women are rad.

Today is international women’s day. I’ve been really lucky that for most, if not all of my life, I’ve been surrounded by strong, incredibly intelligent women, and without them, I wouldn’t be the same person I am now. 

A lot of the dialogue surrounding international women’s day includes conversations about feminism, and traditional gender roles, and the way women fit into society. I don’t want to talk about that though. I want to talk about my mom. 

“Her grandkids are friends with the Kardaaayshians,” she said last night, and I started laughing so hard that tears traced tracks down my cheeks. I can’t count how many times things like that have happened, like when she said something funny and followed it up with, “don’t you dare tweeter that!” Or the time she told me that she’d rather look at Adam Levine than listen to him sing. My friends would talk to me about fights they had with their moms, the tears, the screaming, and I couldn’t comprehend having a mom who wasn’t also my best friend. 

I remember the first time my mom made me cry. It was eighth grade, and I was going to be late for school because I hadn’t printed a paper the night before. She started talking to me about responsibility, about procrastination. My over-tiredness combined with her scolding pushed me over the edge and I walked to the car that morning, five minutes late, still crying. Looking back on that now, what amazes me most is that I was fourteen before an interaction with my mother made me cry. 

She told me a story once. We were at coffee with my best friend, and I don’t remember how this came up, but my mom looked at me nervously before she started talking to my best friend. “I know I’ve never told you this, Katie, but when I was in high school, I used to fight with my mom all the time. We would have these long, drawn out screaming matches until our throats were sore, and because of that, I never ever wanted to have daughters.” Here we are though, almost eighteen years after she gave birth to her first daughter, and she’s one of the people I trust most. 

When I think back to my childhood, all my memories have her in them. Maybe not as the main character, but she’s in all the memories. Like when I was seven and we had spent a long, exhausting morning shopping for shoes, and she took my siblings and I to Febo to get ice cream for lunch. We sat outside Febo and ate ice cream and fed french fries to the pigeons and that memory is clouded with happiness. Or another time, when I was eight, and I learned to say panda in Dutch. I came home from school that day, excited to tell her, and all I remember is the look of pride on her face. Or when we were moving back to America from England, and three of my siblings went home early with my grandparents, but I was the one who she trusted to help take care of the baby. I was only ten or eleven and it wasn’t even that big of a deal, but I felt so honored and mature that she picked me. Or when I was fifteen, standing in the airport at a gate to a plane that would take me to the Atlanta airport where another plane would take me to the Paris airport and another plane would take me to the Middle East for three months. I didn’t make eye contact with her while I waited to board my plane, because I knew that if I did, I would see her start crying and I would start crying myself. 

I remember a few months ago. I slept in the loft that night. Right before she went to bed, she came out of her room and saw me curled up in the bed. “What’s wrong? Why are you sleeping out here?” she asked, and I started crying, and she held me while I explained that I didn’t know how to be happy here, so far from home, and there wasn’t anything she could say to make me feel better, but she held me and she comforted me and that was enough. 

My mom has always been an example of the kind of woman I want to be. The kind of woman who says, “I bet I could fix that,” instead of asking for help. The kind of woman who knows she’s right, but has the grace to admit it when she’s wrong. My mother is the reason I learned how to change a tire, how to check the oil in my car, how to do so many other things so that I’m not dependent on anyone to do them for me. She makes me want to be a better person, and I love her with all of my heart. 

Happy international women’s day. 

What women in your life do you look up to? 

a semi-autobiography in eight parts.

I. You write him a postcard. "I don't know how to tell you but I'm finally letting go," it says. The postcard is from Paris and when you finish writing it, you slide it back into the drawer with all the other words you never said. You ask your empty hands if this means you are letting go. Everyone memorizes the backs of their hands, but you'll never know your own as well as you know the scar like a poem permanent on his thumb.

II. You like tea more than coffee but you drink coffee because on days when you relent to a cup of tea you become afraid that you're turning into your mother. You drink it anyways and remember the best moments of childhood.

III. At night you run your fingertips across your ribcage and wonder about all the words that don't live there yet. You're bad at commitments but sometimes when you read Mary Oliver you sigh in relief. These are words that could rest on your ribs forever.

IV. You grow playlists slowly on your computer, choosing the songs carefully. You're trying to bring that feeling back with the music. Maybe nostalgia is the closest you'll ever get.

V. You told her once that you were bad at goodbyes. All this time later, and it's still true.

VI. You type fast, "maybe someday," and hit send.

VII. You ask your hands again what it means to let go.

VIII. The tea water is boiling. Your hands still don't answer.

wishful thinking.

