“…perhaps because what is good belongs to no one…but rather to the language and to tradition.” - Jose Luis Borges
The past year of my life has been one of immense growth and happiness. I’ve surprised myself with my ability to find joy and fulfillment in the unpredictability of working several odd jobs. Every so often I organize events with my lovely friends at An Indivisible Art Collective and revel in the growing community of local artists we’re creating. I never thought my love for D.C would develop so profoundly that I’d be missing it as I sit in a cafe in Belo Horizonte, Brazil. I’ve created a sanctuary for myself in a beautiful shared townhouse in Columbia Heights. The embroidered archways in the living room and my little rooftop deck where I eat breakfast most mornings would make my college self beam with pride for the life I'm living. If I’ve learned anything since graduating last May, is that sanctuary is created with a lot of effort, love, and community. My lifestyle is a delicate balance between reflective alone time and sharing space with people I love, something I hope to sustain as life becomes more complicated. Writing however, has been harder. Whatever inspirational pull I feel is reserved to my notebook. I send my fiction out to lit magazines and get “encouraging rejections” as my creative writing professors would say. Recently however, I’ve been feeling a gnawing urge to speak, not write, because with writing comes judgement. Is this good enough? Will this be published? I envy the fluidity I experienced in college, the feeling of pride I felt in sitting back and looking at the world I’d just created on the page. Perhaps as a writer I’ll always be doomed living two existences, cycling through times when things happen to me and times when I am on observer to the world around me. Is it possible to live both simultaneously? Can I experience artistic discipline with pleasure? This blog is my attempt to mitigate my tendency to get stuck in the self-indulgent loop of criticism.