On Writing
On Writing
August 31, 2020
I can’t fully remember when I learned how to write. Can anyone, really? I don’t necessarily mean when I learned letters and how to hold my pencil to paper to spell out words. I suppose I can ask my parents for that bit of information. But when did I learn how to write a sentence of significance? When did I learn how to craft a story of my own? The earliest I can remember is kindergarten. I wrote stories about round people who lived on the moon and cheese falling out of the sky. I still have the composition books to prove it. And I have the notes from my kindergarten teacher, Ms. Coleman, who encouraged and affirmed my imaginative storytelling at five years old. I was a writer then, and I am a writer now.
I am a writer.
These are simple words, yet they take so much courage and audacity for me to believe this very fact. I must admit, there are times where I deny this part of me—Khayla, the writer. It is easier for me to claim storyteller, which is also true. I can even roll photographer off of my tongue quicker than writer. I’m not even going to go into Khayla, the filmmaker yet as that is a steep mountain to climb. I am many things and contain multitudes. But back to the topic at hand.
I slept with words circulating, asking questions, and forming stories in my head last night. My mind was definitely active and I was more awake than sleep, although my eyes were closed. Either way, I woke up really just needing to write. And to write here, at my desk, on my computer in a font that I enjoy, witnessing the black words on a white page appear as I click clack on this keyboard. Usually my place of choice to write is in my journal. That’s my most comfortable place. I am at ease there. It is where I write without a care. There, I am writing for myself. Just flowing. I am not worried if I make sense to anyone but me. And God. Because that is what my journal is for. But here, this is a little different. Yes, I’m free writing right now. No outline, just a general idea and instinct. But my intention is for other eyes to see. Not just mine.
Write, Khayla.
I have words inside of me that need to be released. My beloved journals are an important tool in that release and yet, I know I am called to do more with these words. This isn’t a new revelation. I come to this point multiple times a year, since adolescence. In my adulthood,I make plans to write for my blog and pitch articles for publications. Sometimes I have a good season of doing just that and am completely in a flow. And then, the insecurities creep up and the desire and pressure to poetically craft the perfect words to reach others will stop me in my tracks. Procrastination will ensue and I will settle into the lie that I am not a writer. I mean really, are you really a writer if you don’t write anything? Oh, the woes of this existential question that every writer puts themselves through.
But I know I’m not alone in this internal (and possibly eternal) battle. Many of my writer friends deal with the same conflict. Why do we do this? Must writing and the claim to be a writer be so painful?
I cackled out loud when I scrolled upon this Spongebob meme on twitter a couple of weeks ago. The thread of tweets from other writers in response to the original post was just as hilarious. I felt so seen. I had to take a screenshot to remind myself that I am not crazy and I am not alone.
One afternoon, a friend and I were strolling down a street in Lower Manhattan. I think we were on our way to a cute Mexican restaurant to eat lunch. As we turned a corner, I glanced at one of those newspaper dispensers and stopped. She kept walking and talking, not realizing that I paused. I picked up the paper that grabbed my attention and caught up with my friend to show her because we both love a pretty printed publication. It was the cover of Gotham Writers, a brochure of sorts beckoning for writers interested in developing their craft through a series of writing workshops. The cover was a simple and serene photograph of a day in what looks like Central Park. Trees frame a small lake with a couple floating on the water in a small boat. Pretty. But what stopped me in my tracks was the word “Write” in the bold and white lettering. That’s it. Just a simple statement, but for me, it reads like a command. I now have this brochure framed above my desk as a stern reminder.
Write.
September 7, 2020
I wrote this reflection exactly a week ago with the intention of posting it on my blog and social media. And then I got caught up on how and when to post. Time passed and my urgency to write and share my declaration as a writer diminished. And yet, over the last seven days, I’ve been in conversations with friends about the power and necessity of writing ourselves into the canon, however the words come to us. Then I received a reminder from my friend and fellow writer Teni after she published a beautiful poem in a new literary magazine: “Our words create worlds for those who maybe can’t find the words themselves.”
I recommend to everyone to watch Toni Morrison: The Pieces I Am, which is a beautiful and poignant documentary about her journey in life with all of the multitudes and roles that she claimed while she was alive. What I love most about the film was the deep privilege to learn from Ms. Toni herself. It is truly a masterclass for anyone period, but especially for those of us who have words brimming inside of us.
P.S. - Here’s a playlist, I created in August when I needed reminders to take courage.