Editor's Note, 1/30

It’s been a little over a year since I started writing regularly for Recess. I've gotten better at having my work scrutinized. My writing has become more deliberate and convincing. But one thing that's been especially difficult, as was the case for this note, is trying to express something when nothing formative, or moving, or thought-provoking has happened. There's a period of stagnancy, and I can only assume that anything I scrape out from the ether will be ingenuine and disappointing. Thumbing through all the things I might talk about (for a while I figured I would examine tattoos as an art form), I start to reflect on how I've grown. These are some of the things I’ve learned, and am still learning:

There are so many stories to tell.

There are so many stories, and that’s why we whip out cameras to take snapshots of a North Carolinian snow day, why we get tattoos, why we have no idea where to start when we’re interviewing someone, why we create, why we cry during a film.

It gets harder to make your way though all the stories because when you ask and when you listen, it turns out that people have a wealth of things to say. They’re willing to share those things with you, even if you aren’t really worth that much of their time. You bond over how beautiful Doris Duke’s dresses were, or female authors and their thoughts on intimacy, or the thin sliver of orange paint that comes to define a painter’s lifetime of work. You bond in silence as you hurriedly jot down phrases, and when you review your pen scrawls, you wish you could craft your writings about art the way these people can speak casually about it. You end up having too many quotes to use.

It’s easy enough to finish a piece of writing because it’s due, but it’s grueling to finish a piece of writing because it’s good. Writing is difficult. Especially when you’re cranking something out and don’t have enough words, or you have too many words. Your sentences get too long and out of order. You find yourself using the same words throughout articles: “prolific,” “candid,” too many em dashes and a bunch of adverb-adjective combinations. At one point, you stare at what you’ve written, sure that you can’t say anything more without being redundant or meaningless.

Then there are all the times when you really just aren’t inspired enough but you have to forge ahead anyway, because something needs to be written. You come to learn that when you create—in any sense—it boils down to a struggling work ethic. You have to be able to make something sans inspiration, time, certainty. You endure. You need grit. And you have to care about what you’re writing, because if you aren’t invested, or at least aware that it’s significant, it shows through. Sometimes you’ll listen to an album and feel unmoved, and sometimes it’ll make you dance and cry. Either way, you’re going to try to describe a song and why you felt the way you did. (My first music review took two hours to edit because no one had ever asked me why I liked something with the expectation of a legitimate and in-depth response.)

And then there’s actually writing about art. You do your best to sound informed, trying to capture a hint of sophistication, a reflection of the experts you’ve spoken to. But simultaneously, you strive to remain engaging and approachable. You want your words to flow well, as though their rhythm, like the musicality of poetry, might reflect the sculpture you saw, the symphony you heard. You want others to feel what you did, to sense as you do.

Claim the process and your work.

Words have power. Words captivate, words strengthen, words start movements. Proclaim what you think. Declare it, because what you think matters. Cement it in writing; force yourself if you have to. Share it, maybe tentatively, but never apologetically. Even if uninspired, learn to feel proud of your work, or at least learn to own your work. Revel in the power, and relief, that comes from creating.