Why does writing on substack feels like sending a risky text

giddy, excited, anxious, terrified. every single time i hit "send to everyone now"

When I was younger, putting pen to paper was one of the easiest thing to do. I owned a very bright pink very girly notebook I swore secrecy to, and every one of my emotion or experience were deemed « enough » to be featured there. I was angry at my mom? Girly secret diary. That (funny-looking) boy briefly touched my shoulder? Girly secret diary. My boobs started to make an appearance? Girly secret diary.

I was 11 and every single thing I experienced from the world felt worth of that little pink glittery notebook. So how come now that I am almost 30, writing feels like this excruciating/ time-consuming/ scary task?

One could argue that back then, what we wrote wasn’t meant to be read. And that’s why it felt much more natural, genuine and safe. But let me be clear, even when I don’t think anyone will read what I write, it still doesn’t feel good enough or interesting enough to be wrote down.

A few months back I indulged in the whole « journaling » craze. I went to the store, picked out a new notebook (new task = new materials right?), carefully selected a practical yet dainty pen and went back home to patiently wait for the next morning (likewise, new tasks should always starts on a new day). So I woke up, grabbed that freshly out-of-the-shelf leather notebook, wrote down a couple of mundane feelings, and immediately felt « cringe ». I closed it, put it away somewhere in my dressing room, and it’s now nowhere to be found.

The goal wasn’t for anybody to read it. The goal wasn’t for me to become the new Christiane Amampour, but still, writing down my thoughts felt enormous. I think it all boils down to that sense of if you’re gonna put it to the paper, it’s better be worth it. I mostly blame the old saying that goes « words fly away, writing stays ». For me, every single thing worth remembering has been put down to paper, to somehow reinforce its permanence. The first scripture, the Rosetta stone, the Lascaux caves, the old Grimm tales. Every single thing we were sure we wanted protected from the time passing, we wrote down.

So, I was 11. Right after, when I started to really grow up (one could even say « mature »), social media became all the craze. And we were now overwhelmed by hundreds of thousands of pictures; which led me to believe there’s no way any of this is gonna be permanent. Every day, there are so many pictures and images and clips that are being uploaded, whatever I’ll end up sharing will comfortably and almost immediately be forgotten right? I remember reading somewhere that someone needs to see the exact same thing 7 times before actually remembering it. So yes, for me, images aren’t permanent. Naturally, I started posting the cute salads and the candy sunsets before really digging into the concept of “image”; how I wanted to be perceived, and therefore posting in that sense.

Funnily enough, we now all agree « digital is for life » and « everything stays on the internet » but at that time, it didn’t feel like that. Posting online was cool, fast, and REALLY easy. Especially when all the retouching apps launched and that the not-so-occasional facetune made it even more simple. As a young adult, every new taste, every new encounter, every new sound was worth experiencing not only if it was documented, but also shared.

BUT, never in writing. My life was worth sharing only if it was in the format of a square picture or a cute 16:9 clip I knew was soon gonna fall into the forgotten depths of the internet, buried underneath thousands of layers of other people’s life fragments. My life was only worth sharing when it gave me the instant gratification, the likes, the views, (the « omg I saw you went there, I’ve always wanted to try out that sushi place » meaning « you’re so cool, how come you got a table there when I didn’t ») but at the same time when I knew it was gonna be an old and distant memory the day after.

Fast forward to now, I still share a lot online, but I recently realized that I was incapable of writing, anything. « It couldn’t be that hard to write like when I was 11 » I naively thought. So I looked out for that notebook this morning, found it, and started channelling my 11yo self (she was that much cooler). Well, nothing, I couldn’t write.

So I figured that I needed to deconstruct my thought process: if sharing in a form of a photo is ok, could it also be in writing? And let’s be honest a second, I post things that aren’t worth remembering AT ALL, so why not write some down too? In the end, everything is only as permanent as you want it to be and the only way to make sure it COULD BE is to actually write it down.

But, and I now stand by that, the end goal might not be the permanence, but how writing builds your character, you, yourself. And also the potential way it’s gonna resonate with others. Spending time online made me realize I do not have a single unique experience, therefore everything I might endure, I could find comfort sharing with and hearing from someone that went through the same thing. One of our generation most talked about problem is the lack of connection right?

Lack of connection, sure, but not only with others might I add. Sometimes the biggest disconnection I feel is within myself. I portrayed so much of my life and myself online, through an highlight reel, that I don’t know who the real and raw “me” is anymore. So yes please, send the risky text, write on substack. I know, I will.

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