Let’s make things personal

Thank you for being here, all 500 of you!

Writing is an essential part of who I am. I don’t know what I think until I’ve written it down. It is the art form most true to myself; a bookworm trapped in her own mind, having the most vivid conversations with her alternate self, a person, quite literally, filled with words.

Yet, it is an art form I never showed to anyone. Somehow, sharing my words seemed too personal, too vulnerable. It would open me up to people’s assumptions, criticism, or worse; ridicule.

To avoid this absolute fact of life, I hid behind all the other art forms I like: paintings, illustrations, and photography. Sharing them online felt easier. Hiding behind a camera and paintbrush, pretending to be someone else; instead of laying my soul bare through words on the screen.

Photos, Art, and Sketches from (what feels like) a different lifetime.

While I never wanted to make a living off of it, I wanted people to see my art. What is art if not shared? But I made a fatal error in all of this: I chose the safe bet, the art forms I like, but not love. To no one’s surprise but my own, it wasn’t a great success. Turns out, not being yourself never works. Frustrated about it all, I started to write it out, trying to make sense of my own mind. And I wrote and wrote until no words were left.

And in that moment two years ago, I decided then and there, that with no words left, it was finally time to put this desire for my art to be seen to bed. I concluded that being a creative in this modern age wasn’t for me, and I simply stopped writing, stopped painting, didn’t take any pictures, and didn’t sketch a single line.

Whenever someone asked why I had stopped painting (the only creative outlet people saw, because my art literally hangs on my walls), I said that the house renovation kept me busy. Or the wedding preparations. They did, that wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. My fingers itched to create, painfully so, but painting wasn’t enough. Taking a picture wasn’t enough. Nothing but words were able to fill this need to create.

And so I did write again.

I started typing and didn’t stop for days. And then I hit publish, and hid under my desk, too scared to really think about what I just did, but too desperate not to hit that button. Desperate because all these words needed to go somewhere, if not, I was afraid I was going to burst. Again, what is art if not shared?

Not once did I think that people would read my writing, let alone enjoy it. But somehow, over 500 of you are doing exactly that, every week. Reading comments like ‘this was achingly beautiful’ or ‘I never felt so seen’ blows me away. You are telling me that something I wrote is good, enjoyable, or beautiful even?

My mind can’t comprehend this number (and since writing this, it has somehow grown even more?!). Never in my life did any creative endeavor of mine see this much support. Never have I felt this much love for something that I created.

The first few essays I published make me cringe now. Not the topics, but the writing. It sure is true that the only way to get better at writing is, you guessed it, to write. When I started, I had no idea what this would turn into. I tried to find a ‘niche’, like the Millennial I am, needing to make this hobby as professional as possible. My Substack is a mixed bag: From writing about why millennials don’t need a mid-life crisis, or an essay about how self-help books should be memoirs, to my most viral essay to date, ‘I am tired of scrolling’, giving me more than 100 subscribers overnight. But somehow it all makes sense because all of it is me.

The more comfortable I get with my writing, the more personal stories find their way through my keyboard onto the screen. Some lighthearted, others more twisted and dark. Whenever life demands, I add to them, rewrite them, and use them to make sense of my thoughts.

The past few weeks have been tough, filled with family visits that always tend to come with a lot of baggage, extra hours at work, and a long time since I’ve had a vacation. So I wrote, to let it all go, to ease my mind.

All this personal writing kept me from finishing a newsletter. But I promised a new newsletter each week; consistency is the one thing Substack instills in you. Every post on ‘how to write a successful newsletter or blog’ tells you to write regularly, at least once a week, better more. For the past few weeks, I’ve struggled to finish an essay. I worked on multiple drafts, desperately trying to find something my readers would like. I managed, somehow, but it is not work I am particularly proud of. It is ok, I guess.

And this week is yet another one where I feel stranded, looking at all my ideas, trying to figure out which draft to finish. Each time, I gravitate towards the personal stories I’ve slowly chipped away at, continued to edit and change, catching myself rereading many parts over and over, only to be left stunned; realizing that I, did in fact, write that.

I had to remind myself that I started this Substack as a project for myself. As a creative outlet to share my writing, not to generate big numbers. So I am ditching the promise on my about page to share a new newsletter every week. It very well might be that there will be a new newsletter in your inbox each week, but writing comes and goes and I don’t have an editor to report to, so why punish myself and force weekly essays?

I also asked myself a difficult question: What exactly am I so afraid of when it comes to my personal writing? After all, the essays that changed my life and made it into my ‘essays hall of fame’ are mostly personal stories. Beautiful writing that took my breath away, made me cry, or incredibly happy. If personal essays can change my life, couldn’t my writing accomplish the same? Maybe, potentially? Or is this a case of hubris?

If I am completely honest with you, the most terrifying thought about publishing these stories is not that people might hate it, but that the stories might not ‘perform as well’ and won’t get enough likes, comments, and shares as other essays I’ve written.

There.

I said it.

Social media really did mess with my perception of success.

If you're afraid to write it, that's a good sign. I suppose you know you're writing the truth when you're terrified.

Yrsa Daley-Ward

All of this is a long way of saying that things are going to get a bit more personal over here. Next to ‘essays’ and ‘lists & recs’ you will now find ‘personal writing’ on my Substack. Don’t worry, I will always write essays like ‘Art isn’t allowed to take up space anymore’. My mind is what it is and thinks about all the weird aspects of life, that won’t ever change.

To be fair, I kind of already wrote something more personal; my essay on what home means is a personal story where I am trying to find words for a feeling that I’ve been carrying around with me for years. It was a way of dipping my toe into the water, publishing a somewhat sanitized version of my mind. The reactions were positive, great even, so I am not really sure what I am worrying about. But I still worry, I always do.

And because I always worry, I decided to turn on ‘paid subscriptions’, to give myself the option to slap a paywall on my personal stories whenever I feel like it or whenever I wake up panicked, thinking that my family that doesn’t speak a word of English might find my writing.

Everything under ‘essays’ and ‘lists & recs’ will remain free, for now. I find it really hard to value myself and my writing. Right now, giving you, the reader, the option to value my writing through a ‘buy-me-a-coffee’-model feels right. But I don’t know if this will change one day, because I don’t like how normal it has become to get content for free all the time. Like I wrote in ‘I couldn’t afford to be a writer, am I not allowed to be one?’:

I think, ultimately, this is what traditional news outlets are dealing with now: the devaluation of writing, not only from a writer’s perspective but from a reader’s perspective as well. If the written word is shared for free all the time, what true value does it still have?

I don’t have a cool ending for this, so that’s it, the end of this very long announcement. Thank you for being here!

XOXO
Annika