Hi friends,
For the last few years, I haven’t known where my writing home is. I’ve had a few, I realize: the paper notebooks in my purse with a pen clipped in place; my previous LiveJournal, MySpace, Facebook, and Twitter feeds; a TinyLetter; a popular and beloved reading series I helped to seed and flourish for five years; a variety of book projects that for a spell bound me to them, but then, some day, let go.
It makes sense that I feel un-homed, not just from the seismic changes that the pandemic brought to our lives, but my own personal loss of sanctuary, the death of my mother last Thanksgiving.
For a long time, I didn’t want to write at all. When I started drafting again, I mostly worked on an essay about how I didn’t want to write anymore, how I found it grotesque, &c.
In the last few months, I’ve made a concerted effort to get back to it, trying to make sure I turn up at reading series and open mics. I’m even in the midst of a challenge to write 30 poems in 30 days. (I skipped Halloween day, so I won’t have a perfect record. Sometimes I like ruining my perfect record early. It helps me relax.)
I’m not sure what will come next, but in the meantime, I am occasionally sharing work, old and new, on Instagram. Sometimes I post brand-new drafts to my stories, sometimes I share images of poems as posts, and sometimes I share short reels that include both text and my voice.
There may have been another version of me who would use this time to wax philosophical about digital nomadism, a sense of multiplicity within identity, and obsolescence. But she’s not here today. So—if you want to follow along, feel free. If not, I hope you are doing well.
Love,
Cate