Creative nonfiction is a relatively young genre. People have been writing true stories in a fun way for a while, as noted in an article on Creative Nonfiction that traces the genre's origins through Truman Capote, Norman Mailer, and the New Journalism movement, all the way back to classical writers like Herodotus and Plutarch. But as far as the genre as it's understood and defined today, that really started in 1969, when editor Norman Podhoretz was said to have coined the term. That's not very long in literary movement terms, so it's understandable that a lot of people still seem to be a bit fuzzy on exactly what creative nonfiction is. 

Partly this is because there are several types of writing included under the broader umbrella of creative nonfiction—and, making things more complicated, not everybody agrees exactly which should belong to the club. Most definitions exclude criticism and scholarly writings but there are gray areas when these are paired with a narrative, and there's an even blurrier line separating creative nonfiction from journalism. 

I've done posts before on the different genres and subgenres of fiction. I thought a similar post on the flavors of creative nonfiction might be helpful, especially for folks who don't have a lot of experience with creative nonfiction and might not be aware of the many different types of writing that are out there. So here are some of the most common terms you’ll see in this genre with a brief explanation of what each means.

Autobiography - A story about an individual told in their own words. It's mainly different from a memoir in that it puts more emphasis on facts and events rather than the emotional impact or personal reflection. Autobiographies also typically cover the individual's entire life to that point rather than just focusing in on a specific time period like a memoir does.

Autotheory - A piece that blends autobiography with philosophy and theory. Similar to personal criticism, it abandons the detatched tone typical in more critical work and instead centers lived experiences, self-reflection, and emotions. It is heavily inspired by feminist, queer, and decolonial scholarship and theory. 

Biography - A story about an individual told by someone else. Straight biographies are fairly rare in short creative nonfiction. They're more often presented as literary journalism or a braided essay, where another individual's story is woven with that of the author. 

Braided essay – An essay that weaves two or more narratives or topics together into one piece. For example, it might tell the story of a modern person and their distant ancestor side by side, or weave research-based information on a subject in between a scene of someone experiencing that thing first-hand. 

Fragmented essay - An essay that is broken into smaller self-contained parts that may not be obviously connected at first, but that eventually come together to form a unified whole. Often, this structure is used to tell a narrative in a non-linear chronology. 

Hermit crab essay - An essay that takes on a non-literary form, for example an instruction manual or a recipe, and tells a narrative in that format.  

Literary journalism – Fact-based writing that makes use of techniques like plot movement and vivid descriptive language to tell a more immersive story about the topic. It is near-synonymous with narrative nonfiction, and some would say they're the same thing. If there's a difference, literary journalism is more likely to use techniques like interviews and direct quotes from sources, and often uses the structure and pacing of a journalism article rather than a creative nonfiction essay.

Lyric essay – A form that blends the conventions of nonfiction prose with poetic techniques. They typically make extensive use of figurative language, metaphor, and imagery, and though they also have a narrative or character arc driving them, this is often secondary to the language. 

Memoir - A narrative that focuses on a specific time period or series of events in the life of the author. These are usually longer works, and the argument could be made that short-form memoir is just a personal essay. 

Narrative nonfiction - A blend of journalism and creative nonfiction. These pieces generally use factual reporting, but have a story with characters, settings, and a clear arc. Unlike personal essays, the focus of the piece does not need to be on the narrator.

Nature writing - Writing that focuses on the natural environment. It usually integrates both personal observation and scientific information or details, while also aiming to use reflection on nature as a lens for exploring the human condition and connection with the natural world. 

Personal criticism - Also called narrative scholarship or critical memoir. A piece that blends a writer's lived autobiographical experience with a critical analysis of a text or creative work. This differs from other forms of criticism in that it doesn't aim to maintain an objective tone, but instead integrates the memory and emotions of the author with critical analysis and interpretation.

Personal essay – A short, focused piece that explores a single moment or topic from the personal perspective of the author. These are usually told in the 1st person and, though they may feature other characters prominently, the primary focus is on the experience of the narrator. 

Travelogue - An account of someone's experiences and the places they've visited. These are typically told in the 1st person and the past tense, and often include the personal reflections of the author along with information on the locations and events experienced. 

