Anxiety riddles my bones as I ponder the thought of going outside, I fear the world perhaps. Even the sweetest invitations give me a ping of distress; I am not sure what it is whether it is the social aspect or the responsibility of getting there. I let something so dangerous eat me alive as I lay restless in my bed at night too shaken to act upon my personal struggle, fear. I dream of living in a large gothic mansion, with a writing career, content. The silent ping stabs me in the chest reminding me of my anxieties. I try to ignore these alarms; they keep me awake at night and have taken so many opportunities from me. I am tired of being fearful, but I am afraid to try. Writing is solitude I feel a sense of freedom, letting my fears dissipate into nothingness. I’m no longer afraid. To feel that way for a moment is everything.
The thirst for recognition is universal, we all want to be recognized for our great successes. Writing has been my only solace from the day to day stresses of life. I have so many stories, ideas pent up inside or barely actualized in a half written script. The frustration of incompleteness is unavoidable and causes me great grief and restlessness. I want to these scripts complete! For these stories to be actualized and my characters to lift off the page into existence! Procrastination lures around the corner like a leech pretending to be both a friend and foe. Some of my best ideas are sucked from the venom of procrastination, but otherwise I stare off into space hoping for something to contextualize while I avoid procrastination like the plague. Promising to write a page or two while my characters roll their eyes at me like “sure yeah, I’ve been waiting what 4 years?!” I’m sorry my little creations I’m doing the best I can. There is essentially nothing I can do it seems until these stories are complete. My characters drive me to tell their stories and as their mother, I can’t refuse. So thus, I lose myself again in their worlds, while I still feel lost in my own.
Instead of waiting in her tower, Rapunzel slices off her long, golden hair with a carving knife, and then uses it to climb down to freedom.
Just as she’s about to take the poison apple, Snow White sees the familiar wicked glow in the old lady’s eyes, and slashes the evil queen’s throat with a pair of sewing scissors.
Cinderella refuses everything but the glass slippers from her fairy godmother, crushes her stepmother’s windpipe under her heel, and the Prince falls madly in love with the mysterious girl who dons rags and blood-stained slippers.
Persephone goes adventuring with weapons hidden under her dress.
Persephone climbs into the gaping chasm.
Or, Persephone uses her hands to carve a hole down to hell.
In none of these versions is Persephone’s body violated unless she asks Hades to hold her down with his horse-whips.
Not once does she hold out on eating the pomegranate, instead biting into it eagerly and relishing the juice running down her chin, staining it red.
In some of the stories, Hades never appears and Persephone rules the underworld with a crown of her own making.
In all of them, it is widely known that the name Persephone means Bringer of Destruction.
Red Riding Hood marches from her grandmother’s house with a bloody wolf pelt.
Medusa rights the wrongs that have been done to her.
Eurydice breaks every muscle in her arms climbing out of the land of the dead.
Girls are allowed to think dark thoughts, and be dark things.
Instead of the dragon, it’s the princess with claws and fiery breath
who smashes her way from the confines of her castle
and swallows men whole.