in 1965, after keeping a journal for seven years, i concluded that i had nothing to say. i gave up writing in my journal, not resuming until 1969. thus i became invisible even to myself. i didn’t know what i do now, that everyone has something to say, that you write to find out what it is. i didn’t see how the culture was erasing me, or how i was joining it to silence myself.
priscilla lang, “we called ourselves sisters,” in the feminist memoir project: voices from women’s liberation. i never have any idea what i’m talking about when i start. ”YOU WRITE TO FIND OUT WHAT IT IS.” (via karaj)
