With the end of the calendar year approaching, I can’t help but think of what my writing process will be next year. I didn’t follow a firm plan over the last twelve months. What began as me trying to write a poem a day turned into writing nearly 250 public poems and this blog. There are also the words I’ve written and kept to myself. I don’t share every poem I write, not because I don’t think they’re good; it just feels nice to have thoughts only for me.

That said, I’ve been thinking about taking a break from sharing what I write for the year and seeing what comes out on the other side. It might be tricky because sharing what I write helps keep me accountable. I’ve never written this much before, and I love that. A part of me now thinks that since I’ve essentially written a book’s worth of words over the last year, I might be able to do it in a more intentional way.

The question I find myself asking is, what the fuck would it even be about? I’m not necessarily a fiction writer. I’ve tried taking my own childhood stories and retelling them in a fictional way because I wasn’t comfortable attaching who I was to what the characters were going through. There are many gaps in my story from growing up, and with that, I knew I’d need to fill those in some way. I never wanted the reader to try to have questions like myself. Maybe that’s where I went wrong.

I’ve taken a few film studies courses. One during my senior year of high school and a few more while I attended community college. A common theme I picked up on is that stories are meant to be questioned. You’re supposed to inquire about what the storyteller was trying to say because sometimes people interpret things differently. Asking questions is good. I think I didn’t want folks asking questions about me and not being able to give them answers. Not that I owe anyone anything.

At the beginning of October, I got my most recent tattoo. As I lay on the table, the artist asked me questions about how I’d been since our first session in May and what I’d been up to since then. I’d told them about the reading at the two open mics I did over the summer and all of the writing I’d been doing in that five-month span of time. They talked about the kinds of art they’d also created and then asked if I’d ever considered creating something physical to share with the world.
“Like a zine.”

There’s a thought, and a solid one at that. Admittedly, I don’t know if I’m ready to commit to something like that. I wish you could’ve seen the grimace on my face as I typed that last sentence. I grimace because I want to be able to commit to myself in this way. I owe it to myself to do something that takes what I’m doing now to another level. I’m just tired and know how inconsistent I can be. I suppose this upcoming year could be a lesson in giving myself genuine grace, not the performative kind. Genuine grace, for me, is taking what I need and not explaining myself or trying to justify it. It’s ultimate softness. It’s taking Monday off work and not leaving my bed. It’s keeping the blinds drawn and not telling anyone, so I’m not asked, “You good?” The answer is no, but I’m not mad at it. I’m an anxious person, and this is the time of year when removing myself from the goings-on of my home is a need. I realize how selfish and privileged that might sound, and you know what? I’m fine with that.

I’ll be thinking about what to do with this blog next year the closer that time comes. There’s always the possibility nothing will change. It might be for the best to keep consistent with writing here. It’ll sort itself out.

Until next time.