When I was a teenager, I needed writing more than I needed oxygen.
I grew up in NYC, a fertile cradle for creative expression and fierce academic competition. And though I was good at school, standardized tests, and contorting myself to jump through narrow hoops, my soul was drawn to the untamed wilds of words, music, and art. Words, though, were my favorite medium.
As a quiet child, the written word helped me navigate my barbarous and magnificent emotional landscape.
Words helped me connect with unlikely friends: the pastor's daughter full of white-hot rage, the gentle madrigal singer with boundless grief, the brilliant Soho artist who chased highs from whatever she could buy in baggies from Central Park strangers. In school, writing helped me connect with subject matter in new and surprising ways: I wrote poems about wave-particle duality, black holes, and quantum mechanics. And, in a surprise twist, it wasn't my hoop-jumping that helped me pay for college, but writing scholarships.
While college expanded my horizons, it's also when I stopped writing for myself. And though I have written thousands (millions?) of words since then, I have lost my voice. I never meant to write on behalf of companies; doing so is an exercise in ventriloquism, not expression.
Want to follow along as I (re-)find my voice? I'll be writing at @danicahaswords
I share this because I've spent the past week wrestling with what I want to accomplish with Ship 30 for 30, and why my last essay felt so disingenuous.
What it boils down to: I was forcing myself to pontificate on topics, when the most vital thing to do with my words is play. And while I could use this Twitter account to explore language, I mainly use it to follow tech news and journey down rabbit holes -- the heady, external chaos is getting in the way of listening to my inner voice.
Sometimes, we think of new ideas as sturdy saplings. Instead, they are often tender sprouts that need space and protection to grow. And as I reflect on this, I wonder: