I love this and I hate this.
She's right. I've had so many moments of sweaty fingertips sliding off the keys of my computer and heartbeat pounding through my t-shirt. Of feeling my guts squirm and protest as I press publish, send, submit. Processing and writing and sharing what feels closest and deepest in me-- being honest with others and myself about what feels fragile and precious and breakable.
The content varies. Often it's my love and what feels inexpressible and joyful or heavy and painful. Often it's my insecurities and their demons that hold so much power when they go unnamed. Sometimes its my parents or sisters or both. Sometimes its my past-- experiences or decisions that are so vivid I can pause mid mental replay and see the print on the t shirts of the background characters.
In the past two years, I've let my creative self atrophy. My time has looked like this: field work followed by recovering from field work, not speaking to my partner for months followed by spending 24 hours a day together, working 18 hour days followed by a month off, feeling responsible for the wellbeing of a dozen others and neglecting my own needs followed by dogged commitment to self care.
I've ignored any commitment and space for making. A few drawings here and there, a few love letters, a few unfinished essays or short poems. Mild and inconsistent at best or easy and lazy at worst. So I've decided to listen to Ms. Waheed and do the thing that feels scary. I've created a space in order to commit to writing, creating, and trying to get my work out there. This website is a start and a small accountability metric. I've gathered some of my past work and plan to make lots more.
It's scary, it's exciting, and it's time.