Deborah Jackson Taffa

Writing is a solitary act fraught with uncertainties. Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes I love it. But the practice of writing is how I survive in this world. The creation of art takes time, and the freedom to do so is a privilege, especially while raising a family. I’ve often felt invisible in my labors, and I was therefore overwhelmed when I learned that the National Endowment for the Arts had deemed my accounts of Native futures and histories worthy of support. They notified me in late 2023, mere months before my debut, when I was working on the second book in the series. I’d always imagined this prelaunch period would be a happy time. Instead, I had been depressed. Scarred by world violence, disillusioned by politics, burdened by balancing my job and my creative practice, I had been asking myself whether the early mornings were worth the effort. Writing requires focus, and this monetary gift allows me to say no to extra work and burnout. It gives me freedom to slow down, witness, and react to the world one word at a time. Most importantly, it reminds me that shaping sentences is my own small way of adding beauty and peace to our existence on this planet. It’s easy for an Indigenous woman to feel that her voice is irrelevant. But today, as I look out at Santa Fe’s cold winter sky, I feel humbled by this recognition and grateful that my ancestors’ stories are being heard.