#internal struggle

But this one should be a lot less of a heck

How do you all deal with Fanfic shame?

Like, the internal stuff.

I love that I can get so inspired and emotional and engaged because of some piece of good (or sometimes frustratingly below-its-potential) piece of media that it drives me to make things and imagine things of my own. What an amazing thing, a gift to be heckin' SEIZED onto and used to its fullest. But I keep finding myself skirting around the whole fan thing when sharing outside of the safespace that is fandom. "Yeah, so it's inspired by this thing, but you know, it's not really those same characters."

Or "No, no, no, it's not that kind of fanfiction." Desperate to be respectable.

And respected.

And my cheeks flush and I get all cagey. But I wanna share outside the safe spaces!

How do y'all deal?

Just keeping it within the safe space is a safe bet. But bet. I not gonna do that. YOU CAN'T KEEP ME LOCKED AWAY LIKE THIS!!!!! **rattles the bars angrily** Or *just don't give the haters the time of day*, but it's tough because emotions and brain chemicals and all that, and besides, it isn't them that is causing me worry right now. It's my own dodginess.

Can we be loud and proud of being a despicably got-it-bad fan and still be a serious artist/creator, respected and respectable? Can we walk both worlds? Or do they have to be separate?

Then it occurred to her.

All this time, she had tried to avoid thinking about what the hunter would do to her, to what end. That realization had terrified her and so she had put it from her mind. But in putting that fear away, she had unwittingly made it the most dangerous kind; the kind that has room to grow and wiggle in the dark.

That thought was written out for her to read; no detour, no misinterpretation, both clear as day. She all but jumped out of her skin, the updraft flinging her into the air.“No,” she shouted before she was even fully aware of it. “No! No fuck, fuck, just fuck off!”She hadn’t even noticed she was crying before the first drop hit the floor below, pungent and dark, treacle-like. She hurriedly wiped her face, concerned she was making a mess of the parchment.

Then became concerned the the parchment was stuck to her frantically rubbing fingers.

Like hell I’m letting you mess with my head, idiot.

As much as it wanted her to read, it didn’t seem to want to open back up for her. She briefly considered ripping it from the wall, but that possibility vanished when she took a moment to compose herself (as though a good cry was something to hide): it wasn’t attaching or sticking, so much as… absorbing? It was just….a part of it now. Like osmosis, but for magic.

Stuffing the rest of it into the back of her mind for later consideration, the first few words on the page caught her attention once more.

I work my body, my mind, my soul.

Hours and hours I push myself to be secure in life

Day after day I remind myself to do the best I can

Every second I allow my self to feel, to dream, to believe

Sometimes, there just isn’t enough self analysis and internal understanding in the world that’s gonna stop some “same old” shit from getting the “same old” reactions out of me. And I get madder at myself than I am at them every time.

often enough, the bomb detonates inside me. but what rips my guts can’t be seen, so my anger is invisible and requires no thought.

the few times I can’t keep the agony inside, I am diagnosed insane. a lunatic from the occasional outburst, so what about when bits of me die trying to hide the loose screws?

if I have severe anger issues purely from the countable times I have expressed my frustration, am I worthy of death row for my pent up rage?

I take the pain out on my skin, rather than another’s because maybe my glass is now half empty, but you deserve the half full one. maybe I got the short end of the stick, but the wishbone will grant you your wish.

no matter how long I bleed out my niceties, it goes unnoticed if not criticized. and I stay half-dead with nothing but shattered glass in my veins.

como si la vida me hubiera sostenido por accidente, por error,

como si alguien se hubiera olvidado de cerrar la puerta y yo me colé.

hay días en los que existir pesa como si estuviera pagando una deuda,

como si cada respiro fuera un favor que no merezco.

me pregunto cómo se ve el mundo sin mí y por qué aún no ha pasado.

por qué sigo aquí si no sé qué estoy haciendo.

por qué me despierto si no sé cómo sostenerme.

y entonces me escondo.

de mí, de los demás, del futuro.

porque incluso las cosas bonitas se sienten lejanas.

porque incluso el amor duele cuando uno cree que no lo merece.

yo no quiero que me recuerden como una carga,