Writing, again

A few weeks ago I was having drinks with a friend, and we were discussing writing. We laughed about the foibles of writing about personal experience, such as the fine line between the topics you should have a conversation about with a friend or a lover and something that you should write about publicly. I’ve often found myself weighing out both sides of that equation. Although we found amusement in the idea it nonetheless rings incredibly true for me, and thus makes writing honestly a sometimes terrifying experience, especially as many of these topics I want to write about honestly are so often enmeshed in trauma or sadness. I eventually mentioned this blog and some of the other places I’ve written online, which inevitably led to answering why I don’t often write much now. While that answer is usually vague even to me it led me to thinking, as it always does, about writing here again, and about what I might have to say if I did.

The deep frustration of writing about a marginalized experience for an audience who for the most part did not have that experience is that it often feels your only experience of things, even ideas, is in the context of being whatever it is you are. Among the things I’d never hoped for: I am one of the top seach engine links when people search for “lady gaga transgender.” While I still agree with the sentiments of that post I wrote over a year ago, it was also a quick piece of not great writing that misses some of the more nuanced criticism and analysis I could have provided, and it gives enough awkardly conveyed ideas for those who want to find a reason to dismiss it something to hang their opinion on. I’ve thought a number of times of writing a follow-up piece to attempt that nuance, but I think for now at least I’ve written enough about Lady Gaga.

Although the Gagafication of my writing identity was an annoying burden I was glad to turn my back on, there have been other reasons I’ve not been writing. For one, it’s hard. I am by no means prolific, and the words I do get out are extremely difficult. Not just for the emotional vulnerability it requires, but the time and patience for editing or spelling even. I spent most of the past year staring at blank pages and feeling exhausted. People asked me to write pieces for them but nothing would come out. I recently came across an abandoned piece about Trans Day of Remembrance I’d begun last November, and there was only one word scrawled on the page, in pencil: SAD. I realized that I’d mostly run out of things to say to critique pop culture for its attitudes and portrayals of trans women (though there are still really amazing writers doing a great job of that, and I’m very glad they are). I’m mean, sure, I’m glad people still link me in discussions about Dan Savage, but I don’t know how much more I have to add to those discussions.

This brings us back then, I suppose, to treading that fine line between what’s best kept to oneself – personal or private – and what are the important things to say out loud. I think for the most part lately I’ve actually been having those conversations with friends and with lovers, so perhaps there’s space now for the kind of writing I want to do. I’ve always been a proponent of trans women sharing our personal narratives, to both counteract the noise which dominant culture presents about us and to give us reference points in the lives of those like us, which is so important and so often lacking.

So this is me, back, trying to figure out what I have to write. It’ll still be about being trans (and occasionally I suppose about glam rock), but I’m not sure what that looks like. Still, I’m curious to find out.

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