This is our truth, tell us yours
I have more draft posts half started, then abandoned, like foundlings frozen in the snow, than I ever have before. I have a post on the gentrification of sex work written in my head that will probably never see it to the page. I start, type a few words then wander into the forests of why, and does it matter?
Earlier this year I was nominated for an award for my sex work writing, I know its been farmed by various academics, who are pally til the paper comes out then disappear. Of course none of that matters, but external validation is nice, and we all like ego strokes. In terms of that external validation I know I have helped shape the conversation, the decision made to be honest about being a survivor, but still demanding workers rights as a sex worker has been far reaching. I am not claiming that I am the only person adding nuance to the recipe, that’s kind of the point. My battle cry has forever been, none of us are representative. However I see where the conversation was just a few short years ago, I see where it is now, and I think its fair to have some pride in the fact I was part of that change.
And yet, I still struggle right now to put words to the page, to carry on the conversation. Each time its the same thought, what does this matter? Even a small change like twitter removing the share stats has not helped, for to me writing was always about a conversation, and without a reply, what is the point? Especially if the reply is a silent one, of others using my ideas to promote themselves and gaining the fame I as an anonymous writer can never have.
Writing about not writing may seem bizarre,and exceptionally egotistical, although all writing which is published is of course rooted in the ego. I suppose my hope is to uncover via the process why writing is so difficult for me at the moment. Is it about being tired of not being heard, or simply tired? Is it December, and so I can look forward to the spring or is it the finality of that last cold winter?
Right now I really do not know, words usually tumble out of me, writing has saved my life in the past, literally, but currently I feel like Zacharias, struck dumb by the vengeful god of indifference. Even as I write I wonder shall I publish this, and if I do to what purpose? Does writing have to have a point or is it just enough that it is done? Is the purpose the act itself perhaps, and any impact simply a benefit which can never be measured? I do not know and perhaps there is more than one answer, different answers for different moments in time.
Perhaps that is the answer, to accept that at this moment writing on sex work is difficult, that the conversation has dried up. Not because I no longer have anything to say, but because of the reaction of the participants, but in another moment, it may be I feel moved to speak.