I’ve been taking some time to work on myself and my writing. Everyday I wake up, I go to one of my jobs, I sing to myself, and I think of one hundred different essays and short stories.
It makes me anxious.
I always wonder whether or not I can fully convey the ideas that I have in my head. Perhaps my inactivity has stunted my capabilities as a communicator. I weigh these doubts like dense stones against every word that I write.
Yet, still I write.
I have a notebook that I take with me everywhere. It is a blue Moleskine that is full of my sloppy cursive writing. Everything in there is a compilation that I refer to as the “Unpublishables”. They’re my writings that will most likely never see the outside of that notebook.
The “Unpublishables” are the core of my writing. They allow for me to have an outlet for my words and the thoughts that I have daily.
Many of them are interconnected essays focused on a particular theme.
Some of them are poems that occur to me during the night time, that rouse me from my sleep, and force me to grasp in the dark for a pen.
These miserable moments are the ones that I love the most. They are the moments that remind me that I would be in pain if I weren’t writing.
I recently went on a trip back to Santa Fe. I visited dear friends and former professors. I saw the mountains and the endless, blue, desert sky.
I was sick almost the entire trip. It were as if my body rejected my decision to go backwards, if even to revisit. It was a physical rebellion of the likes I had never before suffered.
Yet, I was invigorated. I have returned renewed in my courage to write and apply even when I feel like I am not good enough.
What does it mean to be good enough?
I will just have to keep trying until I find out.
(Posted on Medium. March 19th, 2018)