Remembering
I was checking in with a friend last week (Hi, how are you, how is the day? Each day requires a re-evaluation now. Nothing feels like it carries over, has longevity. Nothing feels predictable.)
A brief text like a hand on a shoulder. Hi, how have you been this week? He said better. He’d been doing art again. “I forgot who I was there, for a minute.” He said.
I forgot who I was there, for a minute.
It’s been 6 months since I’ve written. In November, I did NANOWRIMO for the first time in years. I quickly wrote over 50,000 words of very personal content. It poured out of me in a torrent. I couldn’t have stopped it if I wanted to, but I didn’t want to. So many of my friends and acquaintances responded positively, encouragingly. I was on an unmistakable high. And then suddenly November was over; I had reached my goal, and I stopped. Turned off the tap so not a drip could escape—sudden and complete. I haven’t taken time to evaluate the end of that writing experiment, look it in the face and know what it means, but hints have been nagging at the back of my mind that give me a vague understanding. I’ve been happy to ignore it. Well, not happy in fact.
The truth is that I wanted to keep going. Keep up the pace, maintain the output. And I know that I don’t have that kind of time and focus in this season of life. So in the spirit of all or nothing, I chose nothing. I’ve sat down to write a few times since then. Re-opened my blog, poked around, typed a few words, shut it down and walked away. I have told myself that I can write again when I figure out what my voice is and justify why it should be heard. I fell back into all this bullshit I keep thinking I’ve moved away from: what’s your platform? Your audience? Your niche? How can you market yourself? How are you different from other content out there? Explain your purpose and quantify your value.
I forgot who I was there, for a minute.
Quarantine during a world-wide pandemic has been a ripe environment for growth, noticing, paying attention, creating. Today, as I felt the nudge again to sit down and write—no agenda but to transfer the noise in my head to a blank space and see what happens to it when it hits the air—I heard my friend’s words and I understood this time what they meant.
How is my story unlike every other story out there? It’s mine. And it doesn’t matter, I remind myself today, if anyone else needs to hear my story.
I need to hear my story. Or else, I forget who I am there, for a minute.