Not every market that is open to creative nonfiction will be looking for work from all of those categories. For most places, when they say “creative nonfiction”, what they mean are things in the lyric essay or personal essay category. Things like braided essays and hermit crab essays are also likely to have a pretty good shot with places that publish experimental literary fiction, especially. On the other side, the more your piece reads like journalism or something that's being reported—rather than your personal experiences and memories that you're sharing—the less likely it will be to find a home in your typical literary journal. That's what I would say is the main “genre divide” in the creative nonfiction world, as opposed to the split between realism and “the genres” that exists in the fiction realm. 

As you can see, there aren't quite as many subgenres and types of form in creative nonfiction as there are in fiction (at least, not yet). I’m sure I’ve missed a few, too, because genres and forms proliferate like rabbits, but this at least gives you an overview of the many different ways there are to write creative nonfiction.

See similar posts:

#Genre #CreativeNonfiction #Nonfiction #Essay

Ein Jahr. Ein Jahr habe ich dich nicht mehr gesehen. Ein Jahr nicht mit dir gesprochen. Ein Jahr dich nicht umarmt. Dein Gesicht nicht gesehen. Dein Lachen nicht gehört. Und auch deine Stimme nicht.

Weil du tot bist.

Ein Jahr lang habe ich getrauert. Immer wieder geweint. Ein Jahr war ich immer wieder wütend. Auf dich. Auf das, was du getan hast. Auf das, was es mit uns macht, dass du uns verlassen hast.

Ein Jahr habe ich gekämpft. Gekämpft darum zu akzeptieren. Damit zurechtzukommen. Nicht unterzugehen. Nicht zu verzweifeln. Wut und Trauer gleichermassen zuzulassen. Selbst wieder zu heilen.

Ein Jahr Erinnerungen. Plötzlich dein Gesicht vor Augen. Die Erinnerung an deine Stimme. Fotos aus Zeiten, wo es dir gut ging. Wo du gelacht hast. Wie eigenartig es ist, eine alte Sprachnachricht von dir zu hören! Als wärst du lebendig. Als wärst du noch da und alles normal. Und immer wieder scheinst du gar nicht tot zu sein.

Und doch ist da ein Ende. Dein Name ist in den Nachrichten ganz nach unten gerutscht. Ein Jahr nach unten. Vor einem Jahr hast du mir die letzte Nachricht geschickt. Ein grosses, rotes, pulsierendes Herz. Deine Antwort auf meine Bitte, dass du dir Hilfe holst. Aber es war schon zu spät. Dein Entschluss war längst gefasst.

Immer wieder öffne ich die Nachricht und schaue mir das Herz an.

Das war dein Abschied.

An meinem Geburtstag.

Ein Tag, bevor du dir das Leben nahmst.

Ich glaube, du hast mich geliebt.

Und auch ich habe dich geliebt, kleine Schwester.

Machs gut, Didi. 

#Tod

Warum hast du uns verlassen?

Ich fühle die letzte Umarmung in meinem Körper. Die Lebendigkeit deines Körpers an meinem. Da war noch ein letzter Rest von Leben in dir. Ein Aufschrei. Ein stummes Schreien nach Halt. Eine Trauer. Schmerzende Lebendigkeit. Da warst du noch nicht tot. Aber du konntest dein Inneres nicht artikulieren. Du konntest deinem Schmerz und deiner Verzweiflung keine Stimme geben. Du konntest nicht um Hilfe bitten. Ich wusste nicht, was in dir war.

Das war unser Abschied. Eine letzte, lange Umarmung. Schwere und Nähe.

Die Umarmung ist in meinem Körper gespeichert. Sie ist fühlbar und bringt Tränen der Erinnerung hervor. Erinnerung an Beziehung und immer mehr verblassender Nähe.

Du warst meine Schwester. Du warst meine beste Freundin, damals, für lange Zeit. Ich habe dich geliebt. Ich wollte dir nahe sein. Ich teilte mein Innerstes mit dir. Legte alles offen. Alle Heilung. Alle Veränderung.

Aber du behieltest dein Inneres verschlossen. Eingeschlossen und unsichtbar. Unfühlbar für dich und für die um dich herum. Du konntest die Tür nicht aufmachen zu deinem Inneren. Zu deinem Schmerz. Ich wollte dir helfen. Aber du liessest es nicht zu.

