The Graveyard

An Artist Statement

Claiming the title of a writer and owning up to this title, has been one of the hardest things I have done. Just as some look at careers such as becoming a president or a famous superstar as out of reach and highly unlikely, this is the same way I viewed the possibilities of being an actual published, well-known writer. The writers I see making it, surviving, and receiving recognition rarely look like me, talk like me, and definitely do not write the way I do. If I find ones that do, they have given up all other career paths to do it. They are solely writers and wake up every morning to push for their writing themselves. My schedule does not allow for me to do the same, to commit all of my time for writing the art brewing, bubbling, and boiling over in my mind.

Separating my personal journal from my writing journal was a major step for me. Simply because of the way my mind works, I felt the need to keep all my writing in one place or lose the motivation to write altogether. Allowing myself to have one place to go to when I was ready to create art rather than simply journal, in itself, provided me with a desire to write more.

Listening to both myself and other writers fuels the originality in my fingertips. Mini-phrases others say or small actions they do create entire pieces in my head. This interaction continues to make me more interested in how dynamic we are as individuals and how all of our voices, my voice specifically, is a necessity to the world’s ears.

The places where writers share writing that I have been exposed to have always been competitive. This not only took a toll on my self-esteem as an artist, but started to strip my writing of its voice, which I’ve learned has a beautiful blend of both vulnerability and strength.

There seems to be a societal belief that for artist, we are just suppose to wait around for that big moment: when the universe decides we’re ready. And of course, the universe completely ignores that we have bills, lives, and not always the option, time, or financial resources to follow both career plans A and B, a strategy that has been banged into our brains from birth.

Constantly pondering the possibilities of my hope running dry and feeling that my writing will be a stage in life I’ll intimately look back on as I fight to find a stable living, having this collection of pieces of my work makes me feel good. It makes me feel like I’ve done something. I put some time into myself and formed something beautiful, created some pieces of me that I am proud of. At least I can tell my writing that I tried, I spoke up, and left it up to the universe to decide to listen.

Of course, I still have my doubting days. I wonder when will the universe actually choose me as a writer. I wonder will I be a part of the black barbies who make it halfway out the hood, as I say in one of my poems. Will I struggle through college, see all the possibilities of who I could be, and have it ripped from my palms like it was never there? I am not sure. I still don’t know. All I can say is I’ve strangled together a bit more energy and hope to call myself a writer a little while longer.