The first time I really took notice of the words “open faced” was in relation to a sandwich back when I worked in a restaurant in 2016. Something about the words still makes my imagination and palette salivate at all the ingredients I’d want in a sandwich so in my face, not hidden like agendas between legs of toasted bread.
These days we have “open letters”, which are apparently to people who most likely won’t respond.
This blog is an open faced letter. It’s the goodness of my favorite sandwich(es) without the need for critics’ validation of its taste.
My about me says more on this well: This is a personal blog. I don’t consider myself a serious person, but for the next few words, read it seriously: writebrained is for me. There will be no filters applied, apologies made for opinions shared, or practicing the delicate art of eggshells. I have lived that life and I’m just about three kinds of ready to move on. So, I’m moving.
You don’t have to or need to be here reading, listening, or watching any of this. This is an open faced journal of my living life as it is as honest as I know it in the moment it’s expressed. I won’t be sorry for the process of growth. Period. And with that we end my seriousness about what I will or won’t take.
This a collection of thoughts and observations – what else is there but the happenings of what’s within and outside of us? I’m exploring. I’m challenging. I’m ripping off bandaids because only children need those. Open faced wounds. No, I’m a still child, just aged, who doesn’t want to cover her wounds anymore. If you hide scars, you hide your whole self, the parts healed and parts needing healing. That’s not to say we’re made up of broken…
OK, I’ll tell you a story about the title of this blog. I wanted to be a writer. I still do. I don’t remember much of my childhood (1-13) but I remember that I wrote stories. I continued to write a lot for awhile (13-15), but something changed.
I don’t know when exactly, but I was ~14/15.
Suppression is real and it becomes PTSD, even mildly so. I began to write to please others, not to express the chorus of orators in my head who wanted to show and tell their perspectives of their lost worlds. Their voices left me, only coming back here and there in whispers of adventures I couldn’t spell out. It was a curse to only hear half their stories.
I began to see the world out here and couldn’t handle it, so I found a then illusive corner of another magical world called the Internet. I found a Harry Potter board, which was befitting because the first story I fell in love with that stayed with me was this series. I wrote there, but eventually this board and other writing boards served to please those I wrote with more my self expression.
I felt like I was behind. I didn’t write enough (compared to my old self). I didn’t read the classics – I didn’t like much of them. I didn’t have the degree or accolades. I just wasn’t molding the writer form. I had to make a career out of writing because what else was I good at? Not creative writing, I thought then. I even tried the non creative sort and oh god no! Not all creative writers can write everything. Or they probably can, but don’t want to. These thoughts became burdensome. Not to mention somehow people would remember me writing above all other traits. It was a compliment that burned. And with the voices gone, I had to find other skills.
I tried over the years to resurrect my writing, but I couldn’t stop feeling like I was a fraud or someone who needed to please people with it. I’m still seeking to find, confront, and make peace with that pivotal moment when I let this self defeat of my talent in. I can only think to write and share beyond validation to find these voices again.
I am more than a writer. I know that. Yet here I am still, against the aforementioned odds, sure that I’m born to write. I’m writebrained… but also on another note, I’m quite left brained as well. But for the sake of a dramatic ending, I am Nadia and I’m writebrained!
The end… of a beginning.