Fine, I Want to be Seen
another one on writing, hope, and amal's first milestone!
Dear whomever,
I can see on my Substack feed that everyone is beginning to grow tired of the celebratory notes of subscriber counts - the screenshots of growth - the thank you, thank you, thank yous! and that’s fine. Understandable. The internet ricochets often between her likes and dislikes. We try to manage.
As someone who has been writing since she was, like, 6, I have always wanted to be a writer. As someone who was on the internet when Influencing became a thing, I have been obsessed with trying to build a community. The latter has been quite damaging; finding a niche which opens you up to an easy, quick following is seemingly impossible with someone that has so many interests like me. What I’m interested in continuously changes, the only habit prevailing through it all being writing. That’s a broad term, writing. So it’s difficult.
I’m writing about writing! Shit. Again another situation my Substack feed is tired of. What can a girl do?
Regardless, my dear reader, I had to thank you. I’ve spent so many years writing for that dream audience, and it never went anywhere. When I started this Substack, it was more or less an already lost cause, in my eyes. I just tried to simply be consistent with one post a week - it was my diary. I was almost glad that no one was really reading, because the empty seats in my audience made it easier to keep going. I used to get less nervous about letting a piece go. The occasional comment was nice (thank you!), and I urged myself to keep going simply so that I didn’t lose my love for writing to my 9-5, like so many.
I’m scared to say this, but I really hate that more or less, we tend to pretend we do not want success. You know when someone’s Tik Tok goes viral, they’re asked for a story time, to which they always respond: I really didn’t expect this would get so much attention…
I don’t think anyone is posting on a public account without the inkling that whatever it is could go viral. This sounds harsh, I think, but it’s truthful. This is the way of the internet, is it not? We are constantly at the crux of… being seen by so many. I don’t want to pretend that I don’t hope every time I click Post. That I didn’t hope, every time, even when I knew my friends who’d subscribed weren’t reading. I don’t want to pretend that I didn’t come across other newsletters and tried to figure what their secret was to growth. And, worse, that I don’t regularly try to calm the hot-green jealousy in my chest when I see someone go viral in a week, or a day, or when someone writes the perfect piece about the perfect subject.
In our modern-day, on our little bubble of the internet which connects us all, content has become currency. Most of the time, the more you post, the quicker you gain. At least that’s what they say. And posting, well, is like standing at a cliffside: both disorienting and exciting; there are so many What ifs! We all know how big things can get, here, how you can get rich and famous in what seems like a blink of an eye. It’s like lottery - at least it was to me. And I’m trying to unlearn that. Trying to do things just for the love of it - aren’t we all? But there are always those pesky numbers, and we will always watch them, I think.
I’ve written this post a few times - disregarded it an equal amount of times. Then started I Who Have Never Known Men, and the opening lines1 are as follows:
“[…] I spend a lot of time in one of the armchairs, rereading the books. I only recently started taking an interest in the prefaces. The authors talk readily about themselves, explaining their reasons for writing the book. This surprises me: surely it was more usual in that world than in the one in which I have lived for people to pass on the knowledge they had acquired? They often seem to feel the need to emphasise that they wrote the book not out of vanity, but because someone asked them to, and that they had thought about it long and hard before accepting. How strange! It suggests that people were not avid to learn, and that you had to apologise for wanting to convey your knowledge.”
I thought about this quote for a long time. While I pondered it, I also thought if it was accidental that I have gained over 50 subscribers in the 2 weeks or if it’s something I have been actively pursuing? A little bit of both, I think. I’ve overcome my shyness of posting notes and commenting on other Substacks - that has helped me, algorithmically; the proof being that I’ve been rewarded by extra comments and interactions and connections with others. Rarely has it felt so easy on any other app, but I regularly feel seen among others newsletters, through others notes. It’s different here. I wonder how long it will last?
I also, as always, thought about why I write, when it often feels like I’m nonsensical. I am always - as you can see in many of my posts - overthinking the process, wondering if I’m good enough. I hate and love it. If I didn't, why would I always find myself at the keyboard, staring at blocks of words, hoping I can perfect them they make sense or have some meaning to someone else, some impact? I wonder why anyone else writes. And I wonder, most of all, why things like love and success must be framed as accidental things, when they are most certainly not. We deny it but the truth is good things only come with work, or courage, or trust, or the tiniest inkling of hope.
I signed off one of my past newsletters with: Amal. It means hope, and I keep hoping, and I think I should do so more often.
When I was pursuing my Literature degree we would often have to analyze what audience the writer was writing for, and why, before giving our own analysis. We’d have to study the decade and who was reading, if anyone was reading at all (think Emily Dickinson, for example, who was only appreciated after her years). I’m starting to believe that writers don’t know who their audience is until the audience walks over and studies what they’re doing, and decides to stay. You don’t decide that in advance, I think; you figure it out in retrospect. This is how Substack is. We’re all writing into the void, somehow, as is proven by our many notes, and occasionally, people decide to linger, and their lingering is what gives it all the more meaning, gives it context, brings out the truth in it.
Thank you for lingering.
Fuck it, I’m sentimental. I can’t help it! I know numbers aren’t ‘supposed to be’ important, and maybe 100 isn’t even that much, but I’ve been feeling so giddy - especially this last week - and so grateful for all the comments. I don’t know why there has been an uptick in views over here, but alas. I feel seen (I will explore more on why in my next post). The feeling in my chest see-saws between genuine happiness and utter terror, but mostly happiness. And I’ve realized, this week, that writing is something I’ll always be doing - and I just need to accept that, whether any type of affirmation is given to me, or not. I shouldn’t be so scared to accept that.
If I wasn’t in such a writer’s block, I’d write something more interesting. But for now, it’s just this thank you.
With so much love,
Amal
Literally the opening line, so no spoilers here. I would recommend reading this book. It is heavy, and made me cry, but wow, it’s amazingly haunting and incredibly written.
Your substack is the loveliest ‘lost cause’ there ever was. Thank *you*, Amal. We are so lucky to have you.
“overthinking the process, wondering if I’m good enough. I hate and love it.”
this is so me. thank you for making me feel that i am not alone. 🦤