This past year I somehow convinced myself that I was only making art and not writing because then I wouldn't have to confront how I really felt. Keep it all just under the surface. I could make work and express myself without committing to words. Less painful that way.
Except when I look back at my journal I see plenty of writing there. I've been writing, I just haven't given the activity my full attention. What does that mean when you think you aren't doing something but you are? It can be a scary thought, not knowing that you are doing something, something subconscious, like a habit. But then there is breathing and eating and sleeping, and we can't and don't always give those our full attention either.
I didn't send much work out, but a few things got published this past year, if you are interested in reading. (They are short.) I always update my web page of written work, but here are the recents that can be accessed online, 2020-2021. (There were others that were print only).
Nanoism: #926; August 25, 2021; "Every time we meet"
Litro Magazine: March 13, 2021; Central Park essay "From Somewhere"
Berkeleyside.com: February 8, 2021; "Berkeley Iceland," "Lothlorien Co-op," and "Pegasus Books"
100 Word Story: November 26, Thanksgiving, 2020; "Building the Butternut"
Eunoia Review: July 27, 2020; "Shelter"
Matter Press Journal of Compressed Creative Arts: May 4, 2020; "The Hidden Owl"
Nanoism: #870; March 11, 2020; "She could either have"
It is curious to think that there are things we naturally do, that are part of us always, even when we are not looking.
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