Zwei Tage vor deinem Tod warst du schon tot. Du warst da, ich sah dich ein letztes Mal. Aber du warst leer, nur noch eine menschliche Hülle, ohne Lebendigkeit, ohne Gefühle. Ohne Hoffnung. Ohne Liebe. Ich brachte kein Wort heraus. Konnte nichts sagen. Da war eine dicke Mauer der Unlebendigkeit und Abgestelltheit um dich herum. Du warst nicht mehr erreichbar. Innerlich schon im Grab.

Ich wusste nicht, was kommen würde. Am nächsten Tag war mein Geburtstag. Ich feierte ihn unwissend dessen, was am folgenden Tag geschehen würde. Ich hätte bei dir sein sollen. In deiner Nähe. Dich halten und von der schrecklichen Tat abhalten. Dich schützen und retten. Dir Heilung verschaffen. Aber ich konnte es nicht.

Niemand wusste, was du geplant hattest, minutiös, bis ins letzte, tödliche Detail. Du stelltest sicher, dass niemand dich retten konnte. Du hast unsere Eltern an diesem Tag von dir ferngehalten. Du hast sie angelogen, damit sie deinen Entschluss nicht zunichte machen konnten. Du gingst in die Waschküche. Du schlossest die Tür von innen. Du nahmst Tabletten. Du spritztest dir Schlafmittel und Morphium und etwas, an dessen Namen ich mich nicht erinnern kann. Du hast dich dreifach umgebracht.

Wie einsam musst du gewesen sein, als du deinen letzten Gang machtest die Treppen hinunter in den Keller. Wie konntest du noch gehen, im Wissen, dass du nie wieder das Tageslicht sehen würdest? Was hast du gefühlt, als du mit zitternden Händen dir selbst einen Zugang legtest? Einen Zugang zum Todesgift?

Was hast du gefühlt, als du alles getan hattest und da auf dem kalten Boden lagst und auf den Tod gewartet hast? Als du die Müdigkeit kommen spürtest? Und wusstest, dass es kein Zurück gibt? Hast du die Endgültigkeit gespürt?

Du lagst da, tot. Und ich wusste es nicht. Mein Leben ging weiter. Während du da lagst und uns verlassen hattest. Den ganzen Tag. Die ganze Nacht. Ich habe nichts gewusst. Ich habe nichts gespürt. Ich habe nicht gespürt, dass du tot bist.

Der Schock am nächsten Morgen, früh, aus dem Schlaf geweckt. Der tieftraurige Blick meines Mannes, das Telefon in der Hand. Die unfassbare Trauer in der erstickten Stimme meiner Mutter. Der Schock, der wie eine Kugel in meinen Körper hineinfährt und dort stecken bleibt.

“Sie ist tot. Sie hat sich das Leben genommen.”

“Wo ist sie? Ich will zu ihr!”

Das war mein einziger Wunsch. Aber er wurde mir verwehrt. Ich wollte nur eins: Dich sehen. In deiner Nähe sein. Aber ich konnte nicht. Ich konnte nicht zu dir. Nie mehr. Du warst weggeschlossen, in einem unzugänglichen Raum. Und dann wurde dein Körper verbrannt, ohne, dass ich es wollte. Ich hatte nicht die Kraft, für mein Bedürfnis zu kämpfen.

Alles, was übrig blieb, war ein Gefäss voller Asche. Ein schweres Gefäss. So schwer wie du. Aber es hatte nicht deine Form. Du wurdest unkenntlich. Ich erkannte dich nicht, obwohl ich ins offene Grab reichte und ein letztes Mal mit meiner Hand deine Überreste berührte. Ich fühlte nichts von dir.

Jetzt gibt es da ein Kreuz mit deinem Namen. Mit deinem Geburtsdatum und deinem Todestag. Du wurdest einundvierzig Jahre alt.

Ich besuche dich. Ich zünde im dunkeln eine Laterne an, mit einer grossen, weissen Kerze, die in der kalten Winternacht Wärme gibt. Ich sitze bei dir und wärme meine Hände über der Kerze. Tränen fallen auf das Grab. Ich friere.

Ich bin dir nicht nahe. Denn du bist nicht mehr da.

Du bist nicht mehr.

#Tod

Night silence in the crescents and wynds. The yellow glow of luxury, the long view towards satiety.

The driveways slope comfortably to the houses. The cars are poised, ready to roll.

I become sourly attuned to myself.

The moon is orange and large. A daughter tearful in her room - a father, muttering, dreaming the same perceived dislike.

Lieber Papa B.

