I haven’t written for this blog in years. I deleted all but one post, which I reverted to “draft” form and have saved for my personal use. Originally, I created The Rambling Method to self-manage a coming-of-age process I was going through: coming into my own sexuality. It’s obviously not a process that ends, but that specific purpose is no longer needed in my life.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m sure I’ll still write about sex and sexuality and body positivity and all those things.
It’s a new phase, however. It’s time for me to start over.
When I was in fourth grade, I recall filling out some kind of form that asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, and I wrote, “I want to write S.A.’s.” Soon after, I asked what S.A. stands for and realized its true form: essay. I want to write essays.
That’s what I’m here to do. It’s been a dream of mine, to truly carry out what I have always in my heart known I need to do. It is a dream of mine to someday go back to school and study Creative Nonfiction.
But I have been on a long, dark, painful hiatus from writing. I wrote to a group of friends about it recently, saying:
I’ve been through some really heavy shit, and I’ve survived. And I’ve done some shit that makes me question my worth on a human level, stuff that is the dark ugly demon pit of my soul, blah blah. Stuff that I only told my therapist about after FOUR YEARS and stuff that is locked down so tight….sigh. It’s the base of any self-hate I harbor. And that means it’s really significant. Things have BUILT from that self-hate. And what created that base, that foundation, is also immensely painful to consider.
I’m working on it. Kind of. Slowly. In the form of therapy, and friendships, and relationships. In the form of self-awareness and creating meaning out of the chaos and activism and volunteering. In the form of working on healing. Finding courage. Getting clarity.
But in the meantime, I haven’t written anything significant in years. My writer-side feels like it is dying. Writing was my first art! And my specialty is non-fiction.
And I’m just scared to pick up the pen, because what if I write something about IT and what if someone reads it and what if *I* read it? And what if all the threads about who I am and all that never untangle? Even in words?
I mean I’m petrified. I dream of running away just to write, and never coming back, because I won’t be able to.
I’m not here to all of a sudden write about what I referenced above. That may well take another four, or ten, years. But I am here to start over. To renew my practice of being a writer. To be okay with looking at myself and the world around me through my writer’s eyes. To let go of some of my cynicism that has developed over the years. To redevelop my voice. To find it, really. To rediscover that magic that happens when your brain is firing so rapidly it’s hard to keep up. To get deep into the geeky side of things: sentence structure and figuring out how to make a concept work and character and finding connections and beautiful sounds.
The last time I wrote something significant, and personal, was almost six years ago. It was my creative nonfiction thesis, for undergrad. In that time, I haven’t mustered the energy or courage to do a re-read.
So I’m starting here. Back to my blog. To essays. I don’t know what will be the nature of the subject matter, but I reckon I will pull largely from the goings-on in my life, what I’m learning in grad school, the organizations I’m involved in, and so on.
Thanks for hearing me. The goal is to publish daily. To just fucking write. Ten thousand hours, here I come.