The way I measure the quality of my writing is whether I enjoy reading it after some time has passed. Sometimes it’s a few weeks, sometimes a few years, but in the words of Gertrude Stein “I write for others, and I write for myself”.
I go back and read old stuff and in reading that stuff I noticed that I always mention how much I love books and how I never write about them and how shocking that is (also, apparently I have shoddy memory; good thing I write), so I decided that this year, I would blog about chomping through Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge 2016 (I always read that with an exclamation mark. It feels approp)!!!
I feel that might be an easier way to chronicle my year than, say, seeing how long I can avoid the outside world so that I don’t have to wear pants or yes, I have been crying this entire week while eating guacamole, why do you ask?
I am wading through a lot of sadness, but it is a really odd type of sadness. One where I feel as though I am existing outside of myself, that my life is not real. When my grandmother died, I remember trying to hold on to crumbs- a single strand of hair in an old comb or a much loved scarf with her scent that I kept inside a ziplock bag and tried to never open bc “the scent would escape”(I know that is some scientific b*llshit, but in my defense I was exhausted, overly emotional and not very rational). The day after she died, I crawled into her bed and buried myself in her blankets so that maybe I could absorb her somehow.
I don’t have any of that with Zion. I have less than crumbs. I didn’t see him for the majority of his life, I don’t have strands of hair, or a scent or a sound, just second hand pictures and stories and I find myself really struggling with my sadness. It’s a process for sure, another boulder in the bucket of garbage courtesy of ICE and the U.S. Government. I am pretty sure half of my U-Haul’s worth of issues can be traced back to that incident, and I don’t really know how to put myself together.
So, maybe I can fake it until I make it through stories.
I decided to make it a bit more specific, by avoiding things written by white dudes, because they already get enough of the pie and I have already read so much of them. I really want some pie now.
So, I will be keeping track on this here space, which will (hopefully) mean I update more- even if it is a blog entry that talks about crying on a bathroom floor, cereal bowl right next to me.