Returning to a young writer’s innocence
Before creation required validation
The beauty of the "I'm quitting Substack" exercise I went through recently is that it allowed me to return to the core of what writing is about for me.
Just dropping the expectation that I am supposed to be publishing here on a regular basis, gave me a full system reset around my writing. It let me return to a time before it was something that is validated by the number of readers or monetized by the number of subscribers.
Writing is the practice that has been core to my ongoing evolution as a human being, ever since I was 12-years-old. It was my core practice since before I had any idea what a "practice" was.
I didn’t try to write on a regular basis because I thought it would be good for me. It was not something that I engaged in from thought or did out of a sense of discipline. I simply wrote because writing was part of me.
My writing began when my sixth-grade teacher, Miss Artis, assigned us the task of keeping a daily journal as part of our English class. It didn't matter what we wrote about. We just had to write something every day, and turn it in at the end of the week. It wasn't graded for content or for grammar or for any quality. All that mattered is that it was done. We would get a check mark saying we completed the task.
This assignment was such a gift for me. My journal was a safe space for me to express myself without being judged. It gave me a way to talk to myself, about things that I didn't feel comfortable sharing with anyone else.
My journal was my silent, imaginary, childhood friend. It was the village elder hidden between the lines of ruled notebooks. It was the unpaid therapist who was always available no matter what time of day it was.
Later in life, when I became the author of a book, and the publisher of a blog, I gave myself writing as a job. It became an occasional burden, sometimes chore, part-time performance, and anchor of identity and relevance. It slowly started to stray from its origins as a cherished private ritual of self-pleasure.
Little by little, writing became something I was known for and applauded for. It turned into evidence of my value. It was my role and my assignment. And the more it slid into the realm of identity, the more its essence got diluted.
Over the years, my writing edged towards becoming other-targeted, which drew me away from the original essence of being self-expressed.
I am realizing that as a reader and consumer of content myself, this might be why I feel such an overwhelming sense of boredom and content fatigue.
When I go on social media, I see endless variations on a limited set of recognizable themes. The virtual space feels devoid of spontaneity — it’s a dry desert for the expression for creation’s sake.
Nearly everything I read or hear these days lands in me like something that I have seen before somewhere. It’s all vaguely familiar somehow. I see content that is pre-packaged, regurgitated, processed by bots and optimized for algorithms. Not just the words, but also the fonts, the animation, the trending audio and the pace of videography.
I see a lot of same-same. I feel like I am lost and wandering around in circles inside of a fun house made of mirrored walls of templates.
There’s a predictable format you can detect if you look at the patterns that are shown: short clips of scenic places, inspirational and empowering tone, strong commanding bold text, or script fonts that strive to feel more human, podcast studio layouts, beautiful well-lit transitions, and wisdom copy-pasted from another influencer. It feels manufactured. It all makes me a bit tired. It makes me want to disengage.
While I have things to share sometimes, I find myself frustrated that the dominant format is not rhyming with my natural beat. I feel resistant to having to produce myself and adding to the noise. Does the world really need any more content? We're drowning in oceans of content already.
I don’t want to be a content creator. Because I don’t want to create content that is created for the purpose of being consumed. I want to create for the purpose of being expressed. I want to write for myself, primarily, and let the witnessing be a mere byproduct — not THE designed product.
I want to reclaim the innocence of my 12-year-old self’s journal entries. I want to just show up and write what’s on my heart on mind.
Not here for a grade. Not here for a follow or subscribe.
I want to write like nobody’s reading. I want to write for me, my inner child, my higher self, and my sixth-grade teacher Miss Artis, who consistently leaves a smiley face and a check mark, no matter what comes out.
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