On anguish, writing, and community
Dear friends,
The obvious background for this is the recent election. The results came in so fast, when we had all been bracing for a long stretch of not-knowing. I had been out all day working the polls—from 5am until 10:30pm—and when I came home, exhausted, the news already looked so bad. I collapsed in angry tears, fell asleep, and awoke to news that I wasn't ready to handle.
A friend wrote about the effects that people—especially women—are feeling in their bodies after the election. It resonates. After the election I had a headache for days, my period was late, my heart wouldn't stop pounding. I have felt like I'm reliving a compressed version of 2016-2020, destabilized, heartbroken, angry, tired. We know, this time, what awaits us. I know I need to find the ways that I can make a difference and focus energy there, and I know this means I'll have to let other things go. But it's hard when everything feels urgent.
I haven't been writing much (here or elsewhere), instead taking solace in polishing the words of others, shepherding grant proposals, helping good ideas get off the ground. When I finally turned back to my own writing, editing felt excruciating (my latest manuscript, Unexpected Flourishing, is under contract with punctum books and I recently got reader reports back). Writing makes me feel vulnerable, editing my own work even more so, and I do not feel ready for that vulnerability yet.
One thing that is helping me start to break down the resistance I have been feeling is—not surprisingly—connecting with people. I've been hosting a monthly virtual coffee hour for contributors to “On Gathering,” the special issue of Journal of Electronic Publishing that will be coming out in early 2025. We use these times to talk about the articles people have written, but also to talk about the strictures of scholarly publishing, the emotions that are part of writing and editing, and the ways we give and receive feedback. Reflecting on one such conversation helped me reframe some difficult feedback, which helped me start writing again.
So I guess that's where I'm at. Back to the basic lessons of community and connection, of doing one thing at a time. As we head into a week that—for all its colonial undertones—prompts many of us to focus on gratitude and care, my hope we can all find ways to let the tough exterior crack just enough to let some sunlight in. I'm grateful to everyone who has been in the Inkcap orbit—thank you all for the ways you work towards better tomorrows.
With warmth and care,
Katina
