Wolfie Submissions: Capture Your Truth

— ISAIAH PATE / WINSTON-SALEM, NC

“Creativity in the Cracks” Creation will not come to you match the energy emitted and you’ll see, it’s always around like lucid cracks in the pavement, waiting for someone who’ll get close enough to allow the dark vulnerability to peek through. Now it’s seeping through your eyes. — MARIA KORNACKI / FARMINGTON HILLS, MI

— DILLON PHANTHARANGSY

— OLIVIA COPPOCK / SEATTLE, WA

Often, I prefer to be seen In two dimensions- Just close enough to wonder but too far to question. Eyes beaming with dismay- Or strength? Who knows?

Who cares? she says to me, Her eyes piercing through the rosed glassthe same glare, in fact, that keeps me pliant- Does it even matter So long as they’re fooled? — ERIN NICOLE NICHOLS / LOS ANGELES, CA

— ALEXIS KIM / SAN FRANCISCO, CA

Our true identity is a fickle thing, constantly influenced and changed by the inspiration we consume. It’s difficult to retain a sense of truth when we constantly compare ourselves to other people; other people we see as better or ideal. For me, writing has always been “my thing”, the place where I capture my truth in its most raw, genuine form. I never feel pressured or confined when writing, and I never feel as if I need to pretend to be someone else. When I’m writing, whether it’s a poem or short story, I am adamant about writing exactly what I think in my head, because that’s the only way that it’s real, authentic, and directly from my heart. Like many others in the creative world, I sometimes feel the need to compare myself to others in my field. I’m guilty of feeling as if I need to write more like the poets I see on social media or authors of books I read. However, just recently I decided that my writing and art was already worthy and didn’t need to be modified to fit an archetype determined by someone else. It’s because of this change that I’m able to capture my real, honest truth through creating - specifically writing. I remember reading a quote that said: “A character of your story should be a fractured identity of yourself, whether it’s an example of who you want to be, who you were or who you see yourself as in the present”. It resonated with me, more than just concerning characters in short stories but concerning any and all writing. I took it to mean that my writing should be pieces of a puzzle that when combined, reveal an image of my natural self. And if I am actually trying to create an unafflicted picture, every single puzzle piece has to be absolutely, unabashedly mine. I’ve always wanted to appear as if I have everything together and my life is

in order. But creativity favors chaos, and I think my writing should reflect the beautiful instability that is real life. So my writing expresses the messy, unmanicured parts of my life; the parts I used to try so hard to disguise and hide. In order to actually do that, I tend to just keep writing until the words stop forming, without giving a care to the structure and rhythm until after I’ve put as much onto the paper as possible. The art of writing is unique in its inability to be executed through an equation which is why words can’t be inputted into a formula to produce art. That’s why it’s so complex and not easily mastered, but it’s how I’m able to capture my truth. It’s a struggle for me every day. It’s not easy. I didn’t suddenly wake up one day and completely change my mindset to embrace originality and imperfection. Nonetheless, I’ve come to understand that I am an artist because I create, and I don’t need to meet any criteria to earn that title. I earned that title by simply creating something out of nothing - art out of thin air, writing out of my thoughts. As I said, it’s a constant struggle I face every day. The doubt and insecurity about my writing abilities creep in nearly every time I start creating. Yet, I remember my 10 year old self dreaming of the day I ever got published or had my writing printed. And I remember how proud that young girl would be to see where I am today. I am not the greatest writer. I’m not the most creative writer. Nevertheless, I am a writer, and I am becoming better and more skilled every time I write. My work isn’t perfect, but my truth is worth capturing and my truth is this: I’m not perfect, I don’t have everything together, but I’m always working to become better. — SYDNEY BARRAGAN / LAKE FOREST, CA

— CARLA TORRES / PUERTO RICO

— JIREH JALIPA / QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA

“Within Me” My friend took a picture of me, on a disposable camera, when I wasn’t looking. I was staring at my reflection, outlining my face with my eyes, trying to erase the discrepancies between what people see and what’s within me.

My reflection paints a picture, somedays prettier than others. I have freckles that look like constellations you can see only when the sun shines. They are a disclaimer to those who wish to understand the galaxies within me.

The local convenience store took the standard two to three weeks to develop the film. It was overcast for those few weeks. The constellations stayed in place, nothing new to add to the mix. But the galaxies were changing. Stars were bursting, creating only momentary light within me.

The film cost twenty two dollars and eighteen cents. We left the store with twenty five photos in hand. It was only later that we realized each and every picture taken of me was blank. Every orb of light had extinguished. The pieces of glossy paper were dark. There was nothing left within me. — SLOAN PECCHIA

— ALYSSA FRAZIER / FAYETTEVILLE, AR

— RILEY PHILLIPS / ORLANDO, FL

— STERLING MILLS / TAMPA, FL

A truth universally acknowledged: it’s impossible to please everybody. As women, that includes ourselves.

Last Sunday I had two conversations that stuck with me.

That morning, it was drizzling. My sister and I went for brunch in a quaint café next to the flower shop at Melbourne’s Queen Victoria Market. She’s 21, 2 years younger than me, and have been with her boyfriend for a little over a year. She’s brought up the topic of marriage before, they both wear promise rings, and are the type of couple you hang out with for half an hour… and know they’re endgame. Out of curiosity, I asked: “Has there ever been a moment when you didn’t feel like he’s your endgame?” She didn’t even pause to think. In less than a second, she said “No.”

