After months of obsessive media coverage and chest tightening election results coupled with razor thin deadlines and extensive revisions, I was worn thin, paralyzed by political fatigue and the overall disappointment of a nation divided. When days, then weeks then one month passed, and my notebook and word documents remained blank, I started to get worried. What does a writer do when writing a grocery list seems like a chore? Vacation to a far off isle was out of the question, but, the answer, I finally found, was much closer to home.
I expected like-minded friends to get me through. They were worse off than I was. I hoped the holidays would give me a boost. They didn’t. Alcohol? Nope. Long walks. Numb. Dance music. Deaf to it. Day after day, I sat at my desk, wondering, What if I can never write another word? I spent an awful lot of time staring into space, seeking serenity and answers.
That’s when I decided to move. I packed up my books, my desktop, notebooks, every scrap of paper, every single pencil and pen and hired a mover. The mover happened to be my son, home on college break and the move happened down one flight of stairs from the corner of my bedroom to an underused room in my home, but it was a move. And it was a much needed one. A new year was beginning, a line had been crossed, and I wanted a creative fresh start.
One trip to Home Goods, two bookcases, two lamps and some rearranging later, I was settled in. And for the first time in my writing career, my desk was situated in front of a window, nestled between two tall bookcases. From the first day, as I sat, gazing at my desktop, simultaneously gazing out the window at my new view, my head cleared. I could breathe. I pressed one key and then another and started writing.
I’m still angry. Still hurt. My chest is still tight. But there is work to be done in an office that is my new outpost for letters to be written. Petitions to sign. Voices to be heard. Fights to be fought. Stories to be written of history and resistance and perserverance and diversity and hope. I may as well do it surrounded by books, in a new space with light, a fresh perspective and a great new view.
Knowing how to use words is powerful. Knowing how to reach people is powerful. That’s something I think about whenever I sit down to write, now more than ever. Some days there’s so much bad happening in the world that it’s hard to focus. But there’s still work to do, I think, still stories to write and maybe lives to change. Despite what’s going on around us — or maybe because of what’s going on around us — I have to believe my words make a difference, however small, for the readers who need them. Traci Chee, author of The Reader