rewriting everything again and again

in which i write about writing and also everything but writing

For as long as I’ve been writing, rewriting has been my least favorite part of my process. Lucky me, because the writing process is arguably most dependent on rewriting.

In taking a class about writing and failure, I promised that I would get better at rewriting, at sitting with what I want to put out in the world.

I have had a collection of thoughts I’ve wanted to share for a while, but I've been trying to figure out the right way to frame this strange feeling of being lost inside myself. I worry that I’ve covered everything there is to talk about what I’m learning about myself, that every new Substack post is an iteration of a previous one. However, this is arguably exactly what this Substack is—a living document being rewritten through time.

I once told a poetry professor that I felt like it was already too late for me—to grow, to change, to accomplish anything—and they laughed lovingly, telling me that figuring out everything in your 20s is impossible. Below are a few quotes that I have been thinking of in relation to this confession:

• “Who am I, Louis? I do not know anymore. No one has painted me in over 400 years.” - Armand, Interview with the Vampire Season 2 Episode 4 “I Want You More Than Anything in the World”

• “I lay myself down and hope I wake up young again” - “False Confidence” by Noah Kahan

• “If I’m your everything, who am I?” - “Who Am I?” by Orla Gartland

In an interview, Anne Carson reflected on her own process of writing, saying, “The things you think of to link are not in your own control. It’s just who you are, bumping into the world. But how you link them is what shows the nature of your mind. Individuality resides in the way links are made.”

armand looking at a painting of himself

So what do these quotes from an American country singer, an Irish indie singer, and a centuries-old fictional vampire have in common?

Simply put, nobody is immune to the passage of time—yes, not even immortal vampires—and that at some point, there must be a confrontation of the self that requires recognizing what others feel about you and how you feel about yourself.

I consider myself a relatively ambitious person. I have always operated under the guise that I have everything to prove and also everything to lose. It’s a delicate balancing act that involves an obsession with what others think of me and how that reflects on me. But in my chase of success, I have failed to stop and actually think about what I’ve been chasing.

For as long as I can remember, I've always wanted more for myself but never been sure what I actually want. I’m familiar with survival and cutting out the toxic parts of my life, but never with mending and finding consistent fulfillment.

After my birthday recently, I decorated a cake with some of my favorite fictional TV characters. I told myself that it would be my last chance to be this young and for it to be acceptable. I keep thinking that one day, I’ll grow out of my obsession with television, and I keep returning to the undeniable truth that TV—movies, theatre, and music as well—are my main method of understanding myself and who I am.

At best, I’m a collection of memories and random references that many people fail to understand—and as a result, I fear that I have a failure of understanding myself. I return to this over and over again, rewriting over different versions of self.

I recently wrote, “I put my self-worth into how many words you’re willing to say to me,” in my notes app. Because I could not figure out how to rewrite it into a more subtle, beautiful line that might fit neatly into a song or a poem, I wrote below it during my recent trip to NYC, “I think I just saw a carbon copy of young Catherine O’Hara on the R Line to Queens.”

an art exhibit at the moma from my recent visit

Truth is, I know that there is no easy answer to the question of “Who am I?” or a linear path to finding the answer. Like rewriting, it is a process of destroying and rebuilding everything you know. It involves piecing together connections, as Carson said, and understanding why they fit together and make sense to you—and then taking them apart to see if another reconfiguration might be better.

When I went to see Mitski in concert, I told my friend that she always seems to release albums during transitional periods in my life. After all, I saw her perform live for the first time on my 18th birthday, and the next time was the week before the event that spurred me to start this Substack.

Mitski’s albums are among the many media that seem to bottle up a period of my life and preserve it with vivid accuracy forever. When I listen to Submarine by The Marías, I’m back in the Chicago summer. When I rewatch Sherlock, I’m back in middle school, forcing my entire family to sit down on New Year’s to watch the Season 4 premiere.

For those who have been reading this Substack over the last few years, you may have noticed that I have more frequently been incorporating discussions of media into my posts. When I started this, I had tried to limit how my love for TV and music seeps into my writing.

As I rewrite the same problems, fears, and worries, I keep finding that the things that I love are just as much a part of me as everything else. Perhaps it may be hard to understand why I rely heavily on using The Rehearsal to reinterpret my neurodivergency or why I see connections between A Real Pain and Everything Everywhere All At Once. Perhaps other people look at me and do not know what to make of me, to make of my process of remaking myself over and over again.

The process of learning to love rewriting is one I still undoubtedly struggle with, even as I chip away at logging my rewrites for my course. But what good is reinvention without that struggle?