Sophia Benz
At times I felt that the universe fabricated from the power of imagination had stronger and more lasting contours than the blurred realm of the flesh-and-blood creatures around me.
― ISABEL ALLENDE, EVA LUNA
I suppose that as I write this, I do not know what to feel. I oscillate between burnout and excitement. For 12th Street journal, and for writers, students, and people everywhere, this has been a year marked with a new kind of uncertainty. We have Subsisted and Socially Distanced, and we have also started to take tentative steps back out into the world, all while having been irrevocably changed. 12th Street has evolved, too. We still meet online, which, unfortunately, does not allow us to work face-to-face with one another in a collaborative space all our own. However, this medium has allowed staff members to call in from Georgia, California, Colorado, France, and even a Buddhist monastery in upstate New York. It can be bittersweet. Like one of those maddening improv shows where suddenly, an audience member is pushed onto the stage, we are trying our hand at ad-libbing—and not always getting it right. But, one thing is constant in the ever-changing-ness of it all: our love and commitment to creating and sharing art.
I like to think of myself as a writer, a storyteller, a 21st-century Eva Luna, if you will (although instead of documenting the Chilean revolution like the fictional protagonist and writer, I simply try to insert anecdotes about my dog into everything that I write). Even before I knew how to tell written stories, I was, like our ancestors, a proponent of orality. And oh boy, did I talk. I made up entire plot lines in my little voice in my little backyard. I created worlds out of words, creatures and characters made up of myth. I’m sure we all did. Eventually, writing and reading became something of a necessity for me. Putting that ballpoint pen to paper, although a tired cliche, is a way to make sense of the world, of myself, of the thoughts tangled and tattered in my brain.
However, for the latter half of 2021 and beyond, I felt uninspired and, quite frankly, exhausted at the thought of staring at a barren page (or screen) and having to fill said page with a combination of words that must spring forth, fully formed, from my imagination. The idea of creating art, of telling stories, was no longer precious. It just felt daunting. Maybe it had something to do with the strain of a pandemic that has yet to cease.
When I engage with classmates, staff at 12th Street, friends, and strangers alike, this seems like a ubiquitous feeling right now: exhaustion. We have endured the vaccines (and then the boosters), watched the pixels shaped like our loved ones zoom on and off our screens, and wondered too many times to count, “Is it over? How about now? How about next week/month/year?”
And now, even as we emerge from hibernation, the color and static from the outside world can be overstimulating, the number of people pressed against us in trains and buses can be anxiety-inducing, and the navigating of what is safe and what is necessary can feel like a far-too-literal game of Operation. It’s tiresome to adjust and then readjust and then readjust again. We are burnt out. Our amygdalas need a break from this competition of fight, flight, or freeze.
I still feel the fatigue of grief, of uncertainty, of too much Netflix, and then too much socialization “in-person.” It’s easy to fall into an all-or-nothing way of thinking: “We’re in a pandemic, or we’re not,” “We’re safe, or we’re not,” “We’re right or wrong,” “We grow or decay,” with no room for anything in-between. But perhaps, we need to accept that we are complex characters living out nuanced stories. We don’t like ambiguity, but that’s life, always.
“Occasionally I thought I glimpsed the truth, but soon found myself once again lost in a forest of ambiguities.“
—Eva Luna
Instead of giving up on writing, on art forms altogether, I have been trying to find new ways to tell stories. Novel to me, at least. And when I simply cannot find the motivation or inspiration in my own stories, I look to the storytellers all around me. I always find them at 12th Street—in the forms of author, artist, and editor. That is what is unique about 12th Street and what we as a collective publish: we create and help to tell stories in any and every form they may come in—screenplays made for actors and sound stages, poetry made to be spoken aloud, paintings made for both the largest of canvases and the tiniest of phone screens, fiction that brings you into an alternate world, and nonfiction that teaches you a little bit more about this one. During my time at 12th Street, I have learned that there are infinite ways to tell the stories we want to tell—we just need to experiment and find our medium.
Some incredible examples of inventive, creative, and analytical pieces of art that we have published this past year include Michelle Hromin’s “Potholes”, a poem that encapsulates the monotony of everyday life amid a pandemic; Stella Luna’s “Holistic Pharmacy”, a visual project that imagines what preventative healthcare could look like in the form of an accessible food pharmacy; Natalia Berry’s “Inside Voices”, which confronts the intersections between race, gender, and sexuality; and Stevie Lazarus’ “Every Spotlight Has A Shadow”, which dissects how writers can fail us when they tell stories that are not theirs to tell. If you have not already—or if you want to again—witness how these artists share their thoughts in a way that is at once universal and uniquely them. They never fail to inspire.
I hope you, dear reader, do not abandon storytelling. It is, after all, possibly the most human phenomenon we have. I hope you can continue to evolve your craft, whatever that may be, so that it can provide you with nuance, with sweet ambiguity, and continued fulfillment. If you stumble, I encourage you to look to the storytellers around you to find a new way to tell your story. And 12th Street, true to nature, will welcome and showcase every version we can imagine.
“Words are free, she used to say, and she appropriated them; they were all hers. She sowed in my mind the idea that reality is not only what we see on the surface; it has a magical dimension as well and if we so desire, it is legitimate to enhance it and color it to make our journey through life less trying.”
—Eva Luna