I wish it was summer again. I'm tired of the too-short days and the darkness at 5pm and the cold. I'm tired of it all. I wish I was back in Indiana, down at the river, in a canoe in the middle of the summer. But instead I'm here, flipping through pages from the beginning of last year, remembering what it felt like before I made all those memories. January is good for nostalgia. 

a winter mixtape.

This month's playlist is one of my favorites- and not because I like Christmas music. In fact, I shy away from Christmas music as long as I can. The reason I like this mixtape so much is because it's such a clear picture of the different personalities of the six of us who run this website. We have the more traditional Christmas music. The typical Mariah Carey can't-get-it-out-of-your-head songs. The songs that aren't Christmas songs, but fit the theme perfectly. While I was preparing this playlist, I realized how thankful I am for the five other girls who sent me songs for this playlist. Thanksgiving is over and it's Christmas season now, but we never did do a thankful type post on here. So here it is: I'm thankful for Libby and Kendall and Hannah and Abbey and Carlotta. Thankful for their friendship, and their impeccable taste in music. You can listen to the mixtape here. 

EDITED: Katie is going to put the playlist on grooveshark later, but until then, here's a list of the songs. --Carlotta

+ Silent Night//Stevie Nicks

+ White Christmas//Bing Crosby

+ Hallelujah//Handel's Messiah

+ Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas//Sarah McLachlan

+ You Make Me Feel So Young//Frank Sinatra

+ Santa Claus is Coming to Town//Nat King Cole

+ All I Want for Christmas is You//Mariah Carey

+ Barcarola (You Must be a Christmas Tree)//Sufjan Stevens

+ Baby, It's Cold Outside//She & Him

+ Christmas Day (I Wish I Was Surfing)//Emmy the Great & Tim Wheeler

+ Coldest Days//The Rural Alberta Advantage

+ I'll Be Home for Christmas//She & Him

+ White Winter Hymnal//Fleet Foxes

+ All That I Want//The Weepies

+ Stubborn Love//The Lumineers

+ Winter Song//Sara Bareilles & Ingrid Michaelson

+ Blood Bank//Bon Iver

+ Horchata//Vampire Weekend

+ Zombie Christmas//Emmy the Great & Tim Wheeler

fernweh lookbook.

In October, I emailed Katie of BIRD AND WILLOW asking her to put together a Fernweh lookbook. These lookbooks are full of pretty pictures and words of inspiration, and I'm so grateful for both her willingness to create this and the opportunity to share these photos and a visual representation of what fernweh means with you. Thank you so much, Katie!

writing about writing | part one

Every week this month, we're going to talk to you about writing. We're going to tell you how crazy and how tired we are, how much black coffee we drank last night, how we've completely (literally) lost the plot. We're going to talk about trying to write 50,000 words in a month and we're going to talk about trying to finish a terrible terrible chapter and we're (hopefully) going to talk about finishing it too.

Libby says...
I managed to write about 4000 words today, furious typing sessions tied around my dinner. I was behind, and I'm just about up to date now. I'm clinging on with all my might, and if I slow down my writing pace I'm going to lose, but for now I'm right where I need to be.
I thought I would be further by now. Yes, I have found that once you start writing, you can't stop. But I want to write other things; I want to write about stupid crushes and the way the fog settles in the morning and my plans for the future. I don't want to write about some stupid cafe, the epicentre of my project. I get tired of focusing solely on this one grand story, this complex document of interlocking stories and characters that are supposed to stand alone and yet meld together perfectly. It is hard, and all that writing gets me ready to write other stuff, but it's not always conducive to meeting my daily targets. I am already fretting about how I'll get to 50000 words and having to replot and restructure my loose concepts that I began with.
But I've wrote this one piece today, about four pages, which just flew off my fingers. It flowed and I cried as I wrote it. It's not a perfect piece of writing, but I was writing something that felt shockingly honest and sort of beautiful (almost). It was productive towards my project and it was a good set of pages.
These moments are few and far between, but when they come I am reminded of why I am doing this. It's cathartic and freeing and horribly emotional.
It's important.

