Until there's nothing left to say

I have nothing new to say, that's the issue

Author’s note: This is a new style I’m experimenting with as I work to grow ok so hear me out… and try to offer more ways to connect. I’ll be back with a standard newsletter on Wednesday to recap the debate, but let me know if you enjoy these style of pieces as well! In solidarity, Chanda

Self-Portrait, ca. 1941. Samuel Joseph Brown, Jr.

I sit to write and I’m always faced with the same crisis. I have nothing new to say. No original thought that has yet to be discovered. No new angle on the fresh batch of hell served to us daily in this country. No new cultural critique or fresh perspective on the most pressing issues of today that wasn’t already published in the New York Times as soon as I thought of it. Most times, I feel wholly unoriginal. 

I set out to write, feeling called to explore the world and my innermost thoughts through words. Mapping out the wandering and curious thoughts through a string of questions and arguments flows as natural as the river to me. Coursing strong, clear, and steady. I yearn to leave an impressionable impact on the page for others to feel as intensely as I do. But when it’s time to channel that passion into prose, silence consumes me. I fold doubt over and over within my head as to why the words that felt so fresh and moving in my head fall so flat once it’s on a page. I write a piece I believe is revolutionary to eventually leave it in drafts because what am I saying that hasn’t been heard before?

I contemplate my place in the world as a young Black woman, but I assure you, I’m not the first, nor the only one young Black woman to do this. Even my pensiveness feels basic. I seek inspiration in the prominent voices that came before me. I read Audre Lorde. I devour Bad Feminist for the ninth time. I quote Toni Morrison. I expand my mind through Marime Kaba. I reframe my views through bell hooks. I experiment with being quirkier then I naturally show because of Samantha Irby. All brilliant but they all have been published. I see myself in the world of writing through a narrow view. What is a Black woman political writer today when it seems like all the slots have been taken?

I never feel there is a limit to writers with conventional voices, even though there should be. I can guarantee that I’ll open the Washington Post opinion page to be presented a take made by some white man. Those voices are extremely unoriginal and yet they write, but I struggle to find that same audacity. The things I care to explore are the issues directly affecting my community, but those have been consistent. Stories like ‘I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings’ or ‘If Beale Street Could Talk’ are timeless because, unfortunately, those stories are still of this time. The mixture of pain and redemption is painstakingly captured. The nuances of existing in the context of a broken America are beautifully reflected. Exasperation over racism, culture, and politics has been in a rinse and repeat cycle for decades. Nothing yet has been resolved. There’s no new uniquely Black issue that has been raised or battle women haven’t faced before. No call for change that wasn’t screamed out before.

I have nothing new to say and that’s why I should write. 

A writer’s job is more than to create new and fresh ideas, that’s certainly an important part, but I would argue a writer’s job is to reflect the current cultural rhetoric. To document the moment in which they are living. The fact that I am writing the same criticisms of those who came before is a loud truth. So at times I don’t have an original thought to share, but it’s important, if not urgent, to recognize we are still having the same conversations. I have nothing new to say, but I will say it anyway, until there’s nothing left to say.