Wir waren heute so nahe. Mein Körper war in der Nähe deines Körpers. Meine Seele nahe deiner Seele. Mein Herz war deinem Herz nahe. Dein Herz und deine Gedanken waren mir ganz zugewandt. So nahe. Im selben Raum. Wie gut mir das tut.

Ich spüre deine Präsenz und deine Lebendigkeit jedes Mal. Ich sehe deinen Körper. Deine beruhigende Statur. Deine olivgrünen Hosen. Deinen dunkelblauen Geborgenheitspullover. Deine pechschwarzen, auf der Seite angegrauten Haare. Dein ernstes und doch schalkhaftes Gesicht voller warmer Zuneigung. Deine Falten im Gesicht, die dich aber nicht weniger jugendlich aussehen lassen.

In deinem warmen, starken Händedruck liegt so viel Zuwendung und Halt. Ich liebe dein Lächeln. Deine Worte. Wie du ganz bei der Sache bist. Ganz Psychologe. Und doch auch ganz Mensch und Vater. Ich liebe deine weisen Erklärungen. Deine Eigenheiten. Dein ureigenes Ich, das mir so ungleich ist, aber mir so lieb geworden ist, wie wenn es mein eigenes Ich wäre.

Wie sehnt sich mein Körper nach der Geborgenheit deines starken Vater-Körpers! Nach deiner festen, liebevollen Umarmung. Wie sehnen sich meine Hände danach, dich zu streicheln und deine Wärme und Stärke zu spüren. Deine Körpergrenzen zu spüren und deine Geborgenheit in mich aufzunehmen und in mir zu bewahren, für immer. Wie sehnt sich alles in mir danach, deinen beruhigenden Vater-Geruch zu riechen und zu wissen, dass alles gut ist, weil ich zu dir gehöre.

Wie sehnt sich mein Kopf danach, von dir beruhigend über die Haare gestreichelt zu werden. Mein Gesicht danach, die Berührung deiner behutsam streichelnden Finger zu spüren. Mein Körper danach, von deinen starken Armen umschlossen und fest gehalten zu werden. Meine Ohren danach, an deiner Brust das Vibrieren deiner warmen Stimme zu hören. Und deinen Herzschlag und das Auf und Ab deines Atems zu spüren. Zu fühlen, dass du real und zutiefst lebendig bist.

Aber nur schon die Erlaubnis, bei dir sitzen zu dürfen, ist mir wertvoll wie Gold. Die Erlaubnis, direkt in dein Gesicht schauen zu dürfen und deinen liebevollen Blick bis in mein Innerstes zu spüren. Deine Präsenz zu spüren trotz körperlichem Abstand.

Ach, könntest du mein Kindheitsvater sein! Könnte ich mich an dich kuscheln ohne Grenzen, ohne Scham, ohne Angst, ja, voller wilder Lebendigkeit und unbegrenzter Nähe! Könnte ich alles mit dir nachholen, was damals gefehlt hat. Könnte ich nochmals Kind sein und du mein leiblicher Vater! Alles in mir verzehrt sich nach dieser geliebten, begehrten Nähe! Die Sehnsucht brennt wie ein Feuer in mir und quält mich. Sie ist hervorgebrochen, kaum habe ich dich gesehen. Sie wurde aus ihrem verschlossenen Kämmerlein herausgelassen, als dein erster, väterlich-liebevoller Blick mich in meinem Herzen traf und ich spürte, dass du mich liebst.

So viele Tränen wurden seither vergossen. Tränen der Trauer. Tränen des Glücks. Tränen der Verzweiflung. Tränen der Liebe.

Du kannst nicht mein Kindheitsvater sein. Lass mich trauern darüber! Lass mich heil werden. Lass die Tränen über den schweren Verlust die Scham, Angst und Starre herausschwemmen und der Lebendigkeit Platz machen!

Du heutiger, anderer Vater. Ich liebe dich. 

#Vater

In dream, a cuckoo keeps time; the sea is an audience; music makes a maelstrom.

Slow dance, Slow dance.

Fast dance— Slow dance.

Fast dance— Slow dance.

Silly dance, Laugh dance.

Still dance. Slow dance.

Fast dance, Fast dance, Faster dance— Faster still!

Fastest dance...

Collapse dance, Drying sweat dance, Whisper dance—

Into the ether dance.

