I have not blogged in a while, but not for want of inspiration. There is no shortage of things to write about, of news to comment on. But much of it has been overwhelmingly discouraging. I find myself wanting more than ever to isolate myself in the escape of fiction.
Whatever I expected out of Donald Trump’s administration did not make it easier to stomach these past few weeks.
I no longer want to write about writing or read about writing—these topics seem inadequate now, feel like relics of an idyllic time when we could worry about things like craft and style and publishing.(And yet—)
I have been diving deep into Scribophile, and I worry that I might be using the site as an escape rather than as a serious attempt at improving my writing. I have been critiquing some interesting work, have put my own writing up for scrutiny, and have been taking seriously the feedback I have been giving and receiving. But sometimes I feel like I’m not engaging with the world at large, just putting off the inevitable.
Where do I start? I feel as though I have hit the ground running, but what exactly am I running toward? (Something better than this is the hope.)
To continue living as I had before is oppressively inadequate. And yet to face the future feels equally impossible.
“A word after a word / after a word is power.” I have been repeating this idea in my mind whenever I put my pen to paper or my fingers to my keyboard. And yet I find it harder than ever to believe it to be true.
I wake up. I go for a run. It is warm for the winter season in New York. I go to work. There is so much work to be done.