I have been wondering a lot recently about what the perfect conditions are for writing.
Perched in a chair by the window, or perhaps tucked away in a room devoid of distractions? A busy cafe, versus total silence? Quiet piano? A steady drum beat?
A racing mind?
A still body?
What I have found is that there is no one correct answer. Conditions must be adjusted and danced between in order to play out an ever-changing, improvised tune. There is not a simple or singular time and place that will be ideal for the formation of sentences and ideas. They must arrive naturally. Gradually. Easily. Perhaps, at times, they must even be stumbled upon.
The state of this balance will change often, and perhaps dramatically, as do our personal preferences and positions within the world. Like all growth it requires patience, along with some gently applied pressure and self-awareness. To write freely and boldly — that is, without fear of being unpublished or unread — seems to be a dying art form. A way of speaking and thinking which we have been guided away from, convinced instead to value stories that will get clicks or follow trends. As a result, we find ourselves reading and re-reading the same tired narratives. Over and over and over again.
It is a hole I have felt myself slide into, and one that I always struggle to emerge from. A form of writer’s block that feels comparable to a total loss of self. I start thinking about what I should write, not what I want to write. I dwell too heavily on what people want to read and what has become expected of me, rather than focusing on how happy I am to be writing at all.
This internal dilemma has manifested the most clearly for me in the world of food writing. Despite being the theoretical harmony of my two greatest passions, the phrase has grown to produce a knot in the core of my stomach. It rings through the air like an embarrassingly out of tune instrument, something to be mumbled and apologized for. It is an identity I have toyed with over the years with great caution, and one that I reluctantly now claim at long last. Yes, sorry, I’m a food writer.
It is something I have struggled with greatly over the last few months, as I attempted to realign and reignite myself creatively. I have tried to figure out how best to marry my love for food and art and writing in a way that feels harmonious, without pulling too hard on one heartstring and causing another to break. I have spent endless hours and energy trying to avoid becoming one of those people who has fallen into the trap of commodified criticism and complicit exploitation. A cog in the oversaturated machine of content. Yet another blind goat being lead to slaughter with paychecks from Bon Appétit or Grub Street or Eater. The promise of a byline, the hope of having an impact. I have searched far and wide for a perfect outlet for my thoughts, spinning around instead in seemingly endless circles.
What has resulted is a nearly nine-month long study of how my brain and body operate best. Searching for my own optimal conditions. I have spent most of my days scribbling in notebooks, whether it be recipes or scattered thoughts. Fragments of ideas that will never reach any conclusion, grocery lists that were never purchased, recipes destined to be untested. I have conversed with friends and entered new social circles, and in many ways I am happier than ever before. Content in the slow and steady nature of my own creative process. And yet, the same question rings repeatedly from friends and family.
“But, have you been writing?”
The answer, of course, is complicated. It is summarized best by saying that I have been thinking, which I have learned is a necessary though tedious aspect of writing. Rather than aimlessly throwing words on paper or online and hoping they will stick, I have retreated into the darkest corners of my own mind, clearing out the clutter and organizing the chaos. I have spent hours trying to recall the topics which bring me the most joy, or which arouse investigative intrigue.
Of equal — and possibly greater — importance, is the fact that I have been cooking. I have experimented with new ingredients like bergamot and pork trotters, learned how to repurpose an excess of bacon fat and mastered the maintenance of my very first sourdough starter. I have baked birthday cakes for my dearest friends and perfected my recipe for pie crust, squirreled away jars of summer tomato sauce and strawberry rhubarb jam which are still waiting to be opened.
As these two outlets of innovation grow symbiotically, I have felt myself coming back to life in a sense. My gears are turning, my mind spinning (at times, albeit, too quickly). I am beginning to see the connections again, the endless pathways and poetry that lie in the infinite grey areas of our world. I have started to eliminate the boundary between fact and fiction while simultaneously disregarding exact measurements and strict line by line recipes. I am remembering the basic joys of cooking a meal for people who I love, delighting in simple food and good conversation.
In the time since I launched this newsletter, I have changed my mind repeatedly about what form it will take. Should I go back to writing critiques of large media conglomerates and the relentlessly egotistical chefs who they continue to hold on pedestals? Perhaps instead I should simply share recipes or spew poems about the beauty of winter citrus? I could write about the intrinsic connection between cooking and intimacy, or the history of agriculture and cuisine in America. What if I pivot more towards a personal essay style, divulging my own complex narrative about learning to love again through eating?
Unsurprisingly, the conclusion I came to is that I can (and will) do all of this at once. To me, these things are inseparable. Food and writing, flavors and ingredients, people and stories. There are endless styles and formats to play with, a vast interweaving of food histories and topics to explore. And I stubbornly refuse to tie myself to only one.
And so, here we are. Back at the beginning or middle or end of some cyclical journey. Starting from scratch with a pantry full of familiar staples. My promise to myself and to you is to go forward writing what I want to write, rather than what I should write. I vow to stray from the path we are all supposed to follow and find a new way to think about sharing words and meals with one another. I will strip myself of the pressure to produce something perfect, and strive to create things simply for the sake of creating.
I encourage us collectively to leave space for failure and success, to embrace the unknown and to let go of expectations. To let the conditions change, allowing the melody to ebb and flow. To taste freely. To read happily. To follow our roots back into the ground, and to see how far they can take us.
Lemon by Kayleigh Stovicek, 2021