Sonya Cheney

Writer. Witch. Creatrix.

dilettante.

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I’ve been dabbling in photography off and on for years now. It’s one of my eight million and one hobbies that I never quite seem to practice consistently, which I’m mostly okay with at this point. Maybe I should focus on just one to become exceptional, but I like dipping my toes in a little bit of everything. I don’t have the attention span to focus on one. The only time this tendency becomes an issue is when I’m writing because I can’t seem to finish a long-form project, but I try to stay optimistic about that despite my past shortcomings.

Anyway.
Photography.

I made it a point to ask for nothing but a new camera lens for my birthday in March, an auto focus 35mm. I’ve been using a manual 50mm for years now because, generally, the older manuals are more in my budget–which is why I asked for the auto as a gift. Boy, has it already made a huge difference. I’m not sure if I just have bad eye sight or what exactly, but my photos feel so much clearer and, honestly, I’m having more fun. I finally figured out how to use my camera remote and even got my tripod out of storage to start adventuring into selfie territory outside of the front facing camera of my phone. My interest in the craft has been reinvigorated, and with every sunny day that we’re blessed with, my enthusiasm grows even more.

Sometimes the pictures are mundane–the ladybugs that have claimed our new house as their own, or a lunch smoothie, or a knitting photo for my Ravelry projects page–but that’s fine. Not every photo has to be an artistic masterpiece. None of them do. To be honest, I don’t think any of them really are. Photography is another item on the list of creative activities that bring me joy through the sheer act of creating, much like knitting or scrapbooking.

The last time I fed my sourdough starter, I decided to try my hand at timelapse photography. There were some hurdles–figuring out how the setting worked on my camera and the battery dying before I was able to finish capturing the growth cycle–but it was fun just to try. I already have so much in mind for my next attempt as far as improving my skills, but I’m still excited at my own effort.

As I branch out and push myself deeper into the arts that make me happy, I find myself being inspired by the following quote:

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

Samuel Beckett

(As it happens, this quote is also very on point as far as anti-racism work goes…)

Because there will always be failure, but it shouldn’t keep me–any of us–from trying something we thing seems interesting or fun. I don’t need to know everything or be perfect to practice photography or witchcraft, cooking or knitting, gardening or home decor. Theory is a good way to learn, but sometimes practice is the best–and practice includes failure.

There are few things I do anymore in an effort to make money or become some kind of professional–and even in my writing, money is far from my end game these days. Austin Kleon has written some great words (and linked to others’ great words) regarding monetizing hobbies, and I recommend reading them. I’m grateful to have started shifting my mindset to focus more on hobbies for the sake of my soul rather than my wallet. (No shade to anyone whose hobby is also a side hustle, of course.)

Even with my plans to publish two books in the next year and a half–my essay collection and YA novel–I’ll be doing it all DIY just to put them out in the world. I don’t expect much if any return on investment. I’ve reached a point in my life where I’m doing these things because I love them, pure and simple.

who do i write for?

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I’ll write for myself, whether anyone else reads it or not.

But then—if I write something, then choose to submit it, or write something and choose to publish it, does that negate my declaration to write only for myself? Does writing for myself mean hiding it away in my hard drive forever?

I mean, probably not. But it still feels a little disingenuous to claim I’m writing for myself only to put it out into the world after all.

This is a debate with myself that’s been plaguing me for the past week or so as I was writing in my journal thinking, “Fuck it, I’m just going to write for the straight love of it like I did when I was a kid.” No holds barred, no plans for any piece, no strict schedules or ultimate goals besides the writing itself. If I have an idea, I’ll put on paper (or screen) once I feel like it. A few days after this personal declaration, though, I discovered a literary magazine that piqued my interest and has me thinking about writing a piece to submit.

What the fuck, right?

I’m sure it’s not as big of a deal as I’m considering it to be. If I didn’t write this post, no one would know the difference anyway—but I wanted to write this. I wanted to work through my own head, invite opinions, and talk it out.

I’m always going on (and on and on) about the way I used to write on MySpace and LiveJournal, and I don’t think I’ll stop anytime soon. I loved the freedom and the openness with which I used to write those posts—on LiveJournal, especially, I actually assumed no one was reading, which made it so much easier to be vulnerable. I dipped my toe into that vulnerability while writing zines but, to be honest, I can’t seem to bring myself to write zines anymore. I’m not sure why; I love the physicality and the aesthetic of them. I adore a good black and white, text-heavy perzine. I loved the process of cutting and pasting. But my enthusiasm for that type of DIY has waned so much since about the time I got pregnant. I might still make an issue of Whatsername sometime this year, but having a blog is just easier, and with writing itself being my real goal, then I’m not going to be too hard on myself about my chosen medium.

I do miss it, though. It’s a little heartbreaking not to feel a part of that world anymore, but my priorities have changed, so my style and approach have changed with them—and that’s okay.

Even if I still have blog posts and submissions and self-publishing in the back of my mind, I think, if they’re not my ultimate goal, then it still counts as writing for myself, writing for the sake of writing. Writing for the sake of the craft. I type these thoughts because it’s the best way to get them out. I’m publishing them because it’s a good way to be able to look back at them, and maybe someone else has a suggestion or has been through the same struggle. Maybe someone is currently going through it. Maybe it’ll help me make a connection with someone.

If not, though, I won’t be disappointed.

june 2020 | life lately.

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Our house was blessed with a loveliness of ladybugs (really, look it up!), and I take that to be a good sign for our future in this home.

I would surprise no one by saying there’s been an absurd amount of plain shit going on. Global pandemic, civil rights movements, murder hornets, alien invasion… Wait, that one hasn’t happened yet.

