January Is The Taste of Ashes From Everything I've Ever Written

I’m walking down the street at 5 PM, and the sky is already a navy blue. The sun has already long said its goodbye to this side of the world, though it has lingered around a couple of minutes longer than it did two weeks ago. The wind bites at my face, slicing its way to my bones, but I welcome the sting. It is January 4th, 2024.

Three days ago, I sat at my desk outlining the goals I plan to accomplish this year. Everything really boiled down to either doing more or less of something. More writing. Less alcohol. More learning. Less screen time. More, more, more. Less, less, LESS! The dichotomy of the new year is always the same. Some people thrive in the idea of starting fresh. A clean slate, a new me. There are others where January 1st is another reminder of time passing them by. Suddenly I am not a child anymore, and I’m supposed to know what I am doing. January is a reminder of all the things you have done and all the things you have not. If December’s language is imprecise grief (Nelly Sachs, from The Seeker’s “Enigmas of Night”), then January is the taste of ashes—a constant reminder of how things were and how they are not anymore.

One of my soft goals this year was to consume content with more substance, though the sentiment revolving around “substance” is very subjective. I recently finished Intimations by Zadie Smith (amazing read, by the way), a short essay collection reflecting on the coronavirus, race in America, and other topics. In one of the essays from her collection, she discusses how she believes that writing as a “creative” was never an accurate description. To her, writing is not creative. Writing is control. This phrase, that writing is control, has been repeating itself in my head for days. I think back to when I last had the motivation and inspiration to write, which was around July through September of last year. During this period of my life, I was experiencing so many emotions that seemed out of my control. Anger, grief, rejection, denial, and heartbreak, the root of it all. When I sift through my repertoire of pieces and poetry, I realize that most, if not all, of the things I’ve written passionately about were from a place of negative emotion. Anger about how the world treats women. Grief from the loss of someone I loved. Hatred for myself. Thinking to myself now, I’ve always known that my favorite muse has always been some sort of pain. When I am not in bouts of depression or wallowing, I find it difficult to put pen to paper and create something that I’m proud of. And now I realize that’s because when I’m not in that state of mind, I feel in control. I relied on writing to find that sense of control in those moments and stretches of life where I felt lost and hopeless. It gave me an outlet to understand, process, and express whatever I was feeling.

There is a guilt that sits in the pit of my stomach whenever I call myself a writer. I love it. It’s my passion. But how can I say that when I haven’t produced anything since October? It’s essentially been three months since I’ve even had the desire to say anything worth sharing. Is it because I have mourned all that I needed to? Is it because I’m too busy? Is it because I don’t think I have anything worth saying that hasn’t already been said? What makes it for someone to be considered a writer? Is it just the act of doing so, or do you need recognition? Recognition from an esteemed figurehead? Recognition from friends? Family? Is not all writing derivative from previous creations? So many questions. Too many damn questions.

Writing is a creative process. But as Smith argues, it is also a process about control. Maybe because I feel a sense of stability in my life right now, I don’t feel the urge to write. But is that all? Am I only driven to do the thing I love because I need something to control? Would that even still be considered something that I love? Is it just control that I am seeking? Am I still deemed a writer if I can only bring myself to use my voice because of suffering and pain? Still, so many questions. I truly hope not.

2024. I hope that I can find solace in writing again, and not from something, to put it simply, bad. I hope that I can make writing creative again. I hope I can bring myself to find validity in the simplest of prose, that not everything has to be beautifully written. I hope I can see that anything that I write is beautiful. I hope that I can be inspired, and I hope that I can inspire others. There is something in the air this year. I am hopeful.