find myself wishing for domestication.

And yet here I am. You have seduced me to the thought of marriage. You have seduced me to the thought of being a housewife. You have seduced me with simply stating you would support my desire to craft stories for a living.

I struggle with finding myself worthy of this. But I have made a promise. I will utter it, whenever I feel myself worry.

You are worthy of my love, and I am worthy of yours. Of that, I am certain.