A week ago, after nearly a year of my blog sitting in silence, I posted a creative nonfiction piece titled “Scallops.” I’ve known for a while — a few years, actually — that I wanted to write about those times on the beach, in the bay looking for scallops. But I didn’t have the words for it. Not until this past January, at least.
I surprised myself with how sudden those words came to me, how after a few years of what I can only call a dry spell, I could write creatively again. I had missed it, missed the words coming to me, the joy of finding the right phrasing to capture an experience. Although I’ve written a lot since going to college, it’s mostly been academic papers, and newspaper articles. Works with tight expectations of research and interviews, formality and facts. I can write them decently enough, and can find some enjoyment in writing them well.
Academic papers, newspaper articles — and, well. The blog posts from my time studying abroad in Europe. I have mixed feelings about those posts, and, by extension, this blog. That’s what I’m writing about, now: the year of writing half-truths, those lists of places and things and people, and the number of pictures I thought could make up for the lack of feeling.
