Field Notes

Writing is rarely seamless. Though, every now and then, a poem will come to me in a rush: demanding to be written down—line after line—cramping my fingers into submission.

The dragon the hero slays at the end of the story is the fear, the pain that is keeping them back from what they are called to do in this life.

These books need not stand for anything in particular, but they always touch down somewhere deep: taking gentle care to remind me that humanity is complex and entertainment is not simply a distraction, but the measure of what we have come to value.

I have no doubt that some artists really do create spontaneously. That is not me. And that is not most writers I know.

I didn’t come to writing school to pursue a topic, but to pursue writing, as a craft. From one sentence, I wanted to build the next. I came here to dress myself up in literature. If words were my bones, their cadence my muscle, my body’s movement would be voice, pure voice (okay, my voice).

The imposter syndrome, the fear of failure, the fear of rejection stopped me before I even started. Escaping was easier, and perhaps it’s necessary for a while. Sooner or later, though, every writer must decide—if not now, when will I write?

While I had (and still have) a lot to learn, at its core, expressing myself through writing has always come intuitively to me, whereas from fifth grade on, I’ve spent countless nights in tears while trying to complete math homework.

I don’t know exactly when Phoebe Bridgers came into my life, whether she showed up on my Spotify daily mixes or if I had Shazamed one of her songs at a cafe. I will always associate her music, her lyrics, with the late southern summer and its transition into fall.