Who do you write for?

E X P U L S I O N

Who do you write for?

This zine was created and written by Oliver E Jordan (they/them) Issue: 1 (Autumn 2024) @expulsion.zine

Table of Contents: Foreword Who do you write for?

What if your audience doesn’t want your work?

Why do you think I write?

All is Fair Letter to Reader Who do others write for?

Recapped: Autumn

Greetings, This issue is my very first experimentation into expressing my creativity through ‘zines’. Zines have a long history, starting within the sci-fi community as well as other “radical” communities, especially punk scenes (s/o to RiotGrrrl). Basically, they are whatever the creators want it to be. Zines can be a collection of art, a news source, research, in-depth discussions or literally the same word written repeatedly across 18 pages. There are no rules, structures, or expectations. If you can get it on the page, then it counts.

I was introduced to zines through a class I am currently finishing in my studies. Though we have done a series of different experiments involving writing, none captured my attention like zines did. It may have been zines connection to my own community or it could have been that I just love any excuse to compile my ideas into something pretty. Either way, I am intrigued and willing to learn through doing.

I’m excited to see how this project grows and how it expands my creative practice. This zine serves purely as experimentation and for my own personal enjoyment. It also will act as a type of diary for me to review my work, progress and evolution.

I have decided to begin by exploring what the question “who do you write for?” means to me in this first issue. It’s a rather lofty question but also important to understanding a small part of why I write at all.

On that note, I would like to introduce: Expulsion!

Who do you write for? It is, technically, a straightforward question. Usually, it’s asking who The Writer’s audience is. However, it can also be asking who The Writer writes for in their life. This is also the reason why I find this question fascinatingly complex.

When I consider this question, I can’t ignore the other conflicting thoughts that emerge. I wonder if it is really as simple as who The Writer’s desired audience may be? And if that is the case then what happens if the audience, community, or person The Writer writes for does not like their work? Separate from this, does writing from love sound different to writing out of spite? Why is writing for someone you love more acceptable than writing to spite someone?

As I said, this question flips, twists and knots in my brain. Regardless of this, it is a vitally important question for any writer to consider. It is even more critical that they have an answer. Even if they believe it to be just themselves.

Because it is in my personal opinion that any reason The Writer may write always begins from a who. I believe that there is no possibility of The Writer not having a ‘who’ in mind when they write, whether that is regarding someone who has inspired the urge to write or who they want to write for.

So, I have decided to humour my queries and conducted a series of experiments to see how I imagine the answers to my questions. However, the first place to begin is to honestly ask myself: who do I write for?

I write first and foremost for the people I love or, at some point in my life, have loved. This primarily includes my family, community, friends and partners (past and present). I have many wonderful people in my life who inform my writing and I take inspiration from. I also have people who have deeply hurt me and driven me to write out of sheer desperation for an outlet. I have written out of spite and love and grief and joy and heartbreak and adoration for people. All this is meaning to say is that there are a few

“whos” I write for. In saying that, there have been strangers whose presence has inspired me and conversations I’ve overheard that I can credit to fully formed pieces of work. Strangers or loved ones alike, I write for them anyway.

Additionally, I write to tell stories of my community. I write so someone can see themselves in my writing and, hopefully, feel recognised.

When you grow up with a marginalised identity, I believe it is easy to direct your creativity and your craft towards your community. I like to write stories that would have helped younger versions of myself, either by creating rolemodels or normalising my own experiences. Messy or otherwise, being vulnerable in my writing connects me with others who relate which are the people I want to reach. Continually, every idea or piece that I develop has a planned audience in mind. I find that it’s practically impossible to not have an intended reader for my writing, even if it is just me.

Who do you write for? A simple, yet deceiving question. Nevertheless, if there was one question to thoroughly consider, should it not be one of the core influences of your writing?

What if… your audience doesn’t want your work?

Rejection

Dismissal

He hunches, cradling his head. He blisters and boils between his breaths. it’s horrific, disgusting, vulgar, obscene.

The paper, feels like silk

It was always in the slump of shoulders, the defeated sighs, deflating lungs.

delicate and devastating Printed letters march around his crown, orbiting.

She saw it in their eyes.

She knew the words that would spill from lipless smiles and doubtful tongues.

He lets it all pull him down.

Abandonment It’s not correct, they say. That’s not how we are, they say. You are giving the straights the wrong idea. We don’t sound like that. You’re making us look bad. Not all of us are messy.

We are not all struggling…

It was a practiced routine. A ritual of sending emails, making phone calls, hearing rejections.

No one wanted the work,

Who gave you the audacity to write about us?

no one understood it, I try to scream, it’s muffled. A million voices morph into a chorus of complete cacophony My voice shivers in the face of their rage.

still, she tried.

It was meant for you, I try. But the words hesitate in my throat,

Rows upon rows of rejecting mouths, refusing stares, and returning hands.

and, my mouth stays closed.

She stumbled through each one,

I cower away from their fury. Poisonous words and pointed sentiments pierce any protection I believed to have.

treaded vicious waves of emotions, clawed at ocean and spat salted wounds.

They leave me, flesh stripped and bones pristine,

Hope, a beacon

all I can do is whimper, praying for them to return to me.

because, it only ever took one

I still have my bones to give.

yes.

Why do you think I write?

All is Fair

“I can’t stop writing about you,” she shouted from the study.

She stomped into the living room. Her arms rested on her hips as she peered at me. I dipped my book so I could match her stare.

“That’s not my fault,” I returned, calmly. She did not like that, and it just made me smile. She crossed her arms.

“How can it not be?” She was ready to win. I lowered my book fully.

“I have nothing to do with this,” I simply prompted. I loved how passionate she was when she wanted to win these pseudoarguments of ours.

“I can’t stop writing about you,” she whispered. We were outside of my house. The sun had set, the streets were quiet and the world seemed to be in pause as we stood here glaring at each other.

The figurative strings attached to us hung limply and frayed.

“That’s not my fault,” I spat. I did not want her here. We could not keep doing this. Stuck in a draining cycle of trying to resurrect the corpse of our relationship. I have tried to sever every tie and knot attached to her. Never mind my efforts, she comes back, holding a bow made from the discarded pieces.

“How can it not be?” she fired back. The rage simmered under my skin. I was not her muse. I never wanted to be.

“You exist. Hence, I write,” she challenged. She tipped her chin up and I leaned further into my seat, book forgotten in my lap.

“I have nothing to do with this,” I shouted. She did not flinch at my words and instead levelled me with a calm stare.

“Then it would be more accurate to blame my parents,” I deadpanned. Her determined look melted and she burst out laughing. The sound? Infectious. It was a hopeless effort to try and not follow.

“You exist. Hence, I write,” she stated, like it should matter to me. I started towards my front door.

“You’re impossible,” she giggled.

“Then it would be more accurate to blame my parents,” I seethed. Leaving, I could barely hear her last words.

“You’re impossible.”

Who do others write for?

“First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.” ~ Virgina Wolfe “I write for those women who do not speak, for those who do not have a voice because they were so terrified, because we are taught to respect fear more than ourselves.” ~ Audre Lorde “I think a lot of time, I'm just writing my worst fears, of the idea of losing my mum or my best friend or doing something so terrible to somebody that's kind of deemed unforgivable, or having a really broken family.” ~ Phoebe Waller-Bridge "I want my stories to be something about life that causes people to say, not, oh, isn't that the truth, but to feel some kind of reward from the writing, and that doesn't mean that it has to be a happy ending or anything, but just that everything the story tells moves the reader in such a way that you feel you are a different person when you finish." ~ Alice Munro