Last year, I did not publish much – I wrote a lot – by design, largely because I gave myself a period without the constraints of self-imposed deadlines or goals. There was introspection, there was extrospection, and nothing measurable in terms of what I accomplished.
It involved me slamming myself intellectually and emotionally against the walls of my own narrative and the narratives that defined me, a messy internal process where I questioned everything I could about myself.
I’d decided to do this because I found myself writing in so many voices that I could not recognize myself. Gigabytes of text were written and deleted during this period of growth in range and depth which I believed were necessary to push myself just a bit further. Here and there, I broke through borders of myself, oozing into new territory, and embracing the wild experiment of something that we all seem to forget in the narratives imposed on us and we impose on ourselves.
The wild experiment of truly being myself. Whoever that is.