---

#poetry #confession #dream #sxs #wyst #100daystooffset #writing

Right now I'm lying on the couch, phone in hand, swiping words out for here, a collection of posts that no-one reads.

Waxing lyrical about the vacancy sign that's circling around my thoughts. All that space. Stars. Galaxies. Lack of oxygen. Silence. A vacuum.

It sucks, truly, but it is what it is.

Mostly I feel muffled and tired. I sleep well, but I stay quiet. I'm not sure what's going on. I'll move down south, with the most tolerant and dedicated of birds I guess.

Elga tossed her hair in the mirror and looked at her red evening-dress. It still frightened her sometimes, how she was alone in a hotel room, far away from home. The porcelain bathtub was a nice touch – had her mother ever seen a porcelain bathtub in her life? How far beyond her mother's soft lap she had flown! – but it radiated no warmth once the water went cold. She had bought a little plushie from this country's National Oceanarium, a penguin, that she put next to her pillow. It'd be her companion for the remaining five days.

Taking a deep breath, she strode into the bar, where a waitress in red lipstick and power blazer stood to attention. “Table for one, please. I'm fine by the bar.”

---

Mamood tossed restlessly on the wooden floor. This abandoned shophouse laid next to a busy road, and the incessant vrooms of motorbikes, and honks of overloaded trucks, ate into his thoughts whenever he tried to focus his mind.

It was no good. He couldn't think properly, at this rate.

And what other matter was exerting more pressure on his thoughts than the fact that his employer had withheld his salary for the fifth month straight? Mamood felt a deep sense of helplessness. If he complained to the Labour Force, something might happen to get the money flowing again into his meagre bank account, but then his employer would be sure to find out that Mamood was the one who snitched, and who could tell what his employer would do after that? Blacklists were common in this industry. Once an employer set his mind to bar your way into any other company, you were as good as a dirtied (disposable) paper cup: into the trash bin you go! I'll look for the next paper cup to use, out of my stock of a million paper cups.

It was no good. He felt smaller and smaller each day, working without salary. But his unease found no outlet.

He flicked on his VisionBoard and looked in his Search History – where were those nude photos of that fair-skinned beauty? His friend had sent him those photos from don't-know-where – and Mamood didn't know her, and neither she, him -

“No money, no honey”, it is just as they say, Mamood thought ruefully. I have no money to buy beer, but a Vision is better than nothing.

Mamood tried not to think of the singularly pretty girl in his home village, who, he knew, had never even deigned to so much as glance in his direction – she only ever had eyes for the muscular baseball captain -

anyway, back to this Vision...

---

The next day a heavy downpour started within a few minutes of the warning that was a grey darkening of the bright daytime sky.

Elga hadn't expected it to happen so fast; she wobbled in her high heels; how could it rain on this day of the Final Lap of the International Motorsports Competition? It wasn't fair!

And yet, rain it did – and how!

Elga had no choice, she hadn't brought a raincoat out to the grandstands; she watched as the three teenage boys next to her whipped out umbrellas.

Everyone who had paid for a ticket to the front-row seats in the grandstand were still glued to their seats. It seemed as if they had decided that getting drenched was part of the experience – though the ticketing agent had conveniently omitted inclement weather from the shiny advertisement pamphlet, back when she had bought the tickets in her mother's city.

There was a strange kind of solidarity as all her fellow spectators sat still in the grandstands and felt the full force of a tropical rainstorm bear down upon them.

“This isn't rain,” Elga muttered to herself. “This is a curtain of water.”

---

Mamood's yellow boots were filling up wetly. His socks were squelching.

“Hey there! Move faster!” His fair-skinned Boss screamed at him, in the downpour.

Boss was holding an umbrella. Mamood rested his gaze on the bright yellow umbrella for a moment, wishfully, and then went back to hauling the metal pipes on his shoulder, as the rainwater pelted his scalp.

Plop, plop, plop.

How blunt and stern, these raindrops! How very much like how his mother used to rap his head, whenever he had played soccer in the grass fields for too long.

How many times have I told you, Boy, come back before sunset! Do you know how worried your Mama was?

Mamood suddenly felt something warm trickle down his face, amidst the cold rain that ran down his oily scalp in rivers and torrents. To his surprise, it was tears from his eyes.

“Faster!” Boss.

“Yes, Boss.” Mamood.

