writers are just artsy hypocrites.
a friend of mine said many years ago. they were persistent—there’s just no way writers believe in nor practice everything they preach.
ruthless, but fair.
of course, their intent wasn’t to ridicule the craft, rather just express fascination as to how writers appear so emotionally aware, mentally together, in the euphemisms they string together so seamlessly.
(just heard the collective chuckle of every writer across the world, flattered, though astonished at such a generous description.)
the last time i wrote to you, which was twelve days ago—i’m sure you weren’t planning to hear from me so soon—i talked about the concept “good enough” in relation to the things we love the most. my most intimate words shared thus far—my relationship with language, painful, though candescent, and grappling with the obsessive desire for a singular state of fluency versus basking in the joys that come in the journey. upon sending that letter, i received messages from multiple people, all from unique walks of life, who were touched by my words, a shared deep-seated struggle and experience resurfaced, validated, and assuaged for them. to know that i consoled at least one person with my vulnerability is the ultimate success as a writer, as a human being.
allow me to confess, though. in the twelve days since i sent my last letter, i have never felt “good enough” gnaw at me more viciously before. i suppose my vulnerability awakened an insecurity long left ignored. this obsessive mindset of “good enough” has invaded every part of my life lately, from language to music to friendships—everything i love and enjoy. these days, i find myself feeling like a second choice, less than adequate, more than inferior.
insecurities resemble infestations. like mental infestations, pervasive. they turn happiness into anxiety, comfort into anguish. hard to control and hard to beat.
insecurities distort the happiest parts of life. they really ruin everything sometimes.
the words of my friend live in the back of my mind to this day, to the point where i’ve found myself asking all kinds of questions. if i recognize my battles, if i’ve given myself the space to be vulnerable, if part of me knows the why’s and the how’s, why is it still so hard? why must it all be so much easier said than done? why, as a writer, is it so difficult to listen to my own words?
the answer lies in our definition of writing as a craft and means of communication. and perhaps this definition differs from person to person, but here’s what i’ve learned over the years.
when i launched this newsletter, it had been an idea of mine stretching over many months prior. with all the time i had during summer ‘21 in which the idea blossomed—and the lack of time i have these days—one might think i should’ve gone through with it then as opposed to now.
truthfully, i just wasn’t ready for that level of vulnerability yet. i hadn’t yet understood, in full, what writing meant and means to me. well, to be fair, i still don’t. but perhaps now, i long to make sense of that meaning more than i ever did before.
one of the most profound definitions of writing i ever stumbled upon, though can’t seem to remember where or how, is a state of mind. writing is a state of mind. writers do not write because they are emotionally aware, because they are sane. they write in search for sanity. all of their euphemisms, their “words of wisdom”, they share with the hopes of speaking into existence. writing is a form of manifestation. writing is a consolation, a message of hope, for the reader and the writer alike.
i write to you to heal myself, just as much as i wish to console you. i write to help free myself and others of insecurity, of whatever weight the universe presses onto us. my words, even if i, myself, struggle to live by them at times, are never empty.
i concluded my welcome post with, “in fact, we’ll check on each other and give each other a space. to throw ourselves away, even for just a moment.” i want to thank you. for giving me that space. for helping me in my search.
i’m glad we can help each other.
mays
We sat on a roof, named every star
Shared every bruise and showed every scar
Hope has its proof, put your hand in mine
"Life has a beautiful, crazy design"
And time seemed to say
"Forget the world and its weight"
—Amazing Day, Coldplay
Hello May, I want to share why I choose to join this space...
For long long time, I have been carrying this heavy feeling of " i want to throw myself away" but where? the world feels so cold & unwelcomed doors.. never found a place until i accidently found you on twitter and instantly subscribed by your title.. I found my door. Someplace that felt welcoming. Yes I want to be here.. in search for my sanity, in search of meaning, loving and loving. And it is indeed for my search for sanity I read, find solace and reasons in words and always look forward to read your newsletters. If one is brave enough to throw themselves away.. there should also a way where we can embrace and offer ourselves some love. Voicing our vulnerabilities becomes our strength, It feels comforting when you encounter something and go hey I can totally relate to you.. let's carry ourselves and find a way to let go off this burden.. This is living. No matter what we can't give up on ourselves. I read somewhere that really comforts me can't recall who said it.. It goes.. You don't have to be right or wrong.. You just have to BE! and writing is a medium of expression that you use so beautifully! Thank you for writing May and checking on us <3 I really wish that may you always be surrounded with the gentle and kind things of all things in existence! Sending Love from afar. Take Care! Let's pick ourselves and let LOVE CARRY US FORWARD!
I truly appreciate you sharing a piece of your soul through your arrangement of words. It resonated deeply with me. I suppose, it is fair to say that most writers share that same trait, right? I see myself coming back to this piece during times of despair. Thank you once again, and I hope you have gentle day ahead with comfort by your side. Cheers! <3