a/n: For anyone curious, here’s how I use footnotes: they’re like “fun facts”—little asides that add context, jokes, or thoughts, while still relevant to the post, they are not essential for understanding it. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak (where Death narrates with footnote-like interjections) is the inspiration behind my eccentric take on footnotes. However, I’m still honing my voice, so I haven’t got it right just yet. Generally, I suggest reading my footnotes after the main text. Let me know if repeating the linked word/sentence in the footnote would help—or if you didn’t notice the footnotes and don’t care! (Of course, this post has no footnotes, making this author’s note entirely random.)
Wiggling a sore tooth with my tongue was commonplace as a kid.
If I knew a baby tooth was loose, just one bad bite away from falling out, I’d take matters into my own hands (or ask my daddy to pull it for me). My tongue would relentlessly prod the tender tooth until it gave way, leaving a crater behind. Then, as if driven by instinct, it’d start poking at the aching pit too. I guess I thought I could avoid any future pain by rushing through it. The anticipation of pain was always worse than the pain itself.
My thoughts frequently strayed into the morbid or odd, but I didn’t always feel different from my friends. It wasn’t until middle school that I felt our differences had become glaring and unavoidable. Stubbornly, I did my best to hide them, pretending they didn’t exist.
I knew I didn’t quite fit in but couldn’t pinpoint why. It was more than my abnormal height, though when you’re young, it’s easier to distill everything wrong about you down to your most undesirable attribute. For me, it was my towering frame. “People don’t like me because I’m freakishly tall” felt more manageable than admitting I might just be self-conscious or gloomy. To get ahead of the judgment, I’d joke about how awkward I was—a preemptive strike of self-deprecation.
Millennials, they say, excel at self-deprecating humor.
I’ve never liked lumping entire generations together, especially now that I have some hair on my chin and realize just how paper-thin the differences between us are. Still, I’ll admit: my humor’s sharpest edge has always been turned inward. As I’ve spent more time examining my mind—a scary, chaotic place at the best of times—I’ve come to understand that my self-awareness has limits. My instincts and emotions often steer me before logic has a chance to catch up.
This emotional intensity is probably why I tied my magic to emotions in Elementals. At first, I thought it was just an easy trope—magical power linked to feelings. Who hasn’t done that one before? But now, I see it’s deeper than that. Why wouldn’t my emotions, like tidal waves, shape the fictional worlds I create? In my story, magic becomes a language for feelings too big for words. Writing my fantasy epic is a way of grappling with those tides. It might’ve been a cliché to use emotions as the cost for magic before I truly understood myself and why I’d chosen that currency, but now that I do, I think I can make it something beautiful.
The connection between magic and emotion mirrors another bond: my relationship with my daddy. I’ve always felt deeply connected to him, though I can’t explain why. Dad never worked hard to nurture a relationship with me—and I probably didn’t either—but maybe that’s why we clicked. We were two loners who couldn’t be bothered to put in all that effort. I like to think I made some effort, but I also feel I didn’t try enough. Then again, shouldn’t the effort have been his? I know I’ll never put that weight on my kids if I’m ever brave enough to have them.
What ties us most is a shared sense of worthlessness, or of not being good enough. It’s hard to admit, but I see so much of his struggle in myself. And yet, I know—logically, if not emotionally—that neither of us is worthless. Dad was an educated, handsome man, charismatic when he chose to be. I can effortlessly enumerate his strengths, but when asked to name my own, I struggle to come up with any. I’m guessing he’d have said the same about himself… except maybe he’d point to his money. That’s a terrifying parallel: sometimes I feel like the only real value I can offer my fiancé is also financial. It’s a thought that scares me to my core.
I can’t help but think people are better off without me around, and I know how annoying that sounds.
When you hate existing in your skin, it’s hard to imagine anyone else wanting to be around you. Having a social battery that depletes after an hour, leaving you irritable and unpleasant, makes you a poor house guest. Gatherings are a chore.
If an event drags on but my partner’s having fun, guilt consumes me. Why can’t I enjoy myself too? Why do I want to go home? It’s easier not to go at all. Let them have their fun without my gloom dragging them down. Why bother leaving the house?
a/n: This blog marks a shift for me. I’m thinking about expanding my topics, giving readers options to choose what they follow. If you’re here for posts about Dad and the memoir, you can stick with that. If you’re curious about my fantasy writing or my broader musings, you’ll have options to explore those too. More on this soon—thank you for being part of my journey.
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Kinsey – This is such powerful writing – which hits straight to my core. Your words are both devastating and inspiring. I cannot wait to read more.
Thank you, Ms. Darlene. I appreciate you more than you could ever know!
NO need to thank me, Kinsey! I appreciate your writing more that you could ever know.