A year ago, I thought it would an interesting idea to start a blog. I’ve had them before on other mediums but I have always been an inconsistent writer. My original plans were to review books because at the time I had read so many books in a short amount of time that I figured why not put that to good use? I found that I had a hard time reviewing stories. It’s never easy to articulate why I love something or why I didn’t and more times than not I just didn’t want to feel like I was being unfair. Writing a book – to me – is something incredible and it’s hard to tell someone they didn’t do a good job; especially when I, myself, was unable to put something out into the world.
Then, around October, I started really feeling it – the doubt and uncertainty. It never ceases to amaze me when the anxiety and talking myself out of stuff takes over my whole self-worth. I stopped posting and even neglected to post my collaborative effort with my friend Joni. Shout out to Joni for being nearly unflappable and standing in my corner.
Now here I am, a year later, trying to think of what kind of art I want to put out into the world.
In the span of 2018, I read one book shy of 250 books. Reading became an obsession but I somewhat became a functioning bibliophile. I read in spaces before going out with girlfriends, lazing in bed until the last possible moment I had to get up for work, and on long drives or flights. I had a goal of 100 books and by April, it was clear, I would blow that right out of the water. I had to ask myself – finish a book, write a blog and read 100 more books? Needless to say, I wanted to feel successful, so I chose to add 100 more books to my book challenge and demolished it October 30, 2018.
Part of me was sad about it.
Part of me wonders what all that work was for or who it was for, really?
And that was in self-doubt crept in.
I realized I was taking one task at a time. I was and I am still really proud to have a blog, but blogs are those things where you put yourself out into the universe and hope that it’s acceptable. People were reading my stuff and making assumptions about who I was as a person – people close to me – and they decided to feed those opinions to people around me. That was a hard pill to swallow.
When does art become completely and wholly yourself?
For the past few weeks, I’ve been asking myself that very question. A lot of things I wrote early on in life and throughout were not always mirror images of things I felt or thought. They weren’t always reflections of desires or needs. Much like reading, it is rare that I read a character and tell myself “this is who I am” or “this is who I want to be.” I don’t overtly identify.
But writing is my art.
What kind of story am I trying to tell with it?
So, that’s what I will spend 2019 trying to figure out. My art and what I want to tell you.
Sometimes it will not be sweet, happy or nice.
Sometimes it will not be popular, interesting or even fucking good.
It’s just going to be what I want it to be. It’s going to be for anyone who needs to hear it or wants to know it. But don’t think for one minute everything I say is a present time feeling or factually inclined in my daily life. Don’t always believe that what I am saying is a lie or a deep dark secret I have kept – and I’ve kept a lot of them. And don’t always wonder if I need something more than what I am getting. Feelings and time are not determined by the spaces between them, but rather when you allow them to overlap.