02272024 | notes on writing
These days, it's getting harder to separate hobbies from means of living. On most days, I can tell whether I'm doing something as a means of living, something for survival, or something as simple as a human being.
On most days, I also delude myself that it's all a matter of compartmentalization. Like choosing which clothes to wear for the day. Except the world is burning, all my clothes are worn down and made for a time long past, and even if I went out butt-naked, there's no way I'm coming out of it unscathed. That's what writing feels like for me, as of late. Or living, in general.
Maybe someday I can flesh out a timely piece on late-stage capitalism, how creative work is reduced to content, the essence of separating fiction and reality, and all the ways they influence each other without being mistaken as one and the same. We're living through an ongoing health and climate crisis, multiple genocides, and rotting from the inside out thanks to decades of exploitation and systemic ills. Global fuckening to the highest, most damning scale. I wish this is fiction. The context behind that thought terrifies me.
I wish I can save the serious writing for when it really, really counts, but as it stands, tomorrow isn't promised. Never was.
That's what spurred me on, to write this little note. I think I'll be writing more. I have my WIPs, I have my vague little scenarios in my head that will probably haunt me until they get their well-deserved 100K novel, and these occasional trains of thought that derail and create their own train tracks in my mind. There's also the shitstorm that's going on in real life, real time. There's no neat shelf for me to separate the things I care about and things I don't, because it affects us all.
To write online, without capturing all the possible nuances of whatever the fuck it is you're writing about, is an invitation to be flayed alive. For this reason, I shied away from writing about things that matter to me -- much like this one -- because shutting up means no trouble. No room for mistake. After all, what's there to criticize?
But then I realized, well, it's a sad way for a writer to live (at least for me), knowing that writing has been long ingrained in my life. It's a hobby. It's a means of living (hopefully *side-eyes publishers*), and it's a means of survival, with the way it calms me down and is an outlet for my anxieties. It's a way of life, it's not all of me, but it's a HUGE part of me.
Where was I going with this? Oh yeah. Fiction and real-world issues overlap. They bleed into what I write, regardless of whether or not I permit it, and I look for fiction -- hope for fiction -- in the face of staggering, depressing, and bleak reality. Perhaps the intersection here is where fiction is supposed to inspire you to take meaningful action in real life. And real life finds its way to fiction, one way or another, in the little bits and pieces of us writers that we leave in our stories. I'm so chronically online that I could think of a thousand ways critics can gut this paragraph like a fish and come up with the worst meanings.
But then again, maybe the people who need some comfort will find it, too. Maybe people will add into it, I learn something new, and we ALL learn something new. If you're having complicated feelings about writing, questioning what the fuck is it to you, trying to deal with that maddening shelf -- well, here I am. Write whatever the fuck you want to write. Write loudly, unapologetically, meaningfully, purposefully. May your words add a little bit of hope. And if doesn't, may it free you, may it release you, may it provide some relief. Or if you're out there to disturb, then do it. Put your horrors and your fears into paper. Trap them with ink. Slap them with periods and put a name on whatever haunts you.
Write, for fuck's sake. And this is a reminder to myself, in the most literal sense.