Katie says...
This is so, so much harder than I thought it would be. I'm collaborating with my friend Jillian, so I'm only writing half as many words as everyone else, but still...this is hard, people.
It's hard because I don't want to write about the things I'm supposed to be writing. Just like Libby said, the sheer volume of the words are hard, but it's not just the writing. I write best when I feel like it. The past few days? I haven't been feeling it. Jillian and I are way over our word goal, so we're not worried about that. And honestly, the one of the only two reasons I've written at all these past few days is because of 750words.com. I don't want to end my streak, and it's helped me with that.
And the other reason? The writing is always worth it.

Kendall says...
If you want to know the truth, I wrote exactly 0 words yesterday. I got home around 7:30, ate dinner, showered, and scrolled through Tumblr several times before deciding that I just didn't have it in me. So, yeah, this isn't going to be very inspiring or full of tips to help you succeed. I could do that, because theoretically I know what I should be doing, but it'd just be hypocritical when I'm this far behind. I started out the month writing about something I thought would be easy to write about. I thought it would be easy because it was basically my story, wrapped in the guise of fiction. But I didn't like that too much. I discovered pretty quickly that I like writing about my life and I like writing fiction but I don't like it when the lines blur. It should've been easy, but it wasn't, so three days in, I started over. I left the words I'd written, because it's November and if I've written words, I want them to count, dangit, but I've made them white so I can't see them. I started over and I'm excited for this new story. My problem isn't so much inspiration anymore, but factoring in time to work. Giving up has never been an option. So right now, I'm off to write.

interview with Alexis Gavrelis

171/366

A month or so ago, I contacted Alexis Gavrelis in hopes of an interview. Alexis is more than a little famous around the tumblr world for her poetry. She's 17 years old and almost finished with her 366 poetry project. The first time I read one of her poems, it was two days before I graduated, and I was feeling so lost, and I read this poem that she had written, and realized that I wasn't the only person who felt this way. Ever since then, I've been keeping up with her poetry. She's an incredible writer, and I hope you enjoy this interview with her. 

306/366

Hi, Alexis! I have a phone call in 40 minutes and this shouldn't take that long, but we can go ahead and jump right in. So how old were you when you started writing?

Hmm I mean I've always been the kind of person that naturally gravitated toward writing, but I didn't really get into journaling and prose until about 3 years ago.

55/366

I definitely understand that! Did you read a lot when you were younger?

So much! I used to be really embarrassed about it because all of my friends were at a stage where reading was really lame, but I was still constantly reading. I think that's why I love writing so much. Everything I've ever read has influenced me in some way.

95/366

That idea has always been really interesting to me, because I read all the time, and it's like, how is what I'm reading impacting what I write? What kind of stuff you do like to read now? And what are your two or three favorite books?

I've been really into classics for the last year or so. I absolutely fell in love with used book stores so I love going into them and picking up the rattiest books I can find and checking them out. I'm really into the idea though that you can read literally whatever you want, as long as you're reading. My top three favorite books as of right now...gosh this is hard. Definitely Catcher in the Rye, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath and I really love A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

54/366

Used bookstores are the best. There's one in Indianapolis that I visited for a John Green event, and the bookstore is called Indy Reads. It's the prettiest bookstore I've ever been in. I LOVE Catcher & The Bell Jar, but I've never read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. What do you like about those three books, or how do they change what you write, if that makes sense?

I really love stories that I can project myself onto..if that makes sense. I read Catcher a few years ago and I was just kind like "uh ok?" but then I reread it just a few months ago and it's almost like a light clicked and I was like wait a second...I am Holden. It's the same way with The Bell Jar. I love the kind of books that I can read over and over again and take something differently from the story each time-- the kind of books you can keep in the bottom of your back and read whenever you find a free moment. I hope that makes sense.

157/366

It makes so much sense. Books like that are really special because you can grow into them, and as you keep growing, you find different parts of yourself inside of them.

Exactly!

Let's talk about your own poetry for a couple minutes. Did it freak you out when you started getting a lot of followers and people started telling you how much they loved your words?

Oh definitely. Before I started this project I was terrified of people reading my work. I rarely even let my closest friends read it, so when I started getting all of these followers and they started telling me how much they enjoyed it...I almost thought that they were just being nice in a way. It took one of my good friends to sit me down and say "Look, these people don't know you, they don't have to love what you do, but they do." and I think from then on I tried to get used to having them as my audience I suppose? And I let it humble me because I never for a second imagined that I would have so many readers or admirers and I am completely overwhelmed at the response I've gotten.

86/366

Do a lot of people who know you read what you write? And if so, how do you feel about that now, as opposed to when you first started your 365 project?

