A few days ago, I posted my first excerpt from the project I’ve tucked away for ten years. I’ve quickly realized how I’ve unnecessarily paralyzed myself, and I wish I’d confronted these pages a long time ago, so I could have moved on. I told my husband how simply publishing this older piece of writing on my blog and letting it breathe — and interacting with it with footnotes — was so freeing. I let the words out of their cage, and just like that, I let them go.
For ten years, I’ve reshaped the story in my head into something so precious, so grand. It’s a dangerous thing for a writer-who-isn’t-writing to do.
Right now, I’m less interested in exploring the ideas in these pages and more intrigued by the idea of having a conversation with myself — my past self — in public, whether through footnotes, or side-by-side-commentary, or something else.