Suddenly someone screamed. The worker in front of Mamood pointed to the far end of the construction site.

There! A concrete wall had collapsed under the weight of the rainwater and the gusty wind. As if on cue, a bunch of workers – light-reflective vests shining in the gloomy rainstorm – ran to the wall.

Was someone trapped under it?

Mamood glanced at Boss, whose eyes were open and round with shock.

Oh, Mama. Has someone died in front of me?

---

Elga packed her luggage bag for the fourth time in the same morning. The penguin wouldn't fit inside.

“Don't worry! You're coming with me in the airplane cabin,” she sang.

Yip had won the International Motorsports Competition. Again. Elga had always known Yip could do it. She had a hundred, no, a thousand, photos of Yip, stored inside her VisionBoard.

There was Yip overtaking Yong, two years ago... Here was Yip popping a massive bottle of champagne and spraying his team-mates with the bubbly...

What fun! Wasn't Yip the best? Elga had always known, somehow, that Yip would win again this year. Elga felt a sense of pride swell up, within her bosom. Yes, Yip, I'll always be your fan. I hope you'll notice me one day.

Flicking her VisionBoard open, Elga called for a taxi driver. “To the airport, please. Okay, I'll wait fifteen minutes”.

Elga's next stop: a beach, somewhere else in the archipelago, where her friend had apparently just visited. “Wish you were here,” her friend's VisionCard had read, together with a picture of a buggy vehicle that chugged its way up a sandy coastline slowly.

---

“Mamood.”

“Yes, Boss?”

“I am sending you back home now. I have no money to pay you.”

Silence.

“But, Boss, what about the past five months? You always said you would pay me after I finished my work.”

Boss slammed the table.

“When I say I have no money, that means I have no money! Now get out of my office! You're going home tonight, I've booked a flight for you already. My secretary will pass you your airplane tickets. Get out!”

Mamood froze. This was happening so fast. His socks hadn't even dried from yesterday's freak-monster of a rainstorm.

Something dull and red pulsed, deep inside Mamood.

“Your tickets, Mamood.” Boss's secretary. The fair-skinned woman, chubby and bespectacled, peered over at him from her desk, a cruel smile in her eyes. “Pack your bags and we'll send you to the airport in a taxi.”

“Okay, Boss. You say, I do.”

Mamood quickly flew to his untidy bedside upstairs. His heart was thumping in his chest. His eyes darted all over the plastic bags and unfolded clothes. There! In a book titled “Migrant Workers' Poetry”, he found a slip of paper.

With trembling fingers he flicked open his Vision Board and punched in the digits.

“Hello, Labour Force? My name is Mamood. Can you help me?”

• Fin -

Stay entertained thanks to our Weekly Tracker giving you next week's Anticipated Movies & Shows, Most Watched & Returning Favorites, and Shows Changes & Popular Trailers.

Anticipated Movies

• Our Fault
• ☆ Frankenstein
• The Astronaut
• Good Fortune
• Black Phone 2
• Ballad of a Small Player
• Sunlight
• Blue Moon
• The Mastermind
• Dead Man's Wire

Anticipated Shows

• The Chair Company
• DMV
• Guts & Glory
• ☆ Splinter Cell: Deathwatch
• With You, Our Love Will Make It Through
• Murdaugh: Death in the Family
• Mr. Scorsese
• Devil in Disguise: John Wayne Gacy
• Sheriff Country
• Boston Blue
• The Road
• Haha, You Clowns
• Hal & Harper

Returing Favorites

• Matlock — Season 2
• Elsbeth — Season 3
• Solar Opposites — Season 6
• The Neighborhood — Season 8
• Watson — Season 2
• FBI — Season 8
• NCIS: Sydney — Season 3
• Loot — Season 3
• ☆ NCIS — Season 23
• The Diplomat — Season 3
• Georgie & Mandy's First Marriage — Season 2
• Ghosts — Season 5
• Turn of the Tide — Season 2
• Fire Country — Season 4

Trending Shows Status Changes

• Peacemaker — Returning Series → Ended
• Boots — Returning Series → Ended
• The Amazing World of Gumball — Ended → Returning Series

Most Watched Movies this Week

• new The Conjuring: Last Rites
• +6 The Lost Bus
• -2 The Fantastic 4: First Steps
• -2 Play Dirty
• -1 Caught Stealing
• -3 Weapons
• -2 Nobody 2
• -2 Superman
• -2 The Naked Gun
• -1 F1