My friends follow it, and I'm sure people from my school have seen it. As the year has progressed I've gotten more comfortable with the idea of my work being accessible to anyone with a computer. My blog gives me a sense of anonymity, but at the same time allows me to showcase who I am as a person. Back in january I kept my journals locked away in my room, now I can go out in public and sit down at a table and write about what I see. I don't care about what people think so much anymore. I love writing, and I think the project has taught me how to be more open with that love.

205/366

That's really beautiful. I love to write, but I'm still at that point where sharing it with people who I know and love is really difficult. Has there been a response to your writing from a particular person, anonymous or not, that really meant a lot to you?

It will come in time, trust me. I think that sharing something as personal as my your words can make you so extremely vulnerable that it can be terrifying. So, I think the responses that I recieve that mean the most to me are the messages that tell me that I've helped them get through a night they thought they wouldn't. Or my words helped them get to sleep when all they thought they would do was stare at the ceiling. That's all I've ever wanted. I love to read because it's in reading that I know I'm not alone and if I can do that for someone else, especially someone I've never met, I've done what I've set out to do. I think it's so incredible that people connect with the jumbled mess in my head.

161/366

I think that's all anyone who writes ever wants. Okay, two more questions before I have to go. 1) What kind of music do you listen to when you write, and who are some songwriters who you really connect with? and 2) Is there a person or experience you've tried writing about, but just can't get the words onto the paper?

I have an ongoing playlist that I'm constantly adding to for when I write. I really love listening to Noah Gundersen, Regina Spektor, Ben Howard, and Bon Iver. I love anything that just lets my mind wander. Oh definitely. There are so many things I've been through that I can't seem to put into words. Or I have put them into words, but I don't think they'll ever be what I wish for them to be. A lot of first love experiences are hard, writing about certain people or certain moments where you felt so alive is hard. Whenever I get an idea I scribble it down wherever I can find a piece of paper and sometimes I'll go back and read it and think to myself "I just can't go back to that moment. I can't feel what I felt when I wrote those exact words." That's the tough thing about being a writer, you can try as hard as you want, but sometimes there are just some moments you'll never be able to put back into words. Sometimes moments are just moments, and memories are all you'll ever have.

307/366

That is so true and profound. Thank you so much, Alexis. It was wonderful talking to you, and I look forward to reading the rest of your 365 project!

Oh you're welcome, thank you a thousand times over for liking what I write enough to speak with me!

Thank you a thousand times over for writing it! Have a nice evening!

You too!

You can find Alexis at Twelve Odd Months, or at her personal blog here. Thank you so much, Alexis! 

coffee shop monologue.

“This is my favorite song by my favorite band,” I said, as we stepped into the coffee shop and the telltale whistling that began Noah & the Whale’s song 5 Year’s Time started playing overhead. Visiting a brand new, not-Starbucks coffee shop is always an exciting experience. There’s the chance they won’t have any drinks you’re familiar with, or maybe their menus are all in French, or maybe there are only two tiny tables already taken up by regulars who glare at you over their full mugs. 

Solar Roast Coffee is on the corner of 3rd and Main, and it’s just a little too far away to bike or walk and I wished I lived in one of the apartments directly across the street. Like you’d expect from the name, sunshine floods the roomy space inside. Outside, it smelled like coffee and fall. I dropped my bag into one of two booths and smacked my psych textbook on the attached table. The barista handed me my drip brew, room for cream, and I navigated the puzzle of tables to the cream station then back to my booth. 

A familiar song started playing. I tilted my head to the side and threw my eyes up to the ceiling and mumbled under my breath, as if that would help me remember what song this was. Then came the typical aha moment, as I realized it was The Kids Don’t Stand a Chance. Vampire Weekend is always good, particularly on a fall day that felt more special than anything else. 

Psychology homework is hard to focus on at the best of times, but in a new place with so many details to notice while I had the chance, it was hard to keep my eyes on the page long enough to absorb the information. 

Starbucks is good in its consistency. It’s nice to know that whether I’m in Amman or Denver, I can find a Starbucks with the same drinks. That's comforting. 

Solar Roast was different though in a refreshing way that made me want to come back again and again. The windowsill that was the length of two booths was full of potted plants, the leaves and flowers growing out past the windowsill itself and touching gently onto our table. The far wall was painted with a sunrise, or a sunset maybe, like what a little kid would draw with a crayon gripped tight in her fist, the rays of sun stretching out from the bottom center and gradually expanding. A black leather couch was pushed up against that same wall, next to the fireplace that was empty then, but I imagine in the winter they light it. There was a potted cactus resting against a pillar -"Every Valentine's she sends me a potted cactus. It's like, thanks a heap, coyote ugly, this cactus gram stings even worse than your abandonment."- and it was a good reminder that Pueblo is almost the desert. 

