The past 18 months have been hard. I could actively feel myself transitioning from one stage of life into another, and the shift was a destabilizing one. I felt unrooted, deeply uncertain, and—to be completely vulnerable—very lost. I wasn’t confident in my purpose and, for the first time in my adult life, I couldn’t answer the question: “Who are you, and, more pointedly, who do you aim to be?”
After much contemplation, I’m coming to understand that feeling lost is okay. Feeling lost is a part of my life’s journey. And perhaps, if I lean into it instead of shying away from it, I just may find solace there. The thing is, if feeling lost—if feeling uncertain—offers anything at all, it offers possibility. It provides the opportunity to reflect and transform, the opportunity to envision a different self and build new dreams.
I share this will all of you so you can understand that, as of late, little about my life lent itself to writing. For me, writing is a solitary act of confidence. I write when I am certain of my words; I write when I am certain of my characters; I write when I am certain of my voice. When I lack that certainty, when I can’t figure out what I want or need to say—and much less how to say it—writing feels difficult and stiff. I lose the desire to write, and, more importantly, I lose the conviction that I can even consider myself a writer in the first place.
I’ve mentioned before how “writer” is a label that I carry shyly. There are writers who knew—from the very moment they could commit words to paper—that writing was their destiny, their life’s work. There are writers who have pushed through the grueling hours of MFA workshops because they are committed to bringing that novel, that short story or essay collection, that book of poetry, to life. There are writers who are deeply prolific, who publish frequently, because words come to them with ease, and they simply can’t not write. There are writers who carve hours out of their day—every day—to perfect their craft. And I don’t fall into a single one of these categories.
My training as a writer—insofar as I can claim to have any “training” at all—is as an academic. I’ve spent semesters learning how to critique theory and evaluate methodology. Of character construction and development, I formally know very little. I can quite easily go months without writing a single thing—as very well evidenced by my absence on this blog—and I write very, very, very slowly. I edit as I write. I edit after I write. I edit after I edit. For me, writing is a laborious task. Yet, still, I have missed it. As one of my closest friends reminded me, “You gave yourself the title writer with a heaping dose of humility and yes, uncertainty. You didn’t follow a chosen map. You were lost, and you wrote anyway.”
I began writing on this blog because I felt lost and uncertain. I’ve been in this precarious space before, and I’m sure that I will find myself here again. Regardless, if there has been one thing that has been constant, it has been my ability to write in the midst of uncertainty. Sometimes writing brings clarity, but oftentimes it does not. Yet, my ability to write has always, always remained true. Traditional or not, my identity as a writer is earned, born of hours of reading, of grappling with texts of different types, of evaluating style and form, of using the work of others to understand cohesion and flow, of learning character, story, and pacing through example. Regardless of where this unpredictable journey of life takes me, I am a writer.
I’m so grateful for the support and encouragement I have received from all of you as you have walked with me on this writing journey. You’ve read my work, offered me advice, shared critiques, sung wonderful praises, and, most importantly, given me your time. I say that I write the things I would find pleasure in reading; while this is true, it’s not completely transparent. I also endeavor to write things that others want to read. At its core, writing—for me at least—is about connection, it’s about building and strengthening the bonds between people and ideas.
As I return to this space, I want you to know that things may be a bit different. For my fiction pieces, I’m still trying to find my “voice” so to speak, so you may notice that I’ll play around with narration. There may be some pieces written in the first person and more pieces in the second person. I’m going to experiment with verb tenses as well. On the non-fiction side, I’m also going to try my hand at essays that blur the distinction between memoir and theory building à la bell hooks. I also want to share more pieces of literary criticism. Please share your feedback—I welcome it, and it’s nearly always useful. I don’t think I’ll ever post work frequently, but I can promise that I will post work regularly.
So thank you for hanging in there with me, and thank you for your patience.
And yes—I’m back.
On Becoming 