Some days writing feels like running my fingers over my own outline, trying to remember where the edges begin and end. I called my last draft “Tracing Myself Line by Line Through Writing,” half as a joke, half because it felt true. There’s this feeling when I’m writing—a sort of gentle inventory—like I’m checking in with all my pieces. Black and queer and soft in the middle, but sometimes that softness feels hard to show.
Yesterday, I was just staring at the ceiling, waiting for words, and out of nowhere I wrote, “my laughter folds itself small, just in case.” I didn’t plan it. It just landed, and I sat there, blinking at the screen, not sure if I wanted to laugh or close the laptop and walk away. Maybe both. I think my body knew that line before my mind did. Sometimes the writing comes from that place—somewhere beneath language, where the world’s noise hasn’t reached.
There’s something honest about surprising myself on the page, even if it’s a little awkward. I never really know what will show up once I start. Maybe that’s the queerest part of my process—the way it refuses to fit neatly, the way it lets the soft parts speak up, even if only for a second. My drafts are always a little messy, a little tender, like me.
I guess I’m learning to let the writing be just as strange and honest as I am. I’m not sure if I’m tracing myself or just finding new lines, but either way, it feels good to see myself there, even if it’s just in the margin.