The secret value of fangirling

I was recently accepted as a feature writer on the fantastic Rupert Grint fansite RupertGrint.net on a trial basis. They didn’t comment on my Rupert Grint poem that I included in my application, but I can only assume that it played a key part in their decision to give me a chance.
I am happy to report that my first piece as a RupertGrint.net feature writer is now up on the site, a snapshot of my experiences with having Rupert as a character in my game of Nintendo’s Tomodachi Life.
Please check it out here: http://www.rupertgrint.net/virtual-rupert-and-you
Share it with all of your friends on social media, and be sure to leave some gushing comments on the page talking about how creative and entertaining and well-written it is, and how you look forward to seeing many more articles by this “Melanie” person.

When you see yourself described in someone else’s words

From Ann and Jeff VanderMeer’s introduction to their massive and rich anthology “The Weird”:

Did these writers believe in the supernatural elements they described? In some cases, the evidence would suggest, yes…A few simply saw the world so differently that what to them seemed normal strikes readers as deeply weird.

I cannot begin to recount how many times in a writing workshop or group something I wrote because it seemed true to me was met with confusion and regarded as weird by everyone else, how often I was subtly accused of doing “it” on purpose, when all I was trying to do was express things as they seemed to me, and how often this explanation of mine was misunderstood or made people uncomfortable in ways I did not intend.

Years later, finally trying to embrace this part of myself, because denying it has brought no real benefits, this sentence has made me so content and given me some peace. I want to hug it and say “Yes.”

Hypnotized! Or not.

At the David R. Collins Writers Conference, I took a workshop on “The Ecstatic Essay” with instructor Rachel Yoder.
For our last session, Rachel invited in hypnotist Sylvia Runkle to hypnotize the entire class as a group, and then have us do a set of writing exercises while under hypnosis.
Unfortunately I don’t think I was hypnotized, or even deeply relaxed. It bothered me that I was so keyed up or hyper-vigilant that I couldn’t be hypnotized.
One participant, who meditates regularly, said that people who didn’t think they were hypnotized probably were really hypnotized, that it’s not something dramatic, but I’m still pretty sure I was not hypnotized. Still the same usual struggle to ignore and override my critical mind and just let go.
Sylvia said that in her experience, very few people could not be hypnotized unless they had a serious medical issue, and that usually it was just a matter of different surroundings or a different hypnotist. So there is some hope.
Either way, here are the things I wrote during this experiment:

I.

There are five lines across the sky, subtle and deep, both shimmering on the surface and hovering just beneath, like a giant mystical hand grazing its long pointed nails across the clouds. Clouds that are thin and gauzy, smooth stripes, rows of seed sowed by your staring, the beams from your eyes. It’s your hand that scraped across the sky, that created the furrows that you fall into, that strangers follow, sliding their feet in your footsteps, so that they can no longer tell which steps are yours and which are theirs. And you realize now what you didn’t before, that this is something you could always do, but you did not know what to call it, couldn’t summon the proper words, because the proper words did not exist, and will never exist until you create them. Your fingers in the dirt, smoothing a raised spiral, your symbol embossed in the earth, green and mossy.

II.
Where did it go? A metallic ticking on either side of the tunnel she was in, blankets wrapped around her like a mummy, someone that loves you so much they tie you down so you won’t leave. Pretending until it becomes true. The way someone repeats a lie so often that even they believe it. You keep driving down the dark road, one lane going each way, headlights illuminating the tiny lizards that dart across the road in front of your car, behind your car, climbing across the windshields, sticky feet and tongues licking the glass. The same images repeat over and over, the same wind turbines looming in the distance, the same field of crimson lights pulsating in unison on the ground beneath them. You can’t do any of this on your own, can’t let go without the assistance of machines and the guidance of medical authorities, the only group of figures of authority who don’t have to prove why you should listen to them. Any failure of theirs to diagnose and treat you (let alone cure you) is really a failure of your body to fit into any of the verified valid categories. This is why you can’t let go.