Dear whomever,
I haven’t written anything other than poetry in a while. I gave up novels a long time ago - I couldn’t tell you if it’s because I grew out of it, or because I lost the drive to work through a 200-page story that no one would read. But I’ve always wanted to be a writer; throughout my life, it has been the beacon I followed. It is the only dream I’ve never doubted I wanted - just doubted my ability to do it.
Writing is such a lonely endeavor; an audience is never promised, and you are never sure if you even want an audience. It’s hard to tell when you should give to the audience because it’s so personal. On the other hand it’s not personal at all, because what is understood depends on the readers contexts and beliefs. And, well - you just want someone to read what you’re writing - to have it mean something - but sharing what you’re writing feels like jumping off a cliff or, more accurately, stripping naked.
It’s confusing, yes, and not once has it been fulfilling because no work is ever complete, no piece is ever truly done, you just have to force yourself to let go if you want to keep going.
Years ago, John Green said in one of his videos that once he publishes a book, it’s no longer his, but the readers’. He said that once he’s done editing, he has to be done, he mustn’t revisit the words or the plot, because there will always be something to fix. Me, there are poems from years ago that I still touch up, so I understand this urge, and I never forgot those words.
It takes so much effort to let go of something I’m working on.
But for who? And why? I am not John Green - I do not have a huge audience. I speak to the ether and only a few hear. When do I know it’s time to let go, that a piece is fully complete if there is no publisher or editor forcing things out of my grasp? How can I possibly decide if a work is ‘done’? It’s something I’ve struggled with ever since I wrote my first sentence.
I think I said in a recent letter that I didn’t have any New Year’s resolutions. If I did, I lied. The only thing I truly want to hold myself accountable to this year is writing you a letter every week. Whoever you are. Really, this is just my way of practicing consistency and - more importantly - letting go. But like I said, I haven’t written anything other than poetry in years. Poems were easier to release from the grasp of my too-picky eyes and mind. Less mistakes to think about. So writing these letters has been difficult. Too long. Too distinct. Plus, I keep worrying I’m meandering. And I’ve graduated; so there’s no English Literature professor that can validate if what I’ve written is ‘good enough’ for anyone other than myself.
My transition from long-form novels to 10-line poems makes me think about smallness: it makes me think about all the ways in which I’ve shrunken myself in hopes of being more digestible. Nothing is more me than my work. And if I have chipped away at even that, what else in my life have I made smaller? There is nothing I’ve ever wanted, in my short lifetime, more than to be someone worth holding and seeing. But, over the years, I’ve wanted to be seen so much that, in many ways, I’ve become translucent.
What are you if you are really just a mirror? If you’ve adjusted to others’ liking so often, that it is difficult to recognize a reflection, and much easier to recognize a stranger?
I have sat on these ideas a lot in 2023. Why I write what I do, what’s the meaning of it, what is my work trying to tell me? What is the way I live my life trying to tell me? And why do I keep grabbing onto things, and refuse to let go?
I am not building at some kind of life-changing realization, by the way. Or advice. There is no life-changing event to arrive at, I’ve learned. I slept early a lot of days, just to get to it quicker, that change. But the future doesn’t simply hand itself over to you.
But - perhaps there are sometimes events that contextualize the way you view the world, and they soften everything around you.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but the new year has felt like a fresh breeze. I think I am starting to feel the world around me again. And I’ve been trying to accept that nothing about me is a constant. Nothing about the world is constant.
I keep wondering why i feel locked in this identity of mine, the small one? The quiet one? Why do I go home everyday and wish my voice quieter? Wish my clothes simpler? Why is my number one priority to be so easy on the eyes of those who dare to glance over at me?
How do I let that go? That obsessive need to edit? To rework? To shorten and simplify?
I know we spoke about slowness, and I am trying to take my own advice. I want to be the girl I am in my head - I want to be loud and so creative, I want to be able to wear a weird outfit without asking for my friends’ opinions, I want to be decisive, I want to be relentlessly romantic and stop regretting it, I want to write without caring, and my, do I want to dance! - but then I open my mouth, and the things I say come out all wrong. I try to walk, and my legs stiffen up. I laugh and cover my mouth.
And I keep thinking, when will I finally stop saying “Um”?
I know it’s about practice. I know it’s all cultivated. I said all that two weeks ago! But we aren’t taught how to cultivate, are we? We aren’t taught to do the steps all slowly. We were taught to hand over the results. At school, it wasn't about how you came to a conclusion in a test - it was about how quickly you could jot an answer down. And that ideology has bled into my life. It feels like it’ll take forever to unlearn.
One step at a time, I guess. One word at a time. And then, let go.
Let go let go let go - I’m not gonna edit any more, I’m not going to shorten in hopes it makes better sense to you.
That’s it for now.
I’m letting this one go.
PS: Don’t forget to send me a note back. It’s only fair.
keep thriving on the letting go part! i like the writing rawer (?).
cheers to letting it go <3
we aren't meant to be perfect or complete, we are meant to experience and enjoy!