When I am trying to write about HEX ED and BAD GIRLS and SCATOLOGICAL QUEERNESS, I am not writing. I am not writing short stories about aquariums or normalising queer sex scenes. I am not writing stories that are set in Singapore but defy the conventions and mundane associations that Singaporean fiction carries. I am not writing about torn-off faces or dystopian post-apocalyptic scenarios. I am not writing the weirdest stories I can come up with because I know there is a need for them. I am not writing about urban fleshgait formless monsters taking over bodies, or easily customisable genitals, or centipede poisoners with spilt milk running from their victims’ lips.

I am not writing my first-ever book of short stories to be published when I graduate fresh out of university. I am not writing a novel about a pair of embattled twins fighting cancer and their recent status as orphans. I am not writing vignettes or flash fiction or speculative fiction or horror-my-first-love fiction. I am not writing prose pieces that dabble in the arcane and the mundane. I am not writing disgusting queer smut or kinky BDSM pieces for Amazon or Flame of the Forest Publishing or any other publishing house that would be happy to publish sex thinly disguised as literature.

While I am not writing fiction I am also not writing poetry. I am not writing love poetry or poetry detailing my travels even though I said I would memorialise them in the form of writing. I am not writing poetry into a zine to remember my ex and all the things that meant a lot to me about him. I am not writing about how it felt to have the first person who saw me completely for what I was and then lose them. I am not writing poetry about the new girl whom I feel deserves so much better, than what I have had to give her, than what she has received so far, whom I feel needs to be loved in all of the capacities that I know how to love which include writing thunderstruck and crackling poetry, poetry that makes your chest weep and your clit tingle, poetry that makes you hurt in resounding yes. I am not writing that kind of poetry. I am not writing the poetry that will win me accolades and Golden Point and Singapore Literature Prizes. I am not writing the poetry that will become internationally-acclaimed and lauded for finesse of technique, style, and content. I am not writing poetry that will make you drastically change your mind about feminism, war, institutional violence, the death penalty, Islamophobia, or the legality of euthanasia. I am not writing poetry about the church.

I am also not writing that butch musical where the cast of Grease, Moulin Rouge, Phantom of the Opera, and Avenue Q are played by bois with dapper fabulous hair and swoon-worthy moves. I am not writing media that allows for MOCOC representation which I feel so strongly about. I am not writing plays that pass intriguing and searingly precise commentary on the state of societal affairs in Singapore. I am not writing plays that treat the queerness of characters as quotidian and happenstance. I am not writing Brechtian plays. I am not writing quotable quotes. I am not tweeting witty quips that are both relatable and surprising. I am not writing the script for the greatest Singaporean queer girl film ever made. I am not writing scripts for film shorts or comedic sketches or linguistic podcasts or gunfire banter or documentary-style cinematographic masterpieces or bizarre, surreal juxtapositions of danger and embodied otherness with text that would make your toes curl. I am not writing thinkpieces on why women should persist to put on their makeup in trains. I am not crafting online arguments as to why there is no such thing as ‘correct English’. I am not working on an art project where I fabricate fictional artefacts such as snack packaging and pamphlets and recipes and classified documents to detail a story that may or may not be true.

I am not writing a grimoire that details all of the spells that have worked for me. I am not writing up new curses, the meanings of old sigils, prayers that work, and describing images that don’t. I am not writing amazing fanfiction that allows me to express my deepest desires towards obscure and potentially problematic characters. I am not writing my Malay Studies essay. I am not writing that piece on the arcade pondan that I promised my girlfriend I would. I am not writing down everything I have learnt thus far about gender and sexuality theory. I am not writing forum posts on the discussion of LGBT rights and public entitlement to women’s bodies and the social construction of chastity.

I am not writing a song because I am musically challenged in every way possible.

I am not writing a love letter. I am not writing an angry e-mail because my ASOS purchase has not arrived yet and I very badly need new underwear.

I am not writing to you. I am not writing to you to help you with your work. I am not writing to you to ask for help with my work. I am not writing wish fulfillment fantasies, or instruction manuals, or dream journals. I am not writing performance art event proposals, or grant applications, or cover letters.

I am not writing what I or you may be deem important at this very instant, or twenty minutes from now, or a month, or perhaps ever.