write messy

correspondence from the desert

where I post from ^ (the precipice of insanity)

I haven’t written in a while. I mean, I have written, just not here. These days, my writing seems to land on napkins and scraps of paper rather than being published on Substack, and that’s for a couple of reasons.

To start, I no longer wanted to churn out half-baked listicles and regurgitated popular opinion pieces just for the sake of having something to publish. My writing didn’t feel real, so I scrapped it all.

After shoveling all of my previous writing into the furnace (where it belongs - truly) and wiping my brow, I sat back and thought about what direction I wanted to go in with my future writing. I thought about working on in-depth material on literature, art, etc., which would really turn my publication from ~*girly-article-world*~ to more of a pedagogical and mature space. I liked this idea because I want my writing to be taken more seriously. I also played around with the idea of publishing my poetry, just completely abandoning my previous format and voice in exchange for something raw and emotional. Maybe I’d write short stories? My old flame, I used to write those in middle school in my wide-ruled notebooks and they were honestly pretty damn fun to write.

Ultimately, squeezing my little sponge brain for a new direction or idea had left me totally wrung out, and I thought, “Maybe I just don’t have anything interesting to say right now“. So I didn’t write for months. Not here at least! Didn’t want to. I spent most of my time as a student of the creativity of others.

But I wrote a lot of things on my palms and in my journals. Sometimes I’d be driving and catch a little spark of inspiration and scribble it down somewhere, like a napkin. The notes app on my phone has had quite enough of me, the poor thing is still limping along despite every incoherent fragment I throw in there. And while I was sitting around bummed out about my poor little Substack page that I left behind, I realized that I am still a writer because I do it all the time.

I’m beginning to think writing is just thought recording. People who write often and write well are masters at documenting their thoughts. The material is all there, I can feel it squirming around in my brain, and its only liberation is when I put pen to paper. It is a gift to be able to articulate my inner monologue, and what a waste that I put myself in a box with my writing for so long because I felt like I had to stick to a theme or write to a specific audience. It’s especially discouraging feeling like my predilection for creating raw and authentic pieces is up to bat against deceptive AI content that does numbers.

Any burst of creativity I experience is short-lived but very intense. For a while, I wished I could harness the intensity and keep it going with pure stamina. But it always fades, and I’m left in a creative waiting-room-like purgatory until my number is called again. Now, I’m in a space where I want to create even when I don’t feel any sense of inspiration at all. The thoughts and ideas are in me somewhere, and I want to live every day emptying myself. When my head hits the pillow, I want to know that all of my thoughts are on napkins somewhere and my doodles are on the other side. Some days it may look more like publishing an article or finishing a painting. And to be more abstract with it, creativity can be as simple as the act of living itself. Authenticity and curiosity in the way I behave are sometimes enough to feel like I've lived creatively for the day.

All of this to say, I am back from my hiatus with a new outlook on the way I write and create. I want to live in my little creative womb and publish like no one’s reading. I want to write messily and use this space to explore that.

xx

Amanda

spilt milk