Most Watched Shows this Week

• = Peacemaker
• = Gen V
• = Tulsa King
• +1 High Potential
• +1 Slow Horses
• -2 Only Murders in the Building
• +1 Task
• new Monster: The Ed Gein Story
• new Invasion
• -3 Alien: Earth

Popular Trailers

• Sauces — Roofman
• Role Model — Regretting You
• MISSION:39 — SPY x FAMILY
• Official US Trailer [Subtitled] — No Other Choice
• Now Playing In Cinemas — Dead of Winter
• Game Changes Forever — TRON: Ares
• Season 4 Official Trailer — The Witcher
• The Dark Castle – Teaser — Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir
• Official Cour 2 Trailer [Subtitled] — Gachiakuta
• Watch At Home Now — HIM

---

Hi, I'm Kevin 👋. I make apps and I love watching movies and TV shows. If you like what I'm doing, you can buy one of my apps, download and subscribe to Rippple for Trakt or just buy me a ko-fi ☕️.

---

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My dear obsession, You’ll never understand what it’s like to live inside a mind that only knows your name.

I dream of light, too much light. It fills my head until I can’t breathe. I wake up searching for it, and my hands are empty or filled with blood. I was made to chase what I can’t have. That's what she is, the unreachable light that burns my eyes, but I still stare because I’d rather go blind than look away. I can’t read, I can’t eat, I can’t look at anything without my mind crawling back to her face. Kill me already. No. It’s not love. Not breathing, love lets you rest. This doesn’t. It claws. It takes. It eats you alive until there’s nothing left but her name, her face, her words echoing inside my head, echoing inside my soul, echoing inside my heart, echoing inside my lungs. I can’t stand how deeply she’s under my skin. I can’t. Every word she says cuts too deep, every glance she gives someone else makes something inside me twist, not because I hate her, but because I can’t stop wanting her, I can’t stop needing her. I argue, I shout, I say things I shouldn’t, and then I hate myself for it. But even then, in the middle of the madness, I need her. I can’t breathe without her, I can’t think straight when she’s not around. She makes me furious, and yet she’s the only thing that feels real. It’s poison and medicine at the same time; my sickness eats me. I know it’s toxic. I know I’m losing pieces of myself every day I stay, but I can’t let go. I’d rather burn with her than live without her, and it drives me insane.

Sincerely, Your obsessive admirer Ahmed

Post nut clarity seems to hit me like a truck, I’ll just be low for no reason afterwards. I talked with E about aftercare, and I realized I kinda just hit a wall there where I don’t really know what I’d even want if that makes sense. It’s such a strange thing, and it’s rough because I can’t tell her something actionable.

There is a post about how I migrated to WEZterm, which I still need to write at some time in the future.

Preliminary skirmish

But let’s assume I already wrote the post. I’m really happy with the terminal. I needed to migrate away from Alacritty+Tmux because of the lack of Windows support from Tmux. Overall it was a good decision to migrate. The only thing that currently bothers me is that there is a “bug” where the font rendering misses some characters but brings them back on config reload. (cmd+r)

Here starts the main post

After starting my journey with Claude Code, I needed a handy shortcut to open CC in a 1/3 split pane. Here is the part of my config, which is doing the Job:

config.keys = {
        --...
	{
		key = "c",
		mods = "LEADER|SHIFT",
		action = act.SplitPane({
			direction = "Right",
			command = { args = { "bash", "-lc", "claude" } },
			size = { Percent = 33 },
		}),
	},
	--...
}

You'll hit leader & shift+c and it will open a 1/3 sidebar with Claude Code in it. Done.

For me it is a nice little helper. Hopefully for someone else too. Let me know if this was helpful.

---

37 of #100DaysToOffload
#log #dev #claude #wezterm
Thoughts?

##002242 – 19 de Julho de 2025

Venho do futuro e trago melancolia.

aunque para él la belleza era lo principal inexplicablemente mágica desde que leyó el poema de Francisco de Rioja A la rosa

/ “Pura, encendida rosa...”

tomó consciencia de la brevedad de las cosas y encontró en la vida virtuosa la profunda belleza que no nos abandona

era difícil pero insistió más bien hizo lo que pudo sin buscar la perfección

como dijo Juan Ramón Jiménez no le des más vueltas “...que así es la rosa!”