The menu was hanging from the ceiling, illustrated with pictures and it was clearly separated by the different types of drinks. "Hey," I gestured to the sign, "next time I come here I want to try the Pueblo Mocha. It has hot chili peppers in it." My dad laughed. 

The light was warm. When I say warm, it's hard to describe what I really mean. What I mean is this: the walls were all painted yellow, and there were trees in the courtyard area outside that had bright gold leaves falling and blowing up against the windows, and it was just past noon so the sun was still bright but not as harsh as in the very middle of the day, and all these things blended together until it was like the entire coffee shop was painted with an acrylic color called "light" and this light smudged across the golden walls until the light itself made everything feel warm and welcoming.

The baristas knew every other customer by name, their faces lighting up with a cheery "hello!" whenever the door opened and someone new walked in. This is what I want. I want to be a regular in a place where someone knows my name. I want to have a drink that I order every time, and I want to surprise them when I deviate from my normal. I want to claim the black couch as my own on winter evenings, and spread my homework and my laptop across the table and smile at the new kid when she walks in, her eyes shifting from side to side as she takes in this indie coffee shop that's far different from the Starbucks she's used to. 

a letter to stephen.

A few weeks ago, I sent this to Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being A Wallflower. Along with it, a note explaining that I didn't write it for him, but I wanted him to read it. And a letter. Tonight I got an email from a woman who works for him saying he was so impressed by my talent as a writer that he wants to call my parents & I. So here is something for you to read, that I didn't write for you or Stephen or anyone but myself.

"So I looked up, and we were in this giant dome like a glass snowball, and Mark said that the amazing white stars were really only holes in the black glass of the dome, and when you went to heaven, the glass broke away, and there was nothing but a whole sheet of star white, which is brighter than anything else but doesn't hurt your eyes. It was vast and open and thinly quiet, and I felt so small." (from Perks.)

I haven't been out on my roof since the night in early summer where he and I stayed up until the sunrise and I almost fell asleep out there, blinking my heavy eyes quickly just to stay awake. Since it's one of my last nights here until I leave forever, I grabbed a blanket and a flashlight and Perks. Crawled out onto the roof. And read until I couldn't feel my fingers.

It's hard to see the stars tonight. The moon is too bright and washes them out. It's better than it has been though, where the fog and clouds smudge up the sky until there aren't any visible stars at all. It's a trade-off, I guess, because I love the rain and I love the stars and it's hard to choose which I love more.

I moved into this house five and a half years ago, and countless times, I've stood outside in the middle of the road with a cat, just staring at the sky. Once in the middle of winter I went to the middle of the field across the street, camera in tow, and took a few hundred pictures. I think the book that night was L'Engle, A Ring of Endless Light, maybe. It was cold then too and I didn't come back inside until I couldn't feel my fingers.

One of the hardest part about living in the city is the absence of visible stars. I know that soon I'll move up to the mountains and if I want I can drive up and down the Greenhorn Park in the middle of the night until I get tired of the stars. For now though, I feel cheated out of another fall spent staring at the sky.

...It's weird to read Perks again. I was 15-almost-16 the first time I opened it, on an airplane seated next to a woman who smiled at me without saying anything. Now I'm 6-months-past-17 and it's dizzying to think about how much has changed since the first time I met Charlie. And it's dizzying to think about what hasn't changed and should have. Like on page 93 I underlined these words, "maybe I'm being sentimental, but I like to think that when I'm old, I will be able to look at all these tapes and remember those drives." In the margins of the page I wrote in my handwriting that loops in the same direction even after thousands of words written on journal pages, "music gets tangled up in memories." I don't remember writing those words. I do remember opening up a document on my computer later that night after my plane landed in Indianapolis and writing this, "sometimes I wake up and my iPod is tangled in my hair. I like to think that the music tangles through my hair and into my mind while I sleep, dictating my dreams."

And it's funny to think of how the person who wrote both those words inside the book and those words on a computer screen isn't the same person who's writing these words now. That other girl is still there, and she's still a part of me, but I've had a year and a half of tears&laughter&loss that 15-almost-16 me didn't have and that's changed me in good and bad ways.