The night before, I’d received two printed magazines with my photographs on them (I’m a model). I signed a contract accepting the invitation to speak on this year’s Emerging Writer’s Festival (I’m a writer). I gave myself a small pat on the back before bed, said a prayer of gratitude to the abundant Universe. They both felt like huge accomplishments.

Yet in the face of my sister’s honest answer, my so-called accomplishments felt like hollow, flashy news.

In the name of love and grand gestures, I’ve flown to another country for lunch with a crush, offered to do LDR for someone I went on one perfect date with, hell, I’ve even said yes to dating an ex-criminal (who’s done a 180, I swear). I’ve never felt that endgame feeling about anyone, though. And during long baths in LUSH bath bombs or those 2 am stare-at-the-ceiling sessions, I often wonder if there’s something wrong with me.

In my parents’ generation and my grandparents’ and their parents’ and it goes on… fostering a happy, healthy, long-lasting marriage and giving birth to a dozen babies are like the accomplishments. What’s more momentous for a woman than fulfilling her reproductive destiny? Than finding her one true love?

Of course, those “heteronormative, child-centric ideals” (as Captain Holt puts it) are pretty much canceled in 2019.

That night, the moon came out early. I was meeting a friend at a vegan restaurant. Was late to it, actually. She’s my age, engaged, and—I found out over that meal—moving to Adelaide to live with her fiancé. I congratulated her. She was excited but also nervous about the clean slate. She congratulated me about the magazine features. Our food came. When the EWF appearance came up, she sighed and let out a playful wail. She said; “Every time I hang out with you, I always wonder what I’m doing with my life.”

As an ambitious, anxious introvert, comments like these tend to spark the same cycle in my brain: humility, gratitude… full blown panic. Desperately trying to scramble off the conversational pedestal, I said; “Being engaged is awesome!” I talked about how hard dating is (because

by god, if I match with another dull accountant on Bumble, I’ll scream), how blessed she is to have found her partner (he turned her into a love-struck pile of goo), how much I admire her for choosing to foster a strong, healthy connection with her partner. None of that is easy.

We were locked in a compliment battle for a wholesome length of time. Somewhere along the way, I realized I’ve landed on a literal “tables have turned” situation. In my friend’s eyes, I was the epitome of an accomplished woman. Thriving side projects. Career wins. That independent, “no-need-no-lover” attitude. 2019 is the reign of BossBabes and HustlerQueens and every other Instagram hashtag that attaches our value to our productivity, financial status, and social media exposure. In her words, “I’m killing it.”

The problem is, 2019 should (instead) be the reign of truth.

It should be a time where women no longer feel boxed into narratives written by modern media or olden-day society. Where we can support our sisters’ unique paths while simultaneously enjoying our well-deserved moments of being supported.

The women who inspire me on the daily live wildly different lives. Kalyn Nicholson—YouTuber and influencer, environmentalist, spiritual motivator. Adrienne Mishler—yoga and mindfulness guru, dog mom, writer of love letters that can cure your rainiest days. Valeria Lipovetsky—beauty and fashion icon, entrepreneur, model, mother of three. Yet what they have in common is their insistence to embody the path they’ve chosen—stumbles, hardship, wins, and all—with their chins held high. Even when the same uncertainty leaves them too feeling vulnerable from time to time.

We can achieve the most objectively remarkable thing in everyone’s eyes and walk around feeling like a fraud. We can achieve the most mundane, “old-fashioned” life goal in our eyes and be a heroine to a sister in need. The hard-to-swallow pill, the goddamn truth is that our accomplishments are defined solely by us. And more often than not, we’ve set that bar to impossible heights.

So, My truth on a good day? I’m a passionate, creative model and writer. I’m self-assured and an incredibly strong woman. I’m an empath and a dreamer. I’m a loving sister and dog mum. I’m an open-minded, fierce feminist.

My truth on a not so good day? I’m addicted to the act of creation. I crave self-validation yet I’m my worst critic. Bad dates slowly corrode my faith in love. I still long for the prince/princess of my dreams. I’m a selfish, stubborn, anxious wreck.

My truth on my best days: I am all of that. I give myself permission to be all of that, and more.

— NATASHA HERTANTO / MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

— ALYSSA FRAZIER / FAYETTEVILLE, AR

— MOHAMAD AGHA / TORONTO, CANADA

I don’t call myself a writer, yet I write constantly and consistently so. Nothing incites as much emotion from my gut as this very simple action. Like planting a tree on soil replete of ideas and junctures to be reflected upon and a chance to bloom into a life of authenticity. But then I tear it from its roots. Destroying anything that is familiar and understood, where every ideal that I’ve conjured is flushed away in turmoil. Until I reach the surface of the cycle, that provokes me to grow and rebuild my mind over and over again in an eternal duality. This is who I am. An eternal paradox. — NATALIA VÁZQUEZ / MEXICO CITY

— AVIS HITCHCOCK

Will You Dream of Me? Have you found your way out of the garden? Where flowers are dressed like mannequins? Where people wander around with balloons for eyes?

Have you spent time with your gods? Are they among you in your throne of twisted bedsheets and wrinkled clothes? Are they in your dreams and in your blood and in your bones?

Do you know what it means to feel alive?Can you understand why you love?Can you understand why you hate?

Do you think about what happens when the curtain closes? Should we weep at the end of time? Should we turn into the arms of another?

Shadows fall over my eyes I can’t feel my hands Dust settles I can’t hear my heart Stars die

I ask you again,Will you dream of me?— LEANDRA PURVIS

— KASEY ELLIOTT / PORTLAND, OR