This is not a pity post. The title of this week’s Prickly Pieces is just one of the Prickly Truths I’ve come to learn about the ‘work’ I do. I started writing as a kid, wrote my first ever poem in 5th grade in the classroom while every other kid and the teachers were at recess. The poem was -and still is- about leaving woes and worries and pain on the sand and let it all be washed away by the ocean waves. I remember sitting down at my desk with a smile on my face and my favorite pen in hand. I laid down all the words as neatly as possible, probably had my tongue out too. I wrote it neatly, but it was my second time writing it because of course I had a draft that I had written in the comfort of my bedroom. I used to write unapologetically, full of passion and without a care in the world. No fear of being judged and no fear of not having enough talent. So why am I sharing my poetry now, you ask? Because I care about the people who read it. I care about the souls that are touched but the words I take a lot of time to put together. I worry about those who relate to the ones I write so quickly I don’t realize what it’s about until the notebook is closed again. Because yeah, most of the time I sit down to write something specific, and it turns out to be shit or something I am not proud of. But once again, who cares?
Writing for me has always been a way to make sense of the world or to be angry or sad or any other emotion that sits in the “too much” category when they come up at certain times in your life. Writing has always been about feeling free. Free of guilt and responsibility and envy and grief and anger and denial. I write because it makes me feel alive, I write because after a long time in the darkness I always need to adjust back to the light. I write because I feel loved when someone says they relate to something that is close to my heart. But I also write because it makes me feel invisible. If I write what everybody is feeling, then I am part of something so big I lose myself in it. I lose myself in a Prickly Piece and find myself again when I get validation, or when nobody relates.
Ultimately, even if 3 people read my work and only one relates or is touched by it then my job is done.
I am learning not to care about the algorithms, care more about having feedback than the content of the feedback if that makes sense. I know the people I love understand or at least try to understand the hurt I’m feeling and am laying down on the pages of my favorite notebook. I know if nobody cares about my poem on moving from one city to another, at least my siblings will understand. I know if nobody cares about how sad or diminished, I felt in a certain situation, I unfortunately know at least one person would relate. Poetry for me is writing about myself but mostly I write about the things I notice; about things I learn through conversations I have and those I’ve heard while listening to strangers or friends alike. I write about life, and I am living to write.
Hi Gigi, I just started out on Substack and I think I feel quite similarly to you. Writing because we love it, even if no one reads it - fighting against the thing inside that tells you a post is more valuable if someone reads it.
I like wrote you wrote here and in your poem on feeling behind. I wrote my first post today if you'd want to check it out. I'd be keen to know what you think :)
Subscribing and cheering you on