Sonya Cheney

Writer. Witch. Creatrix.

it’s just not my thing. (and that’s okay!)

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I think I’m quitting YouTube.

That’s not the biggest revelation given that I’ve only made three videos, but after making a couple of podcast episodes and a time lapse, I’m not sure I love videography. The time lapse was probably the most fun I had of the three, and I do hope to make more of those as I improve, but the podcast–it just isn’t my thing.

Working in video a few times reminded me of how much I love (and prefer) writing and blogging, and in fact it’s inspired me to approach my blog in a few new ways. I want to write more about my knitting. I want to write more about what I’m reading. I want to write more in general. Writing is my best mode of communication; my thoughts run much too slowly for video, I think, and that’s okay. The number of times I would just stare blankly while filming, trying to remember what I was saying or figure out how to say it was just not efficient enough for me. I much prefer the low-key, low-stress approach of sitting down with a coffee or tea and typing to my heart’s content without feeling the pressure of the silence as I think–in part because I can play music in the background as I work.

I guess to say I’m “quitting YouTube” is a little overdramatic. I was pretty flexible and uncommitted from the beginning. I am taking the thoughts and ideas I had for the channel, though, and planning to find ways to incorporate them here. Also, I’m still considering the idea of live streams while writing and knitting–but maybe I should just join in other people’s streams instead. Maybe I’m not the hosting type for this kind of thing. I’m okay with that. I’m not going to lie; it’s a little disappointing to realize it’s not my “thing,” but I’m also not in love with it, and at least I tried.

To be honest, my biggest concern is that no one is interested in reading my blog. It does take more effort than watching a YouTube video (or twelve, as I am known to do during nap time), and it’s not always as easy to subscribe these days to keep up with posts. As usual, I have a lot of thoughts and I don’t know how to communicate them all–which is part of why I’m leaning into writing and blogging more than the more immediate craft of vlogging and podcasting. I’m much more eloquent in the written form.

I have a lot going on at the moment–oh, how hard I am working on Preptober!–but I want to finallyfinallyfinally sit down and make something of a schedule because, honestly, I kind of just forget about my blog sometimes. I have so many ideas but get distracted by other things (including Finn, which is totally reasonable, but still). What I really need is, as usual, a list. A list and a routine. A daily check in to remind myself of my goals because I spend a lot of my time doing laundry and I do not want to spend all of my time doing that.

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.