I'm down to 1 book left in my first print run. The rest have all been sold/spoken for, and it feels so surreal and exciting to say that. My words have found their way to the Netherlands, Canada, South Africa, England, the west and east coast of the US and to a smattering of cities in between. I've received photos of it on beds, in open palms, on a stack of other beloved books. It feels like I've sent out bits of love and the love has returned to me in tiny, beautiful ways. I'm so grateful. For all of it.
I was catching up with my dear friend Joseph via video chat today and expressed to him how I've been feeling both proud and guilty. Proud of myself for working so hard the past few months, for fully immersing myself in the hard work that comes with diving into one's craft. And guilty because of this busy-ness. I'm used to being someone who gives a lot of time to checking in on others, and lately I've felt more pulled away from that than usual. It's for a great cause--there's so much learning and growth happening, but a bit of guilt is, I guess, built into me. As if I don't have a right to nurture myself. I know this is a residual of old thought, and it will pass. The nurturing is worth it. The more I show up for myself, the better I will be when showing up for others. And I truly love feeling immersed in writing, to do the hard work and not mind it. It feels so incredible--to have this body of work that I am super proud of out into the world and to also be fleshing out the next chapter, the next collection, the next moves for myself as a creative.
Sometimes I marvel at the old days of attending 3-4 readings/events a week, not seeing sleep until well after midnight. I cherish that time, and I'm also in awe of it--how on earth did I stay awake so late, take in so much? To consume and consume and feel inspired...and yet. All that rapid consumption meant writing and craft were very smash & go. Poems on napkins at bars or pieces written right as the reading was starting. It was very fast-twitch, very on the spot, and then abandoned. Over and over, that was the habit. I remember emcees joking about how I was probably finishing my poem right then as they prepared to call me up on stage(and often they were right). Back then, living and writing felt like two separate things to tend to, and I didn't lean into both with equal weight. But that's also being young, right?
Who knows if it was just timing, or aging, or the oddity of this past year, but those two things grew into one and I no longer feel like I have to choose. I don't know "where I go" when I sit down and write, or edit, but I know that it isn't somewhere else. If anything, "where I go" is inward. If anything, I am more HERE than anywhere when I put words down. I seek it out more, I bless each day with it. I let it be my life as opposed to flashes of bliss passing through it. I made a decision to treat myself with worth, and that worthiness has been missing in my work for much too long. I feel at the end(and in turn at the beginning) of a necessary evolution. It's so fucking rad.
I was catching up with my dear friend Joseph via video chat today and expressed to him how I've been feeling both proud and guilty. Proud of myself for working so hard the past few months, for fully immersing myself in the hard work that comes with diving into one's craft. And guilty because of this busy-ness. I'm used to being someone who gives a lot of time to checking in on others, and lately I've felt more pulled away from that than usual. It's for a great cause--there's so much learning and growth happening, but a bit of guilt is, I guess, built into me. As if I don't have a right to nurture myself. I know this is a residual of old thought, and it will pass. The nurturing is worth it. The more I show up for myself, the better I will be when showing up for others. And I truly love feeling immersed in writing, to do the hard work and not mind it. It feels so incredible--to have this body of work that I am super proud of out into the world and to also be fleshing out the next chapter, the next collection, the next moves for myself as a creative.
Sometimes I marvel at the old days of attending 3-4 readings/events a week, not seeing sleep until well after midnight. I cherish that time, and I'm also in awe of it--how on earth did I stay awake so late, take in so much? To consume and consume and feel inspired...and yet. All that rapid consumption meant writing and craft were very smash & go. Poems on napkins at bars or pieces written right as the reading was starting. It was very fast-twitch, very on the spot, and then abandoned. Over and over, that was the habit. I remember emcees joking about how I was probably finishing my poem right then as they prepared to call me up on stage(and often they were right). Back then, living and writing felt like two separate things to tend to, and I didn't lean into both with equal weight. But that's also being young, right?
Who knows if it was just timing, or aging, or the oddity of this past year, but those two things grew into one and I no longer feel like I have to choose. I don't know "where I go" when I sit down and write, or edit, but I know that it isn't somewhere else. If anything, "where I go" is inward. If anything, I am more HERE than anywhere when I put words down. I seek it out more, I bless each day with it. I let it be my life as opposed to flashes of bliss passing through it. I made a decision to treat myself with worth, and that worthiness has been missing in my work for much too long. I feel at the end(and in turn at the beginning) of a necessary evolution. It's so fucking rad.
Comments
Post a Comment