TONIGHT: Discord Collab Sunday, Nov 26th @ 7 pm EST
TONIGHT: Discord/Zoom Collab Sunday, Nov 26th @ 7 pm EST
If you suffer from Prose F.O.M.O. or are simply interested in meeting up with other writers, poets, and authors from Prose, come join us, you may just meet your favorite Proser. It’s also possible you may not.
@MeeJong will be hosting a Zoom meet-up where we shoot the shit, talk nonsense, write and collaborate, and much much more. Sometimes there’s just booze.
If you are shy, which most of us are, feel free to deactivate your camera, and/or microphone. You can use the chat instead if you would like or just listen in as a wallflower. Wallflowers are beautiful too!
There are NO obligations on participation and no need to jump into the deep end quite yet if you just want to get your feet wet. Whatever you are comfortable with is totally fine with us.
This is all about community and supporting each other.
Prose Discord Server Link:
Workshop Zoom Link:
If you do not want to be tagged, please message this page, and we will kindly take your name off the list.
See you all there! We cannot wait!
May 16th, 2018
we talked on the phone like friends would
I loved it a little too much
I asked you about your new girlfriend
you said you don't love her yet
I liked that answer a little more than I should have
but the way we loved is something I'll never forget
It had only been a month and a half
on that rainy May day
when you saw me laugh
and in that moment you said you just knew
that you were in love
but you didn't know yet that I loved you too
I sat in the car, watching you walk away
and I cried and I laughed when the feeling hit me
all at once - I just knew on that rainy May day
She squinted through her glasses at his quiet, studied form, taking tiny but significant steps across the garden. It didn’t take long to get to him. A polite cough chirped out to catch his attention but he didn’t look up and over at her.
Despite the cloud of smoke over his bent head, like a grey halo, she sat a few feet away. Ten seconds later, she shimmied the skirt of her long dress with her across the length of the oak bench, even closer.
He breathed a deeply impatient sigh, and eventually looked her way.
“Hi again”, she whispered.
Etch a Sketch in Red
I didn't become a writer. I didn't ask to stare at a white screen and think about all that is not profound about my existence as a human being. I am, at my core, someone whose brain is a notebook, my thoughts sketching essays across my consciousness like those Etch A Sketch things that children insist on carrying around with them. I didn't become this. I was born with a pencil in my hand, a blank page staring at me like a life expectancy.
I'm yin and yang. Some days, I produce pieces I am truly proud to call my work. Other days, I write something that I am proud of, but no one can relate to it. And here lies my problem. What if it's not that no one can relate to it, but - it's just not good?
Yesterday I published a 700-word essay about my mother on here. I was very proud of it. But when it only got 13 reads with one like, I deleted it. Re-reading it, I realized parts of it might not make sense to others. To me, it made perfect sense - the thoughts had flown out of me. But to readers, it might seem jumbled, convoluted. I had thought I was writing in ink, but it had been crayon the whole time, and in a color no one particularly likes, like puke green. I had been so excited to share my trauma, so people could relate! and understand! and whatever else it is a writer wants from their work, and from the readers of their work. But it flopped.
I like to think my writing bleeds across the page, each word dripping with a red that dries into that horrible dark color that resembles a gunshot wound stain on bad carpeting. Intense, noticeable, unforgettable. But maybe it doesn't. Maybe it's canary yellow, the other color that people avoid in crayon sets, and when they see that I posted something they immediately choose the other writers on here to read instead: pastel blues, lilac purple, pale pink. Writers that make sense to them, that they know will resonate.
But maybe trauma is drawn in a different medium altogether. Not in crayon, or ink, or blood. When I write about trauma, maybe I'm using a medium that no one can see but me.
And that absolutely terrifies me.
It's one thing to rehash trauma, expose old wounds for the world to see. It's another thing to be read and ignored, to be glanced at and then looked over for something better. I have piles of emails rejecting my writing. Most of them are for my bad poetry. But some of it, ugh. It was real, that rejection. It hurt.
The color of rejection is also red. It is the large "F" written at the top of my Computer Science exam, the one I turned in blank, except for my name. I don't know anything about Computer Science and apparently, I don't know anything about writing.
But I'm trying.
Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.
Been busy at HQ, but we wanted to put some fresh content on the channel, so we put up a video from one of our founder's channel, and to also let you know if you have any audio or video/audio for us, send it to email@example.com because we would love to publish it on our YouTube!
Here's think for some spoken nerd:
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Farewell to Yesterday
2022 will be laid to rest at 11:59pm on December 31st.
It will be revised by his relative 2023, 12 months, and 365 days.
In loving memory of 2022, a million beautiful babies were born. And a million beautiful children are gone. The average working man, made more money, while the average politician doubled the prices. It was a year of confusion and stability was a dream. The average family home was budging at the seams. People are scared to buy cars because gas is so high. Covid was controlled down to one house per neighborhood. 2022 and our ex president brought violence to a whole new high. And trafficking is ignored by the eye in the sky. Wal-Mart became the place to release all of your pain. No not shopping, just for going insain. 2022 will be missed by a million families that lost their love ones while the year was departing. May God bless everyone that struggled through this year, and all of our Angel's that fell victim to 2022 demise.
You Are Not The Boss Of Me
My opinion, and this is strictly MY opinion is...
We are all Christians. Be it that you love the lord or that you don't quite understand the concept. Being a Christian means it is all understood. Using your descent jester's and kind favors to make living more comfortable and equal is a great example. Making rules for other people lives so that your life can make sense is not being Christian to me. You can't say "If you get a tattoo you are no longer Christian." Then you work on your farm and brand your cows to show that they are prime. Just because people do things with their bodies that you do not agree with, does not make me less loved by my Lord. He does not judge people and he doesn't expect anything out of you that does not feel comfortable to you. We were all equally made and loved all the same by God. Your faith in your God controls your output. No person on this earth has the power to tell you what will send you to heaven or hell. You already know what is wrong or right. You have to believe in yourself and the rest will follow. No judgements formed against you will change the job that God sent you here to do. We are made as One. Again, this is only MY opinion.
God Bless You.