Day X

#likeforTBH

A week ago, I thought I would publish a blog post daily while attending this writers’ residency. I wanted to mimic my study abroad experience — producing output without a care for how long or good it was, and surprising myself with the results. Now my dashboard is constipated with unfinished, untitled drafts with “Day X” bylines. Without the looming motivators of completion grades or topical comments from my 80-year-old professor (asking me what velos are, or if people still read Playboy, for example), I guess I’m not much of a blogger.

Here in the woods of North Carolina, there’s not as much to write about, anyway. I’m the youngest of 6 residents who will cohabitate for the remainder of October. I feel like the most aimless, too. It seems at least half of the writers have a specific project they are here to work on, or at least a clear direction. Sitting at the dining room table with two poets, one of whom is the cook/host/permanent resident, my feelings were seen.

Yeah, I don’t know. It’s hard as a poet or an essayist or any other creative non-fiction writer to just make yourself write. Like, go live. That’s where it comes from. Forcing a poem sounds like my personal hell.

But, as I have mentioned, I don’t know what I am. I would like to try and write editorial pieces on tech, media, and politics, but every time I try to get myself to, I realize how little I know and how oversaturated the market is. Scrolling through Substack notes, I feel my soul leave my body and enter the endless feed of algorithmic detritus: Pinterest photo carousels titled “CURRENT OBSESSION 🌿🧺🍵”, low-res typewriter font quotes fit for Facebook, faux sincere engagement farming ploys mirroring early Instagram #likeforTBH, engagement farming disguising itself as meta commentary on said engagement farming, LinkedIn grindset platform optimization tactics, old Reddit memes, Youtube Vlogger digital-collage thumbnails, lukewarm TikTok hot-takes, overcooked Twitter beef.

All things I have done or have considered doing. I don’t know where internet trends go to die. Everywhere feels like a graveyard. We live there now. & I’m watching the rotting carcasses of reanimated simulara clear my plot and carve my name into stone. I’d tuck myself into the ground now, if I ever thought they’d let me rest.