Murky waters

Enjoyment, specialists and all the ways to do things

Knock, knock, is anyone there? I don’t know what it is with this letter, but every time I wanted to write something to you, I thought, no, I don’t have enough to say, I don’t know what to say. Because, you know, I live a small life (which is what I want, so it’s definitely not a complain) and there’s not much to write about. Every morning I get up, drink my glass of warm water and write a page or two in my notebook, then I exercise and after breakfast I sit in my room and write some more or browse internet or read other people’s blogs and newsletters. In the afternoon I read or go to work at the library. That’s about it.

The after breakfast part of the morning was better at the beginning of the year, but lately it fell apart a little bit. At the beginning of this year I was sitting at my desk every day and writing or staring out the window. It felt good. I felt good. And then some things started happening at work and they took more space than I would like them to. I’m great at worrying (sometimes for a good reason, sometimes for nothing) and thinking up all the scenarios. And the first thing that gave, was my writing and I hate myself for letting this happen.

I do write my Morning Stories weekly, but these are easy. They don’t have to be anything more than my thoughts on this particular morning, that’s what they’re all about. But this letter, here, became this huge impossible thing and I don’t know why. I really can make things difficult for myself.

Lately I’ve talked to my husband about how good I am at sabotaging myself and my writing. And he said something I knew, but somehow never allowed myself to realise. He said that I can write just because I want to write and it doesn’t matter if something (for example a book) will come out of it. Do it because you enjoy doing it and because it makes you feel better. The rest is not important right now. And you know what? He’s right, we all know that, right? And I was also thinking that maybe the worry about the readers, the gatekeepers, the value you’re supposed to be giving with your writing is exactly what keeps me away from it. I’m overthinking something that should be simple. Sit down and write, the value of my writing is that it’s good for me, is the enjoyment I get from it.

And the same goes for Instagram and Substack. It’s important for me to remember this, especially now that there are people turning themselves into “Substack specialists”, just like there were Instagram specialists, telling you how to do it for success, for money, for creating business from your pleasure. And you know what? It actually makes me angry, that every space in the world wide web has to be turned into hustle, as if doing things just for fun is not possible anymore.

When I see someone who previously was “the Instagram specialist” telling people how to do Instagram and after a month of being on Substack does the same on there, I’m thinking that something went wrong in this world. There’s a whole business in telling people how they should be doing things, even though we all know that there is no one way to do them. Not in life, not in business, not on social media platforms, not even in writing a book. There are many ways to tell stories, there are many ways to do all sorts of things and I wish that people would stop pretending that it’s not true.

So this is me, dipping my toes in those murky waters of doing things my own way with no other expectations than enjoyment. I hope you can find your own way too.