I Used To Be Good At This

On writing and pausing and starting again.

I am afraid that I am no longer good at writing. Which is to say: hello, surprise, and welcome back.

After nearly a full calendar year of radio silence, I lead with this now in order to selfishly set your expectations low, as well as to be transparent about where I am coming from. Namely, a place of fear and far too much self-doubt, which is somewhere I very often find myself.

The thing is, I used to be pretty good at this — writing things down, forming opinions, sharing them on the internet, clicking “publish” and walking away. I was pretty good at speaking my mind freely, and making my emotions public. I pitched editors, I wrote passionate and eloquent emails, I posted often and promised to keep doing so. I did the whole dance. And now, I am doing a lot of other things instead.

It’s not necessarily that I think I am newly bad at writing; it’s more that I am out of practice. I do not think that this is inherently bad per se, but it certainly feels that way. It feels like a part of me has slipped away and I am trying to reignite it, grasping at the loose threads of half-finished drafts and scribbled brainstorming notes from weeks, months, and even years ago. It is a little bit disheartening, but it is also an important reminder of who I was, and who I still am. I am picking myself up, dusting off, and getting back in the metaphorical literary saddle.

The very bright silver lining is that in all of this time that I was busy getting bad at writing, I have been practicing and getting pretty good at plenty of other things. This is primarily because I have had the time and space to truly enjoy them. It is also quite possibly because these things require less brutal and blunt forms of honesty. Many other crafts are easier to disguise yourself in, or even to lose yourself in. And after the year I’ve had, honesty is a tough pill to cough up.

The last year or so on my end of the world has been a little bit of hell and a little bit of heaven all mixed into one. I lost my dream job unexpectedly, as well as several close friends and my fragile capacity for trust. I moved to a new town and was rudely awakened to how much effort it takes to hold a lot of responsibility without cracking. I attended a funeral that was a long time coming and yet still stung like lemon juice in an open wound. I was robbed of my senses of up and down, right and wrong, good and bad, real and imagined. I learned how strong I am, as well as how resilient and how exhausted.

The result of my tumultuous time is that I started out on a new course - a new life - drawing inspiration from the old. I did so with my stubborn head held high because god forbid I admit that anything is ever hard or scary or intimidating.

Now, I am in a new place, not too far away from the old. I am surrounded by beautiful foliage and biodynamic farmers and a growing community of food and nature enthusiasts. I am making new friends and maintaining sturdy relationships from my past. I am learning how to stand and walk and live on my own two feet again, and I am also learning that this is both harder and more satisfying than I ever imagined it would be.

In short, I am coming back to life. I am also discovering that I love it.

For the very first time, I now have a garden (dormant, but always alive) that sits on real dirt as opposed to wrought iron bars. I have picked up countless hobbies (arguably too many) and poured all of my energy into building a real home for myself. I have carved out space and what little time I can in order to re-establish my world. And in doing so, I come back here, with things as in order as they ever can be, to try and remember what I loved about this whole stupid messy lovely writing business. This truth-baring, self-deprecating, anxiety-inducing art form that makes me feel complete.

In the time since I last wrote anything, I also became a full-time chef. I run my own kitchen, make my own menus, work directly with local farmers, and feed a large community. I manage a staff composed of happy, young, mostly queer people. I am fighting actively against the stereotypes of what an industrial kitchen should be, refusing to compromise on quality of product, maintaining a work life balance, and establishing a positive environment. I am constantly learning new things, and teaching too.

There was a time when I thought writing would be my life-long career, which is a dream that has since dissipated. Part of that is reconciling the money-making realities of working freelance in an industry prone to layoffs, gatekeeping, and censorship. Of equal significance is the realization that a one-track career has never been in the cards for me. My life is not so much about finding one thing and sticking to it, but rather about wandering along an ever-evolving path and discovering the purpose within any given place and moment in time.

What I am learning alongside all of this - slowly - is that writing is about so much more than writing. It is first and foremost about living, something which I have been doing a lot of lately. It is also about finding the connections between things — the way that kneading pasta dough and forming clay and building community are essentially the same thing.

I am learning that it’s all related and interwoven. Art, friendship, and growth. Blooming, withering, and germinating again.

If I was still good at this whole writing thing, I think that this would be the time when I would start pretending that I don’t care if I am in fact good or bad or just plain average. I would simply put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) as though no time had passed. I would perhaps acknowledge that sometimes breaks are necessary and sometimes they last longer and run deeper than we want them to; that sometimes writing is not so much the published bits of work, but rather all the stuff we do in between chapters. It is the living-in-the-moment and the trying-not-to-drown and the backsliding and rushing forward and hoping for the best.

If life is what happens while we make all of our other plans, then I think writing is what happens when we throw those plans away and start over. It is the result of accepting that plans will always change, and that it is simply our job to move with them as they do.

And so, for what feels like the millionth time, I am here, starting over. Trying with a newfound spirit to be good at this writing thing. Or, at the very least, to get some practice.