PLACES and SPACES: on writing
or, the creation of accidental altars
Listen to fully absorb—
A bed is solace, the kitchen disastrous, and my desk with all its flying papers calls me names but does not call my name. This thing I am obsessed with, the art of writing, the act of spewing what I am thinking onto pages to be read, strings of words to be analyzed—this is my way of life.
I can’t say I chose it enthusiastically, because, frankly, most days I do not enjoy it. I am only in love with my words when they reach the precipice of being something great. Everything before that moment is torturous in its on way. I am haunted by the ways I could not twist words to depict exactly what I meant, and I am inundated by symbols begging to be deciphered. I see life in stories and I am only, really, alive when I read back what I have written and think yes, this is for the people. And so, when I give away my work, the very thing I lose sleep over, when it is no longer just mine, solely then am I enamoured by being a writer.
I have grown accustomed to displacing myself
in the obscure dynamic between reader and writer, seer and projector, feeler and feeling. And still I must admit, my spaces are a chance to bring me back to who I am. A space—a location, be it abstract or literal. A space is where I can put up my altars, tell myself I’ve made something of the day, finally turning it into a place. A place—where something happened, layers and layers of meaning embedded into physicality. A desk is no longer a workspace—it is my altar, where I come to relinquish control over stories bred into me. The place that pushes and pulls me at its own accord. A bed becomes not just for sleep, but a haven, a funeral home, a theatre, a dinner table. A kitchen is no longer a space to cook food but a place with traces of who we were when we were all gathered together that one hot summer night, when the garlic was sizzling and language seemed to be no problem at all: we understood one another with more ease than words even allow. This is what writing is to me; the opportunity to turn spaces into places with stories I tell myself, and you, to keep us in good company as time and memory intertwine.
This personal essay (love letter!), appears in The Weaver’s Accidental Altars issue. The contributors of this issue have done a phenomenal job—their writing is beyond what I could have hoped for. An exploration of the altars we create and leave behind can be devoured soon, if you so wish. The Weaver is a new print literary magazine that operates on a monthly subscription and pays its contributors a royalty. You will be directly supporting writers by reading the magazine… which you want to do, because it is *chef’s kiss*. Speaking of the contributors… our inaugural issue has pieces written by
, , , , and Ashley Stinson. I hope you’ll carve out a space to read their words—and by doing so, turn a space into a place.
I’m so excited and so honoured to be part of the debut issue - your words are magic, Kim, and I can’t wait to hold this baby in my hands and place it on my altar 🖤