12 Months of Writing Chaos (You’re Welcome)

 

12 Months of Writing Chaos (You’re Welcome)

On November third, Wander and Weave quietly turned one year old. One full trip around the sun since I finally whispered to myself, “You know what? Just release the drafts.” And I did. Shaking, doubting, praying, but I did it anyway.

First and foremost, glory to the Almighty for the gift of reading, learning, and writing. For the strength He planted in me to fight fear, dismantle perfectionism, and step into my truth without apology. And to every single reader who has taken a moment, between trains, between chores, between heartbreaks and healing, to sit with my words: thank you. You have no idea what that means to me.

Over this past year, something strange has happened. As I deepen my writing practice, I’ve started reading differently too. I don’t just read for story anymore. I read for craft. Structure. Rhythm. For the quiet things a book doesn’t say but somehow still shouts.

And the more I read, the more I notice the growing gap between modern writing and older works. Recently, I picked up A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess; a “contemporary classic,” whatever that even means. When exactly does a book cross over into “classic” territory? At midnight? After surviving 10 TikTok cycles? I genuinely don’t know.

But reading Burgess reminded me of something I hadn’t felt in a while: delicious confusion.

Not the bad kind, the good kind. The kind that makes you lean in. The kind that whispers, Stay with me. You’ll get there.

The first chapters? I was lost. Confused. Floating in linguistic outer space. And then suddenly…I wasn’t. Suddenly it clicked, and that moment felt like a reward. Burgess didn’t coddle me. He trusted me. That, right there, is what I miss.

It made me wonder: Are we losing formula in modern storytelling?

Because lately, a lot of contemporary novels feel like they were cooked in the same pot. Same seasoning. Same heat. Same three-ingredient TikTok-friendly plot arc.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying every book needs to be a philosophical labyrinth that leaves you Googling explanations at 2 a.m. I read for joy. For escape. For that sweet, indulgent feeling of stepping into someone else’s mind. I love entering a story so deeply that when I look up from the page, Japan feels foreign.

But still… I miss mystery. The patience. The willingness older writers had to not explain everything. The trust that their readers were intelligent enough to figure things out, or not. Not every symbol needs decoding. Not every conflict needs a clean bow.

And recently, something I told my sister stuck with me:

I don’t want to write to be extraordinary.

I’m not chasing greatness. And honestly? I don’t even mind if someone calls me mediocre.

Why?

Because how often do we see Black people being celebrated for the kind of mediocrity that gets praised elsewhere?

Exactly?

Black people are taught, loudly, subtly, constantly, that we must work twice as hard to be considered half as good. And even when we reach excellence, someone always shifts the goalpost to make room for another subpar demographic that “just has potential.”

So no. I don’t want to write to impress.

I want to write with freedom.

Call me mediocre. Call me confusing. Call me pretentious. Call me controversial.

If it means I get to write the way I want, really write, then maybe, just maybe, I’ll one day achieve the confidence of a mediocre man. And honestly? I would cherish that.

But I think part of why writing today feels afraid; afraid to be bold, afraid to be messy, is because creativity now lives under the long shadow of social media.

Art has always existed within a cultural context, but today that context is controlled by the algorithm. You can have talent, but you also need visibility. Aesthetic feeds. Brandability. You need to be “interesting enough” to trend but not “too different” that people get uncomfortable.

Everything is packaged. Boxed. Hashtagged.

We don’t celebrate difference, we commodify it.

Stories are flattened into content.

Messiness becomes “unmarketable.”

Honesty becomes “niche.”

And creators are pressured to produce work that is safe, relatable, and virally digestible.

It’s a pandemic.

But still…I want to try.

As a writer, as a reader, as a woman navigating ambition, faith, and a complicated relationship with her own creativity. I want to resist the pressure to be polished. I want to honor the stories that confuse me before they move me. I want to read and write like the algorithm doesn’t exist, even though I know it does.

Because, truthfully?

I don’t want to create work that fits nicely into a box.

I want to create work that breaks the box, whether it’s good or bad, brilliant or mediocre, profound or “girl what are you even saying?”

Who wants to be stifled anyway?

So here’s to one year of Wander and Weave.

To messy drafts, quiet bravery, and stories that don’t hold your hand.

To readers who stay, even when they’re confused.

To the freedom to write without permission.

And most importantly,

here’s to another year of losing the recipe on purpose.