So I don’t have a recipe this week. But I hope you’ll bear with me as I unburden my soul here. (Something I used to do a lot but haven’t felt like I’ve done in a while.)
I’ve been feeling increasingly unsure of myself lately, and it can be a hard thing to write about while I’m in the middle of it, because it requires me to do something I hate to do: Write about how hard writing is. Like, how interesting can that actually be? Are you interested in hearing from your dental hygienist how grueling the work of teeth cleaning is? Or how difficult the art of building a chair can be? I rest my case.
But I realize that the reason why I’ve been feeling so unsure of myself has everything to do with my writing, and my identity as a writer, and how I’ve been feeling more and more separated from that identity, and how that separation has, in a way, thrown my entire sense of self out of of whack.
A few years back, when I started writing this newsletter as more of a column and less as an ode to cooking, I declared that I was officially done doing what I loved. I chose to escape the world of editorial writing for the greener pastures of branded content, giving up the grueling hours of pitching and writing as my 9-5 for something a little more structured. (And, let’s be honest, a little more lucrative.) I had a plan. I was going to make my money during the day and then spend my time writing in the mornings and at night. But as it tends to, life crept in. I spent a lot of time with friends. I fell in love. I started to enjoy the time I spent sitting on the couch rather than sitting in front of my computer. And little by little, the writing waned.
I have a tendency to box myself into things. First I was a beauty writer. Then a relationship writer. Then, in a pitch to finally finish the family cookbook I had been promising my mother for years, I honed in on cooking. And I really love writing this newsletter as a love letter to food. But sometimes penne vodka is just penne vodka, and I don’t have much to say about it. Other times, I have an avalanche of thoughts just bubbling at the surface of my brain that I’m dying to get down on paper, but that have no connection to food.
Why do I do this? Why do I feel that I need a framework to exist within my writing, when I know that I will eventually bump up against the edge of it and feel boxed in? After over a decade of a career as a writer, you’d think I’d have learned by now. I’ve done it with every single type of writing I’ve ever done, and it stems from a desire to be marketable. To have a brand. To have something that people can point to and say, “Maria does this.”
But I think I’m starting to realize that maybe I’m not that kind of writer. I’m not that kind of person. I’m not someone who is going to follow a specific framework for anything for longer than a few years, and in fact, I don’t think many people are like that. I think we’ve been so conditioned to commodify our artistry, and the way that society tells us to do that is by building out a “brand.”
I don’t want to be a brand, though. I don’t want to be the single girl writing about her love life. I don’t want to be an expert at writing about red lipstick. I was about to sit down today and write 1,000 words on the mob wife aesthetic, because it’s popular, and a Reel I took explaining it is doing well, and I do cook and write about Italian-American cooking, and isn’t that a nice little bit of synergy?
But I don’t have anything interesting to say about that. In many ways, I think I’m still finding myself as a writer, even as someone who has been working at it since my English teacher in high school sat me down and told me that I should pursue it. It was dumb luck that she pointed out that I was good at something I was interested in. How often does that actually happen?
All I know is that right now, at this moment, I am actively trying to do things for myself, and not for how they are received. Do you know how fucking hard that is though? Especially when I really, really, really love connecting with people through my writing. I am giddy when strangers come up to me in bars and tell me that they love the writing that I do. I remember every single time that it has happened to me in vivid detail. I love when I get an email response, or a comment, or a DM about something that I’ve gotten down in print. I read all of them multiple times, and when Ben is around I show them to him, too, proud of the little community that I’ve found for myself. When we announced our engagement, I cried over the comments from those of you who have been following me for years, telling me how excited you were for us. It’s such a huge part of why I do what I do, and I’m not just playing my part in a parasocial relationship when I say that.
But I think that it’s important to get back to the initial reason why I started writing: For me. Because I love it. Because I had so many feelings, and I felt alone in those feelings, and writing was the only way I knew how to make sense of any of it. And the fact that there were people out there who felt similarly was such a boon. But it can’t be the main reason why I do what I do.
So I’m going to start doing that. There will still be recipes. But some weeks there won’t be. I’m setting an intention to write every single week, but that doesn’t always mean I’ll have anything to share. I just typed and deleted the sentence “I hope you’ll bear with me during this change,” because that kind of flies in the face of exactly what I’m trying to do here. (But secretly, selfishly, I hope you do.)
As you can see, I’m still trying to work all of this out in my own head and heart. But if I’ve done anything with my life as a writer, it's to overshare the process without a filter, and I hope to continue to do that here.
Lots of love. You’ll be hearing from me soon.
xx
Go wherever you're gonna go. Your writing will come with you; so will the pasta and sauce. Maybe some soppressata too!! :) Sempre avanti!!
I’ve been reading your writing for years now (I think since the R29 days), and honestly just enjoy your style and sincerity.