I can laugh now at what I said about the music dictating my dreams because, while it's a nice thought, frankly it's ridiculous and not to mention badly written. The other one though- what was I thinking when I wrote that?  And what pencil did I use? And was it one I pulled from the jar on my desk? And I can't remember, did I even have that jar then? And if it was from the jar, did it have chew marks on the eraser or was it one of the really tiny ones I have a bad habit of stealing from libraries? Or was it the purple pencil Dylan-nicknamed-Katie's-Dylan-because-we-were-best-friends gave to me for Christmas in 8th grade? And after I wrote it, did I stop and sigh because of the heavy truthfulness of it all? Or did I cry because there wasn't any music to mark that moment?

And I wonder what Charlie would think of all this.

katie

october mixtape.

october mixtape from fernwehmag on 8tracks Radio.

or, Spotify.

september mixtape.

september mixtape from fernwehmag on 8tracks Radio.

or, listen on spotify.

adventures in solitude.

35mm film from Colorado + Arizona.

staff picks.

Hannah wrote me a poem about homesickness.

Eat your memories.

Lost to found.

I'm here for you.

Best Coast has a free song for you to download (featured on the Fernweh August playlist).

To be human is to catch the falling person.

Meg Fee writes about growing up.

The quiet place.

I hope you have a wonderful week.

august mixtape.

This playlist is especially good because there are so many songs on here that I love (ie. Atlas Hands) and it makes me happy that collectively, we have such great taste in music ;) Hope you all have a lovely   August full of good music.

Salinger, I'm Sorry.

This was supposed to be about Kerouac. I was going to talk about reading On The Road while I was driving through Utah and Arizona, how the dust of the desert fit in perfectly with the book. I was going to talk about my favorite line in Book of Sketches, "the flesh gets numb, but the soul doesn't."

Instead, it's Thursday morning, and I'm pounding out these words as quickly as I can, taking a break every few lines to put on mascara or foundation. All I can think of is a poem I read once, and the first two lines are echoing over and over in my head: "Salinger, I'm sorry, but don't ever tell anyone anything..." and that's all I can remember, so I repeat it until finally I open up a new tab and google the rest of the poem.

It goes like this:

"Salinger, I'm sorry, but "don't ever tell
anyone anything" is a string of words
that I would like to wrap up in canvas and sink
to the bottom of the Hudson, or extract
by laser from the ribcage of all of us
who ever believed it, who felt afraid
to miss someone, to be the last one
standing. "Tell everyone everything" is
not exactly right, but I do believe that if
your mother looks radiant in violet
you should tell her, or when a juvenile
sparrow thrashes its wings in dustpiles
and reminds you of a lover's eyelashes,
you should say so. We are islands all of us,
but we are also boats, our secrets flares,
pyrotechnic devices by which we signal
there's someone in here we're still alive!
So maybe it's, "don't be afraid." Oliver Bendorf, Catch a Body

That poem contradicts one of my favorite quotes from Salinger. See, when I read the Catcher in the Rye, it had been exactly a year since I left for Jordan. All those memories were flooding back, and I started telling my family the stories that they had already heard millions of times. And I read that quote, right at the end of the book, where Holden Caulfield says, "Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody," and I thought, that is so true. Holden gets it.

But then. I read this poem, and maybe Holden doesn't get it. Holden does understand that sharing the stories, telling people things, can make you miss them more. Holden doesn't understand, though, that sometimes it's worth it, that sometimes the best thing you can do is: "don't be afraid."

an interview with...Rachel Culbertson

(hawk watch)

I was browsing through Flickr one day, sometime last year, flicking through photos and words and whatnot. Somehow, I landed on Rachel's profile. I was fascinated.

Rachel is an incredibly talented writer, poet, and a student living in the Midwest. On her tumblr, Poorly Written History, she answers questions, talks about her poetry, and, occasionally, shares music. On her flickr, you can find all the published pieces of her writing. Near the end of April, I emailed Rachel asking if we could talk with her on Fernweh. Here are her responses to my questions.

(for a girl so close to breaking free)

Your poetry seems incredibly raw and honest. Was it hard for you when you began sharing your poetry on Poorly Written History? How has the sense of community that's developed around your blog and your flickr influenced your writing? 

