The Thread of Written Hope

It doesn’t really matter what you write about. Just that you do.

Adella Mulawarman

Language is a part of the human condition. This creates a context in which written language can become an extension of our bodies: a unique translation of our spirits. When I think about writers around me or reflect upon my own writing, I find a common desire for self-reflection and communal understanding. We engage in essays, journal entries, calls to action; even the “hopecore” memes that litter my Instagram feed and the mini messages people scrawl onto the back of bathroom stalls remind me of the small yet critical ways we can hold each other through language. 

Words afford power for promise, movement, and urgency. Our generation is deeply invested in the inner work of knowing ourselves, and this work will translate into action. The future of our generation’s writing is tenacious, longing, and eager for action. This feels particularly critical to hold as we reckon with and combat the cynicism and heartache of our post-election climate.

Poetry is a particular kind of magic. I’ve observed a growing rawness and honesty in a lot of today’s poetry, making me think about how poetry offers us a space to declare, inquire, warn, pray. We crave to understand and to be understood. Writing offers our generation a vehicle for this understanding—one that is inherently hopeful. 

I’m not saying all writing should be hopeful. Rather, it is the act of writing that is ingrained with hope. In a world where our identities are politicized, threats to our identities are, in a sense, threats to our stories, our literature, our poetry. However, this makes even our very breath an act of resistance. It makes our writing a tool for liberation. Write with love. Write with anger. Write with urgency and let hope fill the margins. WRITE LOUDLY!!! write quietly… write what feels true.