On solitude in writing

At Sewanee, I met my roommate, Elise, who was working on poetry while I worked on prose. Regardless of the fact we were in different cohorts, we talked expansively and easily — about mothers, Jamba Juice inflation, and feeling multiplicitous. Elise could move from scatological humor to serious discussions about womanhood in a breath, and it was no surprise that her poetry showed that same enviable range — she grasped the political in the personal, the societal in the secretive, all while laughing at each. I wanted to think and write more like her, to be able to find our connection in my mind and on a page. 

Throughout the program, I came to understand the importance of partnership in writing. After our genre workshops, Elise and I would meet on the porch of Stirling Cafe — she on the frayed hammock and I on the white, swinging bench, our legs fully extended and notebooks nestled in our laps. Some days, she’d show me that no poem, no matter how impulsive, is truly free, that even when a description of unalleviated chaos, a poem is a gathering of words, rhythms and sounds that have been considered, weighed and selected. On other days, I’d explain to her that a short story is never a single situation but rather a group of them — fluid, moving pieces that come together to show not just a sliver of life but the world in all its complexity, murkiness and irresolution. 

After the program ended, Elise and I stayed in touch, agreeing to write every day, then text each other. “1 page today!” one of us would say. Shortly thereafter, the response would come: “Yayayayy!” Through strings of y’s and a few celebratory emojis, we’d created a system that was so simple, yet so generous in output: accountability and reward, all in one little ping. 

The ping was powerful. As young writers balancing school and other commitments, we often felt unseen in our craft. A boxer emerges from the ring slicked in blood and sweat, but writers get up from their desk with no visible trace of the images they’ve just wrestled into shape on the page. It was through our partnership that Elise and I, even if we had written only a sentence or two, eked out in a rush, could depend on that ping of being seen, the recognition from which both art and friendship grow. 

While the artistic process is often represented as lonely and contentious, I’m grateful to look back on memories of evening walks on hushed, gravelly trails or hibiscus-flavored chats at Stirling Cafe and realize we both have found another way to write — a way that keeps us looking forward to the next word, line or chapter.

Naomi Hsu is a senior at Carlmont High School in Belmont. Student News appears in the weekend edition. You can email Student News at news@smdailyjournal.com.