When I began my writing project, I wasn’t expecting it to gain the momentum it has in this vast little galaxy of the internet. I moved home after my first year of college armed with a typewriter and that spark of things to say. I thought, why not? I showed it to three friends and honestly thought no one else would read. Somehow, by tricks unknown, my first piece found its way to people I’d long admired in the small writing community thriving here on Tumblr. From there, it continued to take off. Because I had already made a commitment to write for myself, I knew I couldn’t stop because I suddenly had a wider audience. It was just something I had to do. Since that summer two years ago, the intentions of my blog have certainly changed shapes and evolved into something entirely different. It is so wonderful to have documentation of my own growth—to be baffled by how far I’ve traveled since I first started hammering words onto paper, not just in personal development but in the way I use my voice as well. I’ve come into my own. That’s something to be thankful for, and something I might not have sorted out on my own without the companionship of complete strangers.

I was originally drawn to writing because of the connection factor. For years, I had felt the tug in my chest while pouring over novels, finding the places where I understood exactly what the author was trying to convey. It was magical. There was something incredibly powerful about the way words bridge gaps, how they stretch between people previously unattached, how something can be triggered just by a simple sentence. It was my lofty dream of being a writer—to have that same comforting influence. It wasn’t something I expected to find through an internet writing project, especially one which is essentially just a purge of my mind, a place to tuck things away. Yet I have been gifted with an incredibly community of people who reassure me not only of the validity of what I have to say, but also the way I say it. How fortunate am I, to have a place where I am given support from people I might never know. I’m damn lucky. I don’t think I’ll ever stop saying that.

You've curated several side projects, including No Shame November and Quiet Little Things. What have you learned from these projects? 

No Shame November was created because I felt I had a duty to give back to people what they had given me. Having an outlet to challenge the idea of bravery, to pursue vulnerability, to release my stories allowed me to become a different person. There’s such a catharsis in writing something out of you, especially when you’ve been trying to ghost it for years. You can’t hide it anymore when you place it in a public forum—it is yours and it is exposed. I wanted people to have that opportunity on a smaller scale. The first year I did No Shame November, I was shaken. I still have certain lines echoing through my mind. It is incredible to witness the willingness of people when you give them an opportunity, and how much trust people placed in me just because they had watched me do the same. Quiet Little Things was another branch of this idea. I realized I had gained an audience and I wanted to be able to use that to get people’s voices out there. I’m always looking for ways I can push others the way I have been pushed. It feels like the least I can do.

(-)

I've noticed something popping up on your tumblr a lot in recent days...can you tell me about On the Cusp, the zine that you're involved with? 

On the Cusp is a submission generated art and writing zine I piece together with two of the most talented (and cool!) people I know. For months, I had a dream of collecting work from others and publishing it. In a way, it would be a tangible manifestation of previous online-only projects. I wanted to take the next step. But at the same time, it seemed incredibly daunting. No matter how small the publication, it takes work for it to become a success. Luckily, when I brought it up to two fellow creators, they were more than thrilled to help me out. Bi-monthly, we collect submissions from all over the world revolving around a certain theme. After, we sit around and choose the best pieces. They are then formatted into a 40 page booklet, printed up and sold to happy readers. We’ve had incredible success so far, more than I could have ever imagined. Currently, we are packaging up out third issue, echo, and the next theme will be announced within the week. Ideally, we’d like to branch into more publishing endeavors and push this as far as we can. Without sounding too much like an overzealous zine mom (which I totally am), I highly encourage everyone to send in your work, purchase a copy, or spread the word to your friends.

What advice would give to someone who's trying to be more honest with what they write? 

This past semester, I taught a girl who refused to turn in anything to her nonfiction workshop simply because she was afraid to have it read aloud in class. As someone who has a rampant fear of being “that girl,” I understood to an extent. But at the same time, it made me think about how I could convince someone to find comfort in honesty.

Here’s my list of top 5 things:

1. Start small. Write wildly bad prose in every hidden place you possibly can—journals, old receipt tape at work, post-it notes shoved in your pockets, your phone. Practice developing an intimate relationship with your words. Don’t worry about who might see. This is for you.
2. Read painfully honest nonfiction books and essays, interviews with people who have taken risks by exposing themselves in their work. Underline every passage that makes you squirm, every passage you think might have made the writer squirm.
3. Start talking about the things that make you cringe in the dark with friends, driving around in cars with the windows down, standing on empty blocks with your hands thrown in the air. Play “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” with your secrets. Let your voice become soft and hazy with inhibitions over phone lines late at night. Practice oral storytelling. When something gets caught in your throat, remember it. This is where the story lies.
4. Rewrite your scribbles—no matter what form. Craft them into something. It is okay if you can’t get the whole story out yet. Allow yourself to slant things if needed. Be as vague as you must allow yourself. If you want to share them with friends, post them on the internet. Don’t worry if people read, or don’t read. This is an exercise for you, alone.
5. Remember, above all, that you have so many stories inscribed within your skin that no one else can tell the way you do. They are all important, they are all valid, they all have the potential to shake someone up. And really, what are you so afraid of?

