Being...

...might be best enjoyed whilst listening to "Red Dog Tracks" by Chip Taylor ft Carrie Rodriguez - https://open.spotify.com/track/0lW64OboHSvaXvksJ4vttq?si=0tRHSR-CTCmYKQhiMd1Z5A

Leave me alone, I want to be alone
No, I won't say nothin' about the red dog tracks

I haven’t written in a long time. If this comes as a shock to you (since you got a newsletter from me a few days ago), it shouldn’t. That piece has been in my draft for the longest. I first submitted it to the republic and never got a response — not even a rejection. I decided to post it because I felt I was losing the plot of being a writer the more I lived.

My understanding is that a writer is someone who, simply, writes. It doesn’t matter what you write and how you write, as long as you write that the name is yours. But what do you call a writer who would rather think than write? A thinwriter? I’m not sure. I do know that I miss the art of words. Not just words regurgitated by a noble AI servant meant to bow to our every whim, but the art of just words.

I pride myself (at least I used to) in being able to tell my truth in my own words without attempting to be poetic. In fact, I’d say I suck at being poetic. I find that with poetry, I try too hard. I try to mimic what I think sounds or reads like poetry. That’s why prose, in all its dreariness, appeals to me. I miss having to Google words to clarify meaning.

I miss being.

And that’s what writing is for me: being. When I’m not writing, I’m hyper aware that I am just going through the motions. I can easily chalk it up to being busy with work or life, but the truth is, no one is ever too busy for the thing (or person) they love. And that’s a truism that I’ll take to the grave. However, it is possible to feel overwhelmed with the weight of having to continue loving something deeply. And most times when I’m not writing, it’s usually because the love overwhelms me.

I have always seen writing as an escape. With writing, I can feign the act of being someone with somewhat interesting ideas. With writing, I can boldly raise my hands in a room and identify as something other than the unexciting sound of my name. With writing, I’ve had the privilege of meeting amazing people. With writing, I’ve found a semblance of hope. So, when I am faced with moments when I can’t seem to find any inspiration, a lot of the gains of “writing” seem to fizzle. I am pulled back into reality: the reality that without writing, I’m but a grain of sand in a dune, and nothing about me is remotely memorable.

Without writing, I’m forced to confront my own legacy —or a lack of one. I am faced with acknowledging that without this love, life makes little sense. And sometimes that reality is enough to get you back up and running into her open arms, and other times, it fills you with the dread that her arms will not always be open to you.

This is not a newsletter-worthy piece, I guess. But I felt an urge to share it. So, if you’re reading this, thank you for keeping my legacy alive somewhat by choosing to read this burnt toast of a soliloquy. Until next time, when I return to talk about how I’ve come to realize that the world, nay, our universe as a whole, might be better off if all the men were killed off.

Or maybe I won’t.

Maybe I’ll just say, death to all rapist. Death to all the men who harm women. And may the fire of feminism burning hot in the minds of this generation of women never be forgotten or extinguished.

Yeah…and fuck VDM!

Cheers!