New post up on Substack! This one is about my relationship with social media and my decision to approach it more holistically. You can read it here:

https://open.substack.com/pub/writingwilder/p/whats-my-niche?r=pfigt&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=email

#WritersOfMastodon #SubstackWriter #SubstackWriters #QueerWriters #NeurodivergentWriter

My first two (non-introduction) posts are up on my substack, Writing Wilder - I'll be sharing poems and personal essays from the perspective of a queer, neurodivergent, chronically ill parent hoping for a gentler world. I'll also often share about my writing process, and on Fridays in a special section called "Divine Rewilding" I'll talk about my experience with conservative Christianity. My writing is free; if you like it and are able, you can pledge for a future subscription, which is always appreciated.

Today's essay is about the spread of harmful theology: https://open.substack.com/pub/writingwilder/p/from-sparks-to-blaze?utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web

To get more of an idea of what to expect from my general newsletter, you can read the first essay and poem I shared here:
https://open.substack.com/pub/writingwilder/p/death-as-a-cliffhanger?utm_source=direct&r=pfigt&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web

And you can check out my About page for more info as well: https://writingwilder.substack.com/about

I'm very new to publishing my writing, but I have lots of ideas and I'm excited to have an outlet where I can share them.

#WritersOfMasto #WritersOfMastodon #SubstackWriter #SubstackWriters #QueerWriters #NeurodivergentWriter

I always seem to forget to share things here at the same time that I share them elsewhere, but here is a poem I wrote that I shared on my Substack for the first day of pride month:

My children are wrapped in rainbows
without the weight of worry
about a god who would promise peace
only after dealing destruction,
or who would create life and love
only to decide that some were sinful.
Someday, they'll learn all about
the Bible, genesis and Jesus,
queer liberation and pride parades,
and the reason they, themselves,
are called rainbow babies, but
for now, they'll wear clothes in every colour,
and smile at every stranger,
and when they see the sunlight
reflected and refracted in raindrops,
they'll know nothing but momentary magic
and the bliss of being both
innocent and ignorant of ignorance.

https://substack.com/@writingwilder/note/c-16788266?utm_source=notes-share-action

I've decided to start publishing more of my writing on Substack as well. I'm still getting established, so right now, I've got a couple of intro posts up, plus a few notes with daily poems.

I'll be sending regular newsletters on Tuesdays which will generally consist of poems like the one above along with commentary about them, essays about life (from the perspective of a queer, AuDHD leftist parent), and thoughts about my own writing process. I may separate these out at some point, and would love feedback about what people want to see more of as I'm getting started.

I know we all get a million emails, but if you're interested, feel free to subscribe, or just check in once in a while! You can find my main page at:
writingwilder.substack.com

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@actuallyautistic

~I Am the Stranger in My House~

When I was little, my sister and I would collapse on the floor when we came home from long trips—
kissing the carpet,
and yelling with excitement that we were finally home.

We were finally where we belonged;
where we were comfortable.

It's strange to think that since we moved,
I've never felt that connected to anywhere else.

I never found another home.

It's not because of the location,
or the color of the bricks or walls,
or how many rooms or windows there are—
it's because of me.

Ultimately, the change in environment has never been able to compare to the change that has occurred within.

I've changed so much that I just don't belong anywhere anymore.
I can feel it in every room I step in, and in every object my fingers touch:
'Intruder.'

Everything screams that my presence is wrong.
Even the bed I sleep in every. night. still instructs my pillow to whisper in my ear,
"Temporary."

I feel as if I am living on borrowed time;
as if I am anticipating the stroke of midnight every moment of every day,
and then I will be forced to flee once again—

without ever having the time to know, or be known, in the first place.

#Poetry #PoetryCommunity #Home #writing #WritersOfMastodon #MentalHealth