When I was a child, I almost applied to the local arts junior high school for their creative writing track. More than anything else, I wanted to grow up and write novels, much like the beloved volumes I had accumulated all over my childhood home.
I did not end up submitting the application. Thinking back on it now, I can’t remember a logistical reason for that. Rather, what I remember is the overwhelming conviction that I could never write something promising enough to compete with all the other kids in the county to get into the school, coupled with a deep-seated belief that my parents’ expectations of me were to follow in their footsteps and become a doctor. Who was I to presume writing could possibly be anything more than an idle pastime?
The irony that I grew up to not only reject the idea of medical school but to train as an arts professional does not escape me. But what was it that made me abandon writing in favor of music?
There is something about writing that requires not only confidence, but audacity. Some time ago I read Jessica Archuleta’s article (a powerful one if you haven’t read it), “Having the Audacity to Write,” which included this rhetorical question: “How dare you have the audacity to write and expect other people to read you and take your words seriously?”
Deciding to become a writer implies, for women of color, an audacity we are not typically afforded in daily life. Who are we to think we are important enough that others want to read our thoughts, as though they are more profound than those of our mothers or grandmothers? How can we have the audacity to choose a profession that may never provide a stable income, or even to choose a pastime that results in no consumable meals and takes time away from tending to our homes and families?
The truth is that I have no hard evidence to indicate my writing or my thoughts are worth others’ time. But who is it that decided people like Edgar Allan Poe, or Ernest Hemingway, or even William Shakespeare were worth reading? The confidence of white men to declare their own the pinnacle of achievement in every arena is the epitome of audacity.
And so in my own way, I have come to realize that the audacity to write, to consider myself and my words worthwhile of others’ time, is a small way of tipping the scales to restore balance for those of us whose voices have been silenced—through violence of all kinds, through censure, or through soul-crushing socialization based in patriarchal, white supremacist attitudes established before our mothers’ or grandmothers’ birth. It is an act of solidarity, for those who have felt alone—at work, at home, in school, in the arts—to provide the thoughts and feelings they, too, may have but cannot share. And it is an act of love for the young woman who longed, all those years ago, to give some small piece of herself to the world between the covers of a book.
This blog is my gift: to myself and to you, dear reader. May we find the audacity to write, to speak, to riff, to rage, to celebrate, to play, to dream—together.
Riffs on the Reg 