Anyway, you understand what I’m saying.

And in the midst of it all, survival–literal and spiritual–have been at the top of the list. In between sending donations, educating myself, and trying to support as much as I can in as many ways as I can, my life has still maintained its general status quo inside our rural New England bubble. It’s a privilege I’m trying not to take for granted.

Dan mentioned his surprise at the fact that I’ve maintained a consistent knitting routine even in the summer heat–I promise, it’s only because I’ve managed to have a fan blowing directly on myself any day that reaches eighty degrees fahrenheit or above. Otherwise, I would be nothing but a puddle of my own sweat, tears, and tangled yarns. I’ve been trying to branch out more in my recent projects. I’ve tended to knit a lot of socks in the last year or so, and I still knit a lot of them, but I decided this year to try mixing things up a bit. It began with the Find Your Fade shawl by Andrea Mowry, which, while a long process, was an absolutely lovely experience to knit. I feel like I learned some new things and it was possibly one of the most creative projects, I’ve worked on thus far. I followed it up with a set of Piitu mitts by Heidi Alander and the Ripple bralette by Jessie Maed Designs. Next in my queue? Colorwork by way of the Underwing mitts by Erica Heusser. (Note: These all link to the new Ravelry site, so please be aware if you been having accessibility issues.)

I’ve also managed to begin a new, as yet untitled, novel. Horror, young adult contemporary, set at a prep school. (Well, is the 1990s considered contemporary anymore?) I haven’t worked much the past week or two, but I have the most thorough outline I’ve ever produced, and when I do work, I tend to knock out a chapter in only an hour or two. I can say with confidence that I’ve been converted from a pantser to a planner. It’s been fantastic for my morale, and even if I don’t work on it in an obvious sense–i.e., sitting down with my computer and tip-tapping away at the keyboard–I’m spending a good amount of my time thinking about it and working through whatever roadblocks might crop up from time to time.

Naturally, I jumped on the sourdough bandwagon. My original plan was to work my way through Bread Baking for Beginners in a linear fashion, but when just about everyone on Instagram began to do it, I threw my hands up and said, “Fuck it! I’ll give it a go!” I don’t consider any of my first loaves perfect, but I love the feeling of maintaining the starter. I’ve named her Lilith (sorry, nothing cleverly quarantine-themed like so many others have done), and I keep her in the fridge for a weekly feed rather than daily in order to save on flour.

I’ve intentionally forgone a photo of the inner crumb because I’m still not happy with the size or distribution of the air pockets. Right now they tend to be collected towards the top of the loaf, which is fine, I suppose. The flavor is still wonderful and it makes a damn fine grilled cheese. But it’s something I plan to keep working on over time because, well, why not? I love baking bread. Dan especially loves sourdough. It’s a win-win for our house.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy through all of…this. *gestures wildly* But I also know that “normal” isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, not if it looks like white supremacy and needless death and social inequity. But my hobbies, trite and inconsequential as they may be, keep me grounded. They keep me going. They keep me centered enough to come back to the fight for bigger and better things for us all.

alternate realities.

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I can’t sleep. I wouldn’t even say it’s that late (10:45pm as I type), but it’s the latest I’ve been awake in weeks. Since moving into our temporary housing, I’ve managed to fall asleep by ten every night and be up by six-thirty every morning. It’s been a wonderful routine, but something’s just off tonight, and I can’t quite seem to make it work. Maybe it’s something in the air. Maybe it’s the Beltane sabbat energy. Maybe it’s just poor luck. I don’t know.

As I was lying in bed, occasionally turning from my left to my right side and back, I went back to a thought I shared with my mom and a friend earlier this week, and it got me to doing a little not-quite-daydreaming.

Sometimes I think that if my current self didn’t have Dan–and now Finn–then I would live in a van, traveling the country with a dog (probably a hound), freelance writing, practicing photography, and being a nomadic witch. Or else I would live in a hut in the forest with a dog, and this time also a cat, and be a spooky witch of the woods. Mostly, though, it’s that van idea that’s stuck with me these past few days; when I was a teenager I loved the style of the old Volkswagen Buses, and over the past few years I’ve grown fascinated by the #vanlife. I’ve still only investigated it in passing–the occasional blog post read or scroll through the Instagram tag, but it’s intriguing, exciting to think about the possibility of that kind of freedom.

Instagram is, of course, the highlight reel of the lifestyle. There are certainly those who share the gritty behind-the-scenes realities of living a traveling life, the vehicle breakdowns and repair costs, the less frequent bathing opportunities, the dirt and cold and loneliness that can come with it all. But it’s still got an appeal to it. There’s an adventurous nature to it all and, like I said, a freedom that it conveys to see someone on the road or in a desert or a vast field with nothing but the things they can carry with them. Imagine that level of simplicity. It’s captivating.

In my dreams, these scenes are full of shades of orange and green and yellow and brown. There are scraped knees and dirty fingernails beside a campfire, a dog curled up at my feet. A camera or two sit beside me and a journal is open across my lap, page after page scribbled with stories and observations. This version of myself has a rawness to her that I can see deep in myself now but don’t know how to get out. I wish I knew how.

I can’t wait to move into our new home. The other half of my time spent daydreaming revolves around renovations—paint colors, furniture styles, and shelves upon shelves of books. But sometimes it’s fun—if a little sad—to think about what might have been if I were a different person. I’m much too dependent on other people to keep me company, to keep me functioning to a certain degree, to ever actually believe I could do something like live a van lifestyle. Still, it gives me a thrill to let my imagination run wild.