Look, all I know is that after a month of not writing and being very sad and catastrophically disappointed and also uncharacteristically pissed off and more busy than I planned or wanted but still purposefully unproductive in new ways and maybe peaceful in a sustainable way and also leaning into my mischievousness in a fashion that makes me feel young and alive for the first time—after all that—I just came into my office at 9:27 PM on a weeknight, post-TikTok-binging and pre-pizza-delivery, because I wanted to write. Can you believe the odds of this happening? Like, between two states of comatose, my desire to write was so strong that it made itself known?
I’m not sure when I last felt this true want. Like an “oo, what fun” want.
Not to say that I don’t like to write. Contrary to what other writers will tell you, it’s actually the best (other writers, don’t @ me. I will speak my truth).
But to be thrilled by the idea of writing? To the core? It’s been a minute.
I remember late evenings after long post office shifts, crafting vulnerable offerings for Tumblr.
And walking to university classes on spring days sketching a few words into the notebook that fit in the palm of my hand while dodging cracks in the sidewalk.
I felt the thrill then—oh shit. The pizza is here.
Okay, I’m back. So this proves my theory that rest—in any and all forms—feeds the creative. Plot friggin’ twist. I mean, yes, duh, boring, whatever, but also CALL THE AUTHORITIES.
Talk soon,
Natahna
The Recommends: Find a tree and lay beneath it, possibly while listening to Codependent by Sophie Holohan.