I am a writer
And I'm still afraid to admit it
Yesterday I texted briefly with an old friend that I hadn’t spoken to in a long time. After giving him my life update, I realized that despite the long list of life changes, realizations made, and activities done, what I’ve really been doing more than anything else is avoiding this. By “this” I mean writing. But first, the update.
Since January, I finished my first run-through of The Artist’s Way. (Without getting into detail, I agree wholeheartedly with this recent NYT Magazine letter of recommendation.) Additionally, after a decade of wondering if I should try it, I finally signed up for my first Vipassana meditation retreat, which starts next week. And now, I’ve started this blog, becoming the latest in a long tradition of flatlanders1 who moved to Vermont and started writing about it. All of this was at the encouragement of a dear friend for whom I am eternally grateful in this, and every life.
Along the way, I attended a warehouse party that was so uniquely terrible, it shifted my entire perspective on raving and life more broadly. I started practicing piano again. I rediscovered running and logged the fastest mile splits of my life—only to rediscover repetitive stress injuries shortly thereafter. I snorkeled with wild penguins in the Galapagos islands. I gardened. I published an article for the first time in four years. I witnessed a total eclipse of the sun. I helped start a local news publication covering our small town. I finger painted. I set my phone screen to grayscale and mostly quit looking at instagram. I enrolled in another summer of ceramics classes. And a whole lot of far more depressing stuff that is probably more interesting, but not ready for print.
Throughout this time, I’ve been doing a lot of scribbling in my morning pages while avoiding doing any actual writing, because I’ve been making excuses instead: I am too busy, I am a better editor than writer, my style and vocabulary are too basic, my thoughts are unoriginal, I don’t even like writing, the world is too messed up to be publishing personal projects. This is all true, yet it’s done nothing to quell the urge to write. It follows my every step, scraping against my consciousness, like a rock stuck in the sole of my shoe. I don’t know where this path leads, but I am done pretending like I don’t need to find out. I’m taking my first step.
A Vermonter term of disparagement for city people