(for bus rides) 

You've mentioned that you took a fiction writing class this semester; how does what you wrote for that class conflict with the truth and honesty in your poetry? Did you take any other classes that made you excited about learning? 

I’m actually a fiction writing major, though I rarely write a fictional piece with enthusiasm. I spent my workshop class this past semester writing a nonfiction piece about a road trip I took to North Carolina last summer. Despite my gripes, immersing myself in a type of writing I’m not comfortable with has helped me realize I shouldn’t let myself be hindered by the truth. Allowing details to be bent to better a story is perfectly acceptable. No matter what class I’m taking—from Small Press Publishing to Tutor Training, Beginning Poetry to First Novels—I’m being asked to view my work in a different light, to think about writing in a new way. That’s something exciting and incredibly helpful. Even if you struggle through your poetry workshop, you are still picking up tools to weave into other types of writing, understanding the rules of the game and how to heighten your work to make it better than it was before. Being open to this is absolutely crucial.

I know that you don't like recommending music (I'm the same way); however, what is some music that you love? No recommendations, just opinions. 

I’m a sucker for sad songs and rap music. That’s all there is to it, really.

(things we tell ourselves in the dark, pt 4.) 

Your flickr account is full of words. What's your favorite thing you've written? Or, alternatively, what are you most proud of? 

While I don’t think I’ll ever be able to call a certain piece my “favorite,” I can say I feel that little swell in my chest when I read something I wrote and it hits exactly what I was trying to convey. My series from last summer, “Things We Tell Ourselves in the Dark” has certain pieces that still resonate with the desperateness I was experiencing. Many of the long form pieces I wrote in my “coincidences” set still ache. It is fun to write about my current relationship because I’m seeing how I let my past writhe through my present. I’m proud of where I’ve been, where I’ll go. It is nice to have reminders of that.

I read a quote a few days ago that said, talking about what she learned from Anne Lamott's books, “‘Sometimes you’re not blocked, you’re empty’ – if you are an artist of any kind, or if you are trying to get any kind of large-scale project accomplished, you know that “writer’s block” is always at your heels, that jinxed feeling that the gig is up, and no matter how long you stare at the blank screen, you’ve got nothing. Less than nothing. Anne Lamott reminds me that sometimes the problem isn’t that I’m blocked but that I’m empty. Perhaps I need to spend some time filling up again, engaging in the small moments of inspiration that provide energy for the work. a walk outside. a conversation. Using ultra fine tip sharpie markers in a journal. Rest. etc. This is some of the best advice I have ever heard. Instead of trying to push past the block, perhaps the best thing to do is go about filling up.” In regards to this, what do you do when you're drained, and empty, and the words won't come?

Often, I find myself experiencing what I call “writer’s exhaustion.” It isn’t that I don’t have anything to say—there’s always a million things pressing at my fingertips—but sometimes the mind (and heart) become so tired  process shifts from being enjoyable, rewarding, important and feels difficult. Throw in a self censorship issue: things being too close, worrying you won’t do them justice, wondering if it is worth writing and I’ll find myself frustrated. It takes a moment of pause. Usually, I just need to return to a place of where I feel more comfortable. Open up a notebook and write something entirely different—party and bullshit prose just to get some of that anxiety out. Get to the root of things. It helps to remove the phrase “I can’t” from your vocabulary. If you are trying to work on something fictional, switch to nonfiction—your past provides a wealth of stories. If the form is challenging you, write it shorter and expand later. Anything to jog you away from whatever you are struggling with.

Words are art. However, is there any other sort of art form that you're involved in? What inspires you?

I’m a sucker for writing—always have been, always will be. But the artistic possibilities stemming from that—creating little publications, performance poetry, oral storytelling—is forever catching me by storm. They all hold unique possibilities of stretching your boundaries, something I love. As for inspiration, I am just constantly fascinated by human interaction, by the way our relationships echo throughout us, how we build and manipulate ourselves. Growth, in essence. Living in a city has strengthened my observational skills. Memory is hugely important to me. I just constantly want to absorb everything I possibly can, to find a story in both myself and those I touch briefly.


Thank you so much, Rachel!