recently I wrote about writing what you know, but what if you don’t feel sure of what you know at all?
a few days ago i was revisiting some of my old journals. for me, those journals are an archive. i’ve been keeping one since i was 14 years old, filling each page year to year. and as i ran my fingers over the letters, pushed into the pages with ink, i couldn’t get past the gift of hindsight. especially when reading from the high school years. how can something that felt so big at 16 feel like absolutely nothing at 25?
i know this is something that a lot of writers go through. you spend days, months, maybe even years writing about something that hurt - and then it no longer hurts anymore. so you feel removed from that part of your art, like some version of yourself you don’t know wrote that and you’ll never get back to that person. because you just aren’t there anymore.
as someone who writes and is also someone that is navigating her mental health, writing also has been a form of what i call ‘figuring it out’ and my therapist calls ‘self validation.’ i inherently write to parse through whatever is going on in my life, or cope with a situation. what that means though, and what makes it more complicated, is sharing that work with the world can feel like a lot. because i primarily struggle with believing myself and my lived experiences, writing something concretely about my own pain can be anxiety inducing. because there’s always the lingering question of: what will people think about this? what will they think of me? should i have even shared this? even though i always write about what i know, and how i know myself to feel.
writing a poem feels like an act of defiance. not always against my hurt, but sometimes against my own insecurities. like, maybe i’m not sure how i totally feel about that yet, but i’m allowing myself to make enough of a decision about it that i’ll write it down right now. from a person who has literally changed her mind at least six times about where she wants to honeymoon, that can feel like a big deal. but i think it’s important to remember that as a writer, you’re always going to be exposing yourself in some way, especially if you find the courage to share your work with other people. you’ll always be vulnerable, and that can be uncomfortable. your emotions and your art is inevitably going to piss people off, go directly against how they think and feel, and that’s ok.
that means i often write about what i’m not entirely sure about. things i question, the ways i question myself, and sometimes i am nuanced. sometimes, i’m not nuanced at all, which is a healing act in itself. as a poet and a person that leaves far too much room for other people’s feelings, (by shrinking my own), reclaiming space matters. i don’t have to always be the bigger person in my art, like i try to do in my day-to-day life.
so, you should write what you’re not sure about. whatever you’re chewing on. whatever you’re really afraid to share with other people. whatever you’re worried people won’t like, whatever is in draft stages. whatever feels too raw, too embarrassing, or possibly even hurtful. because isn’t that authenticity? isn’t that what it means to honor experiences, and yourself?
i think (know) so.
xo,
strega clare.
p.s
a new thing i want to do is end my substack posts with things i am loving/am grateful for at the current moment, so here we go:
being off tomorrow and going to D.C with my sister
my regular wednesday night yoga practice
the leftover piece of pizza in my lunchbox
my two cats being extra cuddly
kelsea ballerini’s interview on call her daddy, which i listened to first thing this morning, and her new EP “rolling up the welcome mat.” highly, highly, recommend. she is definitely one of my favorite artists!
being alive again today.
"i don't always have to be the bigger person in my art" wow, really resonated.