Publishing my writing is less a goal than a gesture of faith. Like scientists radioing messages into outer space or sending evidence of human life into far-flung corners of the universe, I’d be delighted if I heard back from the vacuum.
But most days, I write for me.
Writing is a way to think. On the page, I can turn an idea over and over, follow unexpected turns, and sit with nuance. It’s the same reason I value friends with whom I can be myself and be assured they won’t, you know, run for the hills when they discover the real, complex, dynamic people we are on the inside.
Some time ago, I was folding laundry, arranging things in my apartment, humming to myself, and generally prancing around at maximal contentment as one does in their own space. I could feel my friend Jada studying me with intense curiosity. Because she splits her time between Macau and Montreal, we rarely see each other. Every encounter becomes a measuring stick for how much we’ve grown—or how little we’ve changed in the intervening years. We’ve seen each other at 11, 18, 22, 28.
After a minute, she said: “How do you go about life without losing your soul?”
Having misplaced little pieces of mine, I’m not sure I’m the best person to answer this question. What pieces I have left, I manage to keep by making writing a regular practice: holding space, putting pen to paper, brewing complete thoughts, and using emotions as data to guide me towards what is true and right for me.
Writing is resisting the urge to sweep complex emotions under the rug. It’s holding the wounds—the hurt, the howl, the hunger, the inconceivable human capacity for suffering and resilience—and appreciating them deeply and earnestly.
Writing is acknowledging what happened isn’t the final say. What happened is only the beginning of an undefined grieving process because what matters more is what we do with it. Writing is pouring out the hopes from my heart and onto the page. Writing is penning the final eulogy for hopes I’m still holding. And letting go.
Writing is an act of defiance. It’s accepting piles and piles of sand, of unshapely things I don’t yet fully understand, and creating sand castles in the sky. Writing is precious because inspiration is perishable.
So when I feel inspired, I act on it. And I write.