“Having a good relationships with your body” implies reciprocity. Partnership. The careful negotiation of needs, mutual sacrifice, the work of avoiding conflict in pursuit of some higher emotional fulfillment. We’re told to court our bodies, to romance them into cooperation, to treat them like lovers we must continually appease.

But my body is not my partner. My body works for me.

This doesn’t mean neglect. I maintain it. I fuel it. I rest it when it needs rest. But the framing matters. I take care of my body the way my best friend’s dad used to take care of his old classic cars—not because I owe it devotion, but because it’s the vehicle that carries me through my life. When it functions well, I function well. That’s not a relationship. That’s maintenance.

And yet. Scroll through any feed and count the invitations to “heal your relationship with your body.” The wellness campaigns, the ad copy, the influencer confessionals. All insisting that peace of mind requires this ongoing, tender diplomacy with your own flesh. That you must journal your way to self love. That acceptance is a journey. That the goal is some soft-lit reconciliation scene where you finally forgive your reflection.

Who profits from that framing? Not you. The more your body becomes a relationship to manage, the more products, programs, and philosophies you need to manage it.

What if we simply stopped negotiating? What if, instead of submitting to the power of this sack of flesh we carry through life (because we do carry it, not vice versa), we went a little more dominatrix? No, not pressing its face into the ground with our heels or stubbing cigarettes out on its tongue. But what if we simply decided that our bodies work for us. We can keep them running like mechanics—and that is enough. And yes, if you want to wear a leather jumpsuit, by all means.

But no romance. No conflict resolution. Just function.

Maybe then we could improve our relationships with that which deserves it. Bright-faced children, daffodils in the spring, poetry. We owe it to ourselves, not our belly fat.

For your next draft: Consider how your speakers and characters relate to their bodies. Are they negotiating? Apologizing? Performing reconciliation? What happens if they simply refuse? There’s tension in that refusal, and tension makes for good writing.

Maybe even submit it to Coming Up Short: Bodies.
1,000 words or less.
We can’t wait to read your work.

♥️ Emma

SUBMIT NOW

I’ve come to terms with the fact
hating everything I write
is a part of my process
I’m embarrassed to show
everyone the work I
pride myself on.

The work I pour every emotion
into and say more than I do
to my own therapist.

Hating everything I write is
a part of the process.

Because hating myself
is the process.

I wrote this, obviously, during a period writer’s block, into which I tend to fall during waves of depression or sleep deprivation.

I doubt my talent and question my future as a writer. I stop writing and attempt to fill my plate with a new passion and a side of doom scrolling. I seek an easier way out than to push past the mental block. But, it turns out, writing, for a writer, is inevitable. It’s unavoidable, no matter how many detours we try to take.

Save yourself some time.

No need to stay on the sunny side. You don’t need to convince yourself that it is just a moment, or even that the moment will pass. What you need to do it remind yourself that you are a writer. Use that same little voice that says You need to take a shower, when you really don’t want to take a shower. The one that knows the number on the tag of that pair of jeans doesn’t matter at all. Sizing is arbitrary, silly. You don’t have to believe it right away, but say it anyway. You are a writer.

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Then, write. Even if you have to do a little bargaining with yourself. (Just take a body shower, you can wash your hair next time; Cut the tag out and get some fro-yo in the food court). Face the page with clean skin and a fresh pair of jeans that make your ass feel nice and juicy in your chair. Write a single sentence about the worst cup of coffee you’ve ever had. Write a poem about writer’s block and how much you hate writing.

Through it all, give yourself grace.

It won’t be perfect. No one has to see it. There’s a reason we call them ugly first drafts. You don’t have to look at it ever again. In fact, writing is a lot like parenthood in that if you constantly worried you’re doing a terrible job, that probably means you’re killing it. And like parenthood, no matter how much it might overwhelm you, exhaust you, plague you with insecurity and self-doubt, the writer has no choice but to write. So write.

And remember, in the end, your story will turn out just fine.

♥️ Madison

The cursor blinks at you twenty-three times before you realize you’ve been holding your breath. That’s normal. Peggy from across the street types with mittens on, which is worse. At least you can feel the keys.

Anyway, hi! I’m Emma. That’s me up there. Last year I started this magazine out of that little studio apartment in upstate New York. I had no idea what I was doing, and I didn’t tell anyone for three months in case it failed. The fear wasn’t small. Posting that first call for submissions felt like inviting the whole fourth grade to my birthday party and thinking nobody would show up but my mom.

I used to think business plans were for people with degrees that ended in “studies” or “business administration.” People who don’t didn’t have to Google “how to get prearppoved for a car loan” or “boot emoji” or “samaritously” (there is not, apparently, an adverb form of “good samaritan”). I still think those are the people-types best suited for a business plan. I just started Coming Up Short without one (and used “samaritously” with confidence).

Here’s what I know: The big project doesn’t care if you’re qualified. It will be big whether you’re brave or trembling. The first issue doesn’t ask for a resume before it exists. Sometimes, you build it with steady hands. Sometimes, your hands shake and you send out a submission form with nowhere to upload a file. Twice. You fix it. You move on to the next thing, and maybe you won’t have to do that thing twice.

I think about my mother who never toasted an English muffin she didn’t burn. She toasted one every morning anyway. Scraped the blackened layers into the sink, lathered enough butter on that it pooled in every (now slightly shallower) nook and cranny, and ate. This seems relevant.

Starting while scared means you make the bad version first. You let it be bad out loud, right there on the internet where people are looking. Then you make version two, and that one might be better. Or version three. You won’t know which until you’ve made all of them, so you have to make all of them. This is the only way.

The magazine is fine now. Not perfect. Fine. Some people read it. Peggy from across the street can’t even feel her keyboard through her mittens, but she’s starting a podcast.

That’s it. That’s the whole thing. You do it scared, or you do it not at all, and not at all is worse. I still don’t know what I’m doing, but people did come to my party.

If you need a little help pulling your mittens off or have a wobbly idea to bounce around, please send us a message. We’ll help. We can’t wait to hear from you.