I never know the things I write before I write them, but it’d be a lie to say that I don’t plan for them. I am a planner, through and through.
Blog posts start in dreams and conversations, and I add sentences to them day by day, nap by nap, until the time comes to write them and the words fly from my fingertips, held back only by the strain in my sinews. I plan for the things I write, but I don’t know them till they are finished.
That’s when I finally read them. That’s when I finally pull them into my arms and smell the newbaby scent of them. That’s when I watch them reach out to you, hugging you by the ankles, staining your trousers and yoga pants, drooling their typos all over the floor.
And there are so many typos.
This year, I began a project to turn most of Rarasaur blog into a book, some of the posts to appear in the book in my own handwriting. I was prepared for the effort of collecting the posts, the difficulty of tweaking them to make sense in a book, and even the pain of handwriting– but I was not prepared for the string of errors that ran wildly through every paragraph.
My words are half-dressed little children covered in cake, mud, glitter and Cheeto dust. They are often repetitive and constantly asking why. They are stained and sugar-soaked and always begging for your stories. They are loved. They are love.
And yet– and so– and still– at the end of this month, they will have a bit of a time out. They will stop living here. They will be deleted.
I’ve been stuck on how to say that. I’ve been planning and planning but I just didn’t know how the words would come out. How I could explain it to you.
Everyone I’ve asked says that the words are mine, and I can do with them what I want, but when I think of the stories I’ve built here, I don’t see them standing alone. I see them hugging themselves tightly to you. I see them, wide-eyed, reading your comments and growing from the grace of them.
And yet– and so– and still–
it needs to happen.
I’ll be putting it into a book and the book will be for sale, but this isn’t about monetization. I will be deleting them, not simply moving them to private, but this isn’t about making a grand gesture. This is a slow, careful, planned catharsis.
This is saving a wild vine by letting it die, and replanting just a branch of it.
I know it will make a mess of things on the internet, but I want to write without two million words chasing me. I hope that means I will keep writing after– that a fresh Rarasaur blog will give me the space to shake my giant dinosaur tail. I hope it will mean that this is not my last NanoPoblano, but I don’t know.
I don’t know anything, least of all the face of the things I am making. All I can do is hope that whatever comes from love continues to be in love, and find itself in love.
And though I know it doesn’t matter, legally or logically, my heart sincerely hopes that you understand, and that you’ll be here to root for the little root that is left standing once all these tangles and vines are chopped away.
I don’t know what’s coming. I know so little nowadays, but I know this:
Here, in this space, the wind will always sing our song. You are loved, you are loved, you are loved. The raindrops will land with thuds and the clouds will float like tutus. Here, in this space, the soil will always remember the stories you shared, the likes you left, the comments you planted, the unicorns we hid everywhere we could. The sticky-faced, candy-hyped words of the past will frolic in a book. And there will be something new here, growing.
Something that I hope we can get to know together.