the microcosm of hope


I have not been good at writing of late.

Oh, I’m still writing, per se. I still journal every day. I still scribble story ideas and character names into a small notebook I carry around just about everywhere. I’m still reading my way through the Free Library of Philadelphia and writing up book reviews (have you heard about the newest project Basia and I are working on? We call it W(REC)’D).

But as more than one friend has mentioned, I’ve been curiously silent here on my own blog.

It’s not because I’ve run out of things to say. I’ve started blog posts at least a dozen times, each of them petering out because they weren’t right. I don’t just mean in a perfectionist sense, either—I mean in a “no, this isn’t for right now” sense. A “this one isn’t what I need to write at the moment” sense. A not yet sense.

People write for all sorts of reasons. I write because I have to—which is in of itself a fairly common reason—but also because I need to. Writing is how I make sense of the world. It’s how I take the messy, broken shards of my life and experiences and piece them back together into something resembling a narrative. Writing is how I’ve taught myself to find hope when everything feels overwhelming: it lets me rearrange what I’ve seen and experienced and said into something whose shape is less foggy and whose meaning more clear.

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