Putting Carts Before Horses

The struggle to remember why I write

I swear to God, every time I sit down to write this newsletter my mind goes blank. I convince myself that no one (minus a few friends) actually cares what I have to say about anything—even though I got two new subscribers today, complete strangers! And more than this, I convince myself that unless I’m adding to The Discourse, I should keep my thoughts in my Notes app. Well, I’ll be damned if I allow something as silly as shame to stop me from publishing here—a literal platform I’ve created to publish my own writing.

But if we’re being honest, we know shame is not silly. There’s nothing remotely amusing about shame. Even when it’s self-imposed¹ and based on arbitrary social mores you know in your gut is arbitrary. Even when it’s a tragicomic albatross. Who said not having all my shit “figured out” was some kind of anomie for a woman my age? Why did I listen to them?

I moonlight as wildflower floral arranger

There is so much, so very much I want to say. Yet, nowhere feels like the right place to say it. This substack doesn’t feel right—too public; my Notes app feels even less right—too private. But when I imagine what the “ideal” place looks like? Nothing. Why does nothing feel good enough? And why, despite the shame of not writing and the subsequent pressure to write that shame creates, do I still insist on writing? Insatiable. The labour of a masochist, this writing thing is. Or perhaps just the labour of this masochist.

Why do I so often find myself tongue-tied? Even now as I sit to write this, why don’t I simply tell you at least one of the so many supposed things I want to say instead of telling you I have something to say? Why all the preamble? Questions that demand answers! Answers, I do not have. At least, not yet.

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Whenever I write some kind of quasi-confessional to make sense of myself to myself, the process of writing reveals an answer to me. A revelation happens every time. Every time I commit to writing, I re-learn that my writing, that is, the process of thinking in written words, is the thing I need to do answer whatever questions I have. I know this deep down, and not so deep down. But for some reason or other, I forget. And so begins the shame cycle: I have something to say but don’t quite know how to say it so I convince myself not to write until I’ve figured it out; I don’t write for a long time then I start to write to explore the “writers blocK” and remember that I can’t answer my questions until I write. Rinse and repeat.

Now that I have made this revelation (again), what will I do with it? (Before I move on, I’d like to say how proud I am of myself for putting this in writing, publicly. The only other time I have put this in writing was about three years ago in my journal. The other times I’ve come to this realisation, I’ve simply acknowledged it with a sense of contentment and moved on.) Regardless of an audience, there’s value in putting one’s words out in the world, if for no other reason than the hope of accountability. When it’s been too long since I’ve last published, someone can reach out and say, “Hey, remember that you have to write to get to the answer.” If nothing else, this note is reminder to myself to commit to the process, the product is inevitable.

1. I don’t believe that shame can ever truly be self-imposed. But I suppose to make myself feel better I’ve decided that succumbing to it despite fully knowing that I can develop the power to rise above it, makes it “self-imposed.”