Hello Internet,
It has been a while. I have a vague idea of what I am doing with
this thing this time, though vague is doing some heavy lifting. 2024 was an interesting year for my writing, and
2025 is looking to be just as interesting.
One of the things I’ve just realized about my non-fiction writing—and I
mean just realized, as in this moment of typing—is that I treat my non-fiction
writing as fundamentally different from my fiction writing, and I think I
understand why.
See, I always treat my
non-fiction writing as stream-of-consciousness because that seems more
authentic to me. It is meant to be
non-fiction, and what is more real and non-fictious than writing whatever it is
that I feel in that very specific moment, regardless of the quality of that
writing or the coherency of that thought.
Fiction, for me at least,
is fundamentally different. Fiction is a
time capsule. I do not write as an escape
but instead use fiction and fantasy to capture specific ideas and thoughts and
feelings and try to explore and analyze them.
They are moments or ideas caught in amber, and that makes them not just
easier to plan, execute, and revise, but it also makes them more real the more
I work on them.
With nonfiction writing,
however, I feel like the process of plotting and revising anything I write not
only makes it less honest but also makes it fiction. The process of outlining a piece and later
revising it, even if that revision or editing is for clarification, makes it no
longer my true opinion or feelings in that moment. Instead, it is a piece of writing caught in
amber. My opinions, thoughts, and
feelings—my entire being, really—are in a constant state of flux. They are always growing, changing, and
evolving moment from moment. How I felt when
writing one Sunday morning might change based upon any number of inputs or
outputs when I return to it that Sunday night.
This makes it difficult to
write nonfiction for me because I find myself viewing it as a fiction story. In these moments, I feel both like I am
losing something sincere but also that I am turning myself into a character
within the story. This, from a creative
writing perspective, is fascinating but also feels like I am lying. This is not the actual Jacob you’re reading
but a carefully curated version of me less reflective of the true me but of the
parts of me I want to reveal to you.
Remember when I said that I
do not use fiction or fantasy stories to escape but instead to capture specific
ideas and examine them more closely? That is because I believe fiction/fantasy
are great magnifiers and mirrors. That
is to say, I think exploring ideas within the safe, controlled environment of a
story are great because through them you can find a deeper, more honest truth
about an idea or a fact in fiction than you sometimes can in nonfiction. Which leads me to my problem.
If I am carefully curating
your image of me, whether intentionally or unintentionally, I am thus not
revealing a deeper truth. Instead, it
feels like obfuscation. Lying. And if you ask the people who know me well
if I am a liar, they would most
earnestly say, “Not unless he’s making a joke.” Because I take my name
seriously, and I am always willing to participate in a little careful
dishonesty for the sake of a good-nature guffaw.
All of that said, I am
going to endeavor to change that thinking.
In the same way that the fabrication of elaborate lies in fiction can
sometimes reveal greater truths, perhaps I can convince myself that the fabrication
of smaller lies through the process of journaling, blogging, and nonfiction
writing can also reveal greater truths in turn.
At least, that is my hope, and as I am turning thirty-six this year, I
find that may also be my current interest.
What I mean to say is this:
for NaNoWriMo this year, I wrote my own take on a Mr. Morale, the album
I used for my students for the first semester of the school year. Mr. Morale is often called a therapy
album. I’VE called it a therapy
album. It is dark, introspective, and
unflinchingly honest and raw. My version
of this was to go into my own inner world and to dismantle my world tree where
all of my stories sprouted. I faced past
hurts, past failures, and ended the month by deleting everything: all of my
lists, all of my stories, and everything of myself that came before. In doing so, I unmade me and was left only
with the most exposed, vulnerable parts of myself.
Now that I look back, December
was spent in mourning. As previously stated, I was exposed, raw, and completely
without my safety net of coping mechanisms which I had built over the past some
thirty-five years for the first time in, well, thirty-five years. I started numerous projects, restarting so many
things, resurrected and killed old projects over and over again only to land
somewhere else by the end of the month.
January, fittingly, is
named for Janus, the God of Doors, and it became just that for me. In the month since the great purging of my
old stories, I’ve come to realize that the process was not what I wanted in the
sense that there was no immediate rebirth after a great flood, but it did allow
me something I had been desperately needing: an image of myself, at that
moment, that while not perfect or even accurate was more honest than anything
that came before it.
All of this is a
long-winded way to say that my journey of self-reflection made this sort of
writing I am doing now not only easier for me but also more interesting, and I
think that I will be pursuing it more often as a result. The skill is still nascent, and I do feel
like I am still taking my first toddling baby steps with each new piece sentence
that I structure, but it is exciting for me.
I am exciting for writing for the first time in at least a year, if not
more.
It has been a while, but I
have a vague idea of what it is that I am doing here now and in the future, and
that feels inadequate, but it feels good all the same.
Sincerely,
RWS
