Hello friends. I'm so glad you made it despite me giving you very little reason to to so. Go ahead and help yourself to a cup of coffee, a glass of wine, some cookies that I bought at 7-11 on my way over here. Have a seat in one of these folding chairs I've haphazardly scattered around the room. Stretch a little bit. We're in for a long post.
I realized recently that the one thing - the only thing - I have ever felt 100% sure of in regards to my own abilities, is writing. From a very young age I was writing "books" about my adventures, my cat, and a delightful array of fictional creatures like daffodils that sang Eric Clapton songs, or little fuzzy monsters that appeared to serve as wingmen (wingmonsters?) to help me win over my 4th grade crush. I read these stories aloud to classmates in order to elicit laughs, and by god, I got them. Later, I would go on to write bad poetry as an outlet for my unrequited love affairs (do you sense a theme here), and then some pretty good poetry that won me a generous writing scholarship my senior year of high school.
In college, I majored in journalism, mostly because I figured hey, here's a good way to have a career as a writer. I know. I know. But I did some good work in those years! I discovered a passion for social justice, and helped some friends start an independent magazine based around identity and racial justice. I wrote op-eds. I got a few stories published in the student newspaper. It wasn't much, but I was creating, and felt at home in my own words.
And then...I graduated, and almost instantly fell into a crippling depression that would last years. I lost the structure of daily classes and thesis deadlines. I lost a reliable social network. I self-medicated with alcohol and meaningless relationships. I tried and failed to start a career that I loved, over and over and over again. Once it seemed I was starting to claw my way out of quarter-life ennui, my beloved younger brother died unexpectedly and my world entirely fell apart. So my mid-20's were...tumultuous to say the very least, and an utter flaming bag of shit to say what I really feel. It took a very long time to sort a lot of things out. I didn't write anything for almost an entire decade, save for filling journal after journal with self-reflection, self-deprecation, self-doubt.
And then, in 2015, I decided to try my first NaNoWriMo, wherein I made a poor fictional young woman go through all of the same things I had just gone through. It was too much. I abandoned the draft for almost three years.
Until last year. I was imprisoned in a cast with two broken leg bones, once again hopelessly depressed and desperate to create some meaning from a seemingly meaningless accident. So I returned to my novel (see my previous post, Muscle Memory) and I finally finished it. Not too long afterwards, I was fortunate enough to have my manuscript accepted into a graduate-level editing course at Emerson College, whereupon two extremely dedicated student editors proceeded to tear it to shreds.
Now, I had a mountain of incredibly thoughtful and poignant feedback that was delivered to me completely for free, and naturally I did what any aspiring novelist would do, I saved it to my Google Drive and completely ignored it for 6 months straight.
The creative process, am I right? You work your fingers to bloody stumps on a piece of art, and then just abandon it on the side of the road as if it were a bedbug-ridden sofa. I just don't want to look at it anymore, you tell yourself. I'll get back to it when I'm ready, you lie. Like a literal lightning bolt will come from the sky and strike you when it's "The Right Time."
Listen, I believe that there are things in this universe that can't be explained, and that sometimes the universe does provide some signs and guidance along the road that, if you're paying attention, can at times seem extremely obvious. However, when it comes to the creative process, that shit is 100% on you, buddy. The Ancient and Wizened Deity of Prose does not descend from a shimmering cloud to give you a kiss on the cheek and say "Now, my child, now is the time to Make Your Art." No, you fucking put down your third new game of Skyrim this year, and you get back to your fucking novel.
ANYWAY, all this to say that I am getting back to my poor, bedbug-ridden novel, left on the side of the road this past December.
And in the meantime! I need to keep those writing muscles toned. So I will be returning to this blog that I also abandoned last year to document the noveling process, random shit that comes into my mind that I think is utterly hilarious, perhaps to workshop a thing or two.
People still blog, right? People still read blogs, right??
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