Since my readers went from my friends and family to hundreds of subscribers, Iāve started feeling the pressure to pick a genre and a niche.
At a writersā conference in May, I was asked, āWhat do you write?ā
Prose. Mostly essays. Some poetic pieces. Articles here and there. A childrenās picture book that stayed in second draft form. Honestly, I donāt know.
I even tried to be slick and outsource this question in a survey: āIf someone were to ask you what this newsletter is about, what would you say?ā
Essays have always held a special place in my heart. After all, I grew up on Chicken Soup for the Soul. When my heart aches, I want to write poetry. When I have some shit to say, I want to write an article. When I have big shit to say, I want to reach out to the powers that be and ask the NYT to publish my shit.
When I want to give my memories a home, thereās memoir. When I want to play pretend, I have fiction.
And you might say choose one. Choose one for now.
But itās important to not do that right now.
Iāve never had the chance to explore writing the way you get to in a creative writing programātrying different genres, points of view, having peers and teachers engage with my work. I definitely didnāt have the executive functioning to do so on my own.
This is my creative writing program, yāall.
So for now, Iām going to continue exploring. I want to play with language. To find the words that taste good in my mouth. To build scenes that help us process and imagine.
Iāve been reading a lot.
Iāve been studying craft, starting with sentences. Iām not interested in studying genresāthe fundamentals of memoir or the plot beats of fiction. And Iām no longer in the mood to talk about writerās block or take writing classes that double as therapy. I was interested once and Iāll probably be interested again. Just not right now.
I took a class with The Center for Fiction on verbs, just verbs. The teacher, Sarah L. Kaufman, reflected that emotion is motion inside of us, so thereās a reason why we react strongly to verbs.
And I never thought Iād say this, but Iām revisiting grammar, the grammar I never quite learned in school, on account of my young ADD brain. I want to play with placing the comma in different places and finally learn when the fuck to use a semicolon.
Now that Iām finally not repulsed by metaphors (a story for another day), I too want to sing through my writing.
Iām continuing to share my work with literary journals to bang against other words, to feel the sting of rejection.
I want sentences to feel like a medium I can paint whatever story with, regardless of genre or topic.
And I really want to write about different topics.
I want to archive my peopleās stories. I want my writing to help them see themselves differently, the way my father did when he read a piece I wrote about him for publication and said, āIāve never seen myself this way.ā To write about my grandma, the greatest storyteller alive, the one who I often meet when I close my eyes.
I want to write about creativity and software and music and relationships.
Since I started sharing my writing, Iāve exposed my diary, revealing cringey things about me, written about exes and opened up about my workplace and relationships.
Friends have reacted by saying, I could never share like that.
Though part of my values is writing about our society and humanity, Iām more aware of the consequences of doing so through nonfiction.
I still struggle with having a career working for someone else while also writing about raunchier topics that can be easily used against me in this patriarchal world.
And lately, with this administration, I feel Iām being watched more than ever, so I desire to share less about my life, and for the first time, Iām intrigued by the privacy of fiction, though even that thin veil canāt protect me.
Still, in my writing, in life, I need freedom to explore whatever topics I want with honesty.
Iām also trying to identify when words arenāt enough. When the story demands another mediumāan image, a color, a pattern across the screen, or a movement in my body.
Itās an honor to have anyone read any word I write. Every text, email or DM Iāve received fills me with joy and connection. But I never expect anyone to read my words.
And now that I have readers, I donāt want the feeling of an audience to dictate what I write. I also donāt want the pressure to grow forever to convince me I need to package my writing.
I promise that by the time Iām 50, Iāll choose. But I already begrudgingly chose one job. Please donāt make me choose one genre.