This morning I thumbed through a six-year-old notebook and came across a bit of nostalgia for the golden age of blogging: I felt so much more connected to my sense of the world back in the days when I would jot down whatever came to mind on my little station in the ether, oblivious to the lunatic currency of social media. I did not think about writing as any kind of career or persona; it was simply a way of figuring out the world.
I’d like to find my way back to that sense of writing, and I’m glad I’ve committed to posting something each night for one year. But Christ, I picked a hell of a year for this exercise. My interest in triangulating art, faith, and the day’s events feels increasingly toothless, maybe even oblivious. There’s so much to figure out in 2020.
