on writing.

i've been having really vivid dreams lately. this afternoon, i was suspended in this space where i wasn't entirely sure whether i was awake or not, but it felt real, and it could've been real, i think, and i'm still not entirely sure if i was awake and thinking those things or sleeping and dreaming those things. i've been sleeping a lot - rather, lying around a lot, which bella loves. it took over 24 hours for me to realize that i was actually sick, as opposed to being just overtired, and i guess that's a sign that i need to get more sleep regardless.

anyway, dreams. i keep dreaming about my personal statement. it's intense. and while i've written a couple variations, most of the writing has been imagined. and the words have taken me to unexpected places, which means that i don't really love anything i've written, in my head or otherwise, because what i was expecting was something clean and smooth, with an overarching abstract theme. you know, me stroking the egos of legal academics and their various institutions.

turns out, the words have been of me, rather than about me, and i'm not sure what to do about my vulnerability on the page. and i haven't been writing as much as i should because i'm a little bit scared of where it's going to take me.

a friend of mine has been writing on why she writes, and this is part of what she came up with: "During my journey in Jordan, I realized why we all wrote: we were on a path to master our own narrative, our own story, in our own language. We were activists and embraced the written word as our weapon, each word a vehicle of liberation."

when i read that for the first time, i thought, exactly. that's exactly it. and as i look at all the words i've written, i'm trying to piece together even a jalopy of liberation, but even that can't be mustered up. and as crazy as it is, there's a part of me that knows how lucky i am that i can have this space to define myself on my own terms, that i am being forced to define myself, but i've been wondering how to do that when so much of my life has been based on other-definition. and i wonder if words will allow me to go everywhere i want to go, and i wonder if readers will allow themselves to go with me. but lately, i've just been wondering if i know where i want to go.

and then, there's the nagging problem that all i've been able to come up with are fragments anyway, and if the words are going to insist we do it this way, then i'm going to insist that it's whole and true. and it's just not, and i'm not sure how to put it all together. what does it look like, what does it feel like, this mastering of one's own narrative?

and i wonder if a lifetime of words will get me there.