good morning stretch 001: band-aid goo

because writing insecurities are big and painful and I need to rip off the band-aid

Did you hear it? From wherever you are reading this right now, your bed or bus or breakroom? I cried out in painful joy when ripping off the band-aid, finally writing something for myself for the first time in months. It's hard to count grad school writing for myself when it's more for my professors’ eyes than anyone else’s, and sure I enjoy it (most of the time) and can make my words sound nice side by side (most of the time) and it fills the creative void (hardly ever) but mostly it just makes me wish I was writing for me again. And when the time comes, the hours that are short and squeezed between bookstore shifts or yoga classes or grocery shopping, I find again and again that I’m too exhausted to even put word to paper, more than that, to put brain to word. I stopped daydreaming sentences imagining them as lyrics for Lizzy McAlpine to sing. I stopped whispering dialogue under my breath, my characters arguing or confessing or consoling one another. And I think (in some way) (no in most ways) (in all ways) that I’d started sticking band-aids on my words and ideas to shield them from others because there is just no way my words will be good enough (right?)

At the bookstore, we host authors, who give talks and sign books in our store and share about their recent work and writing process. I stand behind the register after already having been at work for six or more hours and watch as the author stands at their podium parallel to me, speaking out to a crowd of people who went out of their way on a Friday night to hear them speak. I imagine that it's me standing there, answering questions about my work, and how it's evolved since I was eight years old, showing off old notebooks with notes and edits and doodles in the corners. I think of what I’d wear, what the crowd would think of me and how I speak, how many of them would have read my book? How many did it resonate with? In reality, I print receipts, undeniable proof of payment for another book and give directions to the restroom and take my ten-minute break in the back room, scrolling Substack while the applause erupts between the journals and puzzles cueing me to come back for an influx of sales. It's no wonder I have imposter syndrome writing, I see successful authors and their books flying off shelves faster than I can shelve them and I can’t even write for myself without immense guilt that I should be doing homework instead or more often, falling asleep at my computer from exhaustion. (Or more honestly, I can’t write anything that I think is good enough to share with others or even anything worthy to get out of my head into my notes app, let alone on paper).

I spent October writing my thesis equivalent, my eyes glossing over when typing and hitting page 70 felt like releasing a breath after continuous inhale, but words on a page felt like nonsense and gibberish and meaningless. It was all a first draft, weeks before the due date. I needed to just get brain to words and words to paper and then I could make edits after round one, then I could start to use my brain more intentionally, then the words would feel less like nonsense.

But it was all accepted. The first draft, PASS in all caps flooded my Canvas announcements. Comments from my professor trickled in, Great work! You have a strong writer's voice. No corrections needed. I enjoyed reading this! You are clearly a writer, nice job.

So maybe (some of the time) the first draft is good enough. 

Maybe (most of the time) I’d been putting band-aids on fictional scrapes, like little kids calling for attention and protection. Writing this today has been ripping off that (those) band-aid(s), and I won’t lie, there’s residue left behind, gray bits of sticky band-aid goo on my skin where my writing insecurities have lived (and still are) but step one! Band-aid ripped! Writing written! Hopefully posted! (if you're reading this then you’ll know, step one is complete).

Step two will be stretching, warrior two for my mind and child’s pose for my words, practicing discomfort with imperfection, and posting things in their first draft. And who knows, maybe something will stick (some of the time).