My brain puked out a story the other day. So far it's mostly a slip of an idea, something slippery and fragile and nearly translucent. I'm afraid if I get too excited or tell anyone about it I'll lose it; it'll crack like an egg shell and this good idea will be gone. Will it be a life changing piece? No. Am I trying to say something with it? If I am, it's not intentional. I'm writing like me though, not what I've been reading or watching... which is what makes it so fragile. I'm adding my own twists that aren't copied from someone else's style; I think that's what is making this so scary. At least if it sucks it was written in someone else's voice (or at least a recognizable facsimile) then it's not my fault hah.
It's a precious little secret I'll keep to myself for now. I'm afraid to even write it here or talk about the feelings it makes in case I lose it. It's something I haven't experience in a long time and I'd almost forgotten what it felt like... Please let this be one of those things I finish.
Aw MAN.
I went to use ChatGPT (I know I know) to get an idea for how a 12 year old girl from the Midwest would write in the 1930's. I just wanted the language and an overall idea of sentence structure... and damnit it's so good! *SOBS* It's an entry similar to one I wrote in my NSYNC journal in middle school where I talked about the conflicting feelings of liking girls and boys. The book is about a woman exploring her sexuality 1930's-1970's. I want it to be clearly differentiated as a book about bisexuality, not being a closet lesbian. But I'm going to share it here, because the damn robot took my idea and described it in a way that captures the feelings very well. I won't use it, obviously, it's not my work only my idea. But I can at least use it to help me shape up my writing... I guess. Maybe. It's a slippery slope. Sigh. Anyway. I present to you what I wrote, but better. Because fucking robots.
April 12th, 1933
Dear Diary,
Today the clouds looked like pie crusts and the wind smelled like dirt and dandelions, which is how I know it’s really spring now. Everything is waking up and blooming and shouting, “LOOK AT ME!” But I don’t want anyone to look at me right now. Not like this.
I think… I might be sort of gay. But I’m not, really. I still like boys. I do! When I think about BOY (you know the one, Diary, the one with the curls and that funny way he bites his pencil), my whole tummy turns to water. Not the cold kind. The warm kind, like bathwater after Mama adds lavender. It feels like the water wants to seep out of my toes and run down the cracks in the floorboards and drown BOY in it. Not in a mean way. In a feeling way. Is that silly?
But then—when GIRL (you know who, I won’t write her name just in case) grabs my hand when we play that clapping game and her fingers press against mine just a little longer than they need to—my tummy glows. Like fireflies under my ribs. And I don’t want to pull my hand away. Ever. It’s like both kinds of feelings are the same plant, but one grows wild and twisty like ivy and the other grows tall and sunny like a corn stalk. Is it possible to feel two ways at once?
In church, Pastor Bob says love is between a girl and a boy and anything else is a sin. But that don’t feel true in my heart. If loving GIRL is a sin, then why does it feel soft and sweet and safe? Why would God let me feel something that feels so kind and warm if it’s bad? I tried to pray it away last night. I did, honest. But my heart kept whispering, don’t go. What if Pastor Bob’s wrong? What if God is nicer than that?
I don’t wanna be in trouble with God. Or Mama. Or Daddy. Or anyone. But I don’t want to stop feeling this way either. Is that bad, Diary? I hope not.
I think SIBLING might’ve seen me put you under the floorboard last night. I better find a better spot. Maybe under the quilt batting in the old trunk? If anyone read this… I don’t know what would happen. Maybe they'd look at me different. Maybe they'd stop loving me. I hope not.
Please don’t let them find this, Diary. You’re the only one who knows.
Love,
Me 💔🌱
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