A year ago March, I finished the first draft of a memoir I had been working on for two years. I gratefully, wearily stuffed it into a drawer and awoke the next morning quite sure I didn’t want to ever write another word, ever again. It was a weird feeling because all I have wanted to be, all of my life, was a writer.
I spent the year that followed in a funky, weird sort of space that I simply refer to in my mind as “The Void.” It is a space where I didn’t write. I was so certain I never wanted to write again that I closed down my freelance writing and editing business and found a nine-to-five job as a proofreader.
Over the past year or so, I’ve been quietly commuting into my job, marking up documents, and then quietly returning home. Not writing. I’ve engaged in other creative acts during this time, including drawing cartoons, a brief foray into graphic storytelling, painting with watercolors, and taking photographs.
I never, not once, stopped noting the beauty that surrounds us every day. The sort of beauty that many people simply walk past, not noticing. I never stopped noting how quirky and funny and mean and angry and sad and complicated and how vulnerable human beings are and how much capacity we have for love and tenderness. I never stopped noticing moments of grace – when there is so much lovely magic in the air, it practically crackles. And so, even though I refer to the past year as “The Void,” it has been, actually, very full. And, of course, here I am writing again. Writing about not writing, but… writing all the same.