Constance Persephone

Can you imagine spending days thinking about making a blog, an hour or so creating one, finally sitting down to write your first post and you suddenly lose the ability to think? Typical.

I thought I would introduce myself for this first post and give you the rundown on why I decided to make a blog in the first place. Cause I’m very sure you are ultra curious about what a random faceless stranger online has been ruminating on. That’s a big word for Elmo. And yes I do mean ruminating because since 5th grade I have been a cynic and most of my thought processes are not happy ones.

I call myself an author but I have never published anything (yet) and I don’t even have a first draft of any book done (yet). But I’m feeding into my delusions and trying to manifest some shit.

The way that self depreciation can make you believe the nasty things you say about yourself, the same works for speaking kindly to yourself. Adjusting your mindset and repetitive action can influence the way you act and take space in the world. So, by calling myself an author even though I haven’t actually published anything, I’m building up my self image, well trying to anyway. When you spend so long being awful to yourself, it feels unnatural to be gentle and loving. Strange, but possible. It’s just really hard.

While in the process of trying to write a first draft for my current project I got stuck like I usually do and nearly convinced myself to stop writing all together. In truth I’ve only really committed to being an author in August of 2024 even though the first time I fell in love with writing was in 3rd grade. It’s been my favorite way to express how I feel because you can literally string random words together and come up with anything and say it’s a social commentary or whatever the fuck abstract artists say.

When feelings don’t make sense, words do. And simply writing individual words about what you feel, see, hear, or think in that moment can start unraveling the tangled web of emotions you’re stuck in. It’s beautiful, and I can’t believe I forgot about it.

In the simplest of terms, I convinced myself that I could never be an author because I wasn’t good enough. Well fuck that. And that scared little girl who was so scared of failing so she never even started? She’s all grown up now and she’s still scared shitless and she can still hear all the voices telling her to stop and give up but she’s still going. It feels like walking along the bottom of the ocean and I’m running out of air but I’m still going.

In the process of writing I often run into blocks and I stay stuck on them longer than necessary. I take them as signs that I shouldn’t write because I can’t stay consistent. I see the future that I imagine for myself slip further and further away from me. I see a job I could settle for, a name badge, a future that keeps my financial needs met and I can support myself but I see my dreams rot and slip away into the dirt. I see my spirit fracture and the shards impale what ever is left of me. I see a me that continues to be unhappy. I hate it because I’ve become a little bitter. I see authors that I follow and I love their work, but when they post about their new books, or merchandise, or anything at all I get angry and it’s misplaced. Unwarranted. I was not raised to be like this, it’s not who I am at my core. I’m still finding myself and a lot of it is still undiscovered but I know one thing for sure. I am a kind soul and I have so much love inside of my heart.

But you’ve seen the world, you know what it’s like. I’ve become so…unlike myself. I want to find me and grow my happiness and write books, damn it!

The main thought process was as follows:

Work on your book and when you get stuck work, write out what it bothering you or write about something thats easy for you to write about. Just don’t stop writing.

Till we meet again,

Constance Persephone (Seph)