I published my first Substack post last night. After nearly a decade of pacing around a pool that I’d only managed to dip my toes in, I finally jumped in. I hit the publish button. I was elated and felt like anything was possible.
And right on schedule, the moment I woke up, the doubt set in. I had a few comments & likes which thrilled me. Then I started clicking around and spent the next hour reading posts from women for whom words like ‘liminal’ and ‘canon of performative femininity’ seem as natural as breathing. And so it went: elation to despair in less than 12 hours. Thank you, Internet.
I have a friend, Pamela, who I surf with a lot. She started surfing during Covid and considering how long she’s been surfing, she’s amazing. I tell her that all the time, but she doesn’t see it that way. She is constantly comparing herself to her own “standard” of a good surfer (which she also found on the Internet), and more often than not, is disappointed by how she measures up.
I tell her this is bonkers. Surfing is supposed to be fun! It’s about being in the ocean, feeling the thrill of zipping across a wave face, feeling terrified as you get hoisted “over the falls” while a wave breaks on top of you. Surfing is a journey, I always say. It’s about the good waves AND the wipeouts. She always nods as if to say, you are a fountain of bumper sticker surf wisdom.
This morning, after my bout of self-pity, I realized I’m doing the exact same thing as Pamela, but with my writing. I, too, am comparing myself to a standard I’ve created (and crafted from the Internet). I have no business comparing myself to others who are on day 50, 500, or 5000.
Where I’m heading on my writing journey, I’m not exactly sure. I don’t have a finite outcome in mind. I’m simply trying to discover what I might along the way. Maybe I’ll learn I can’t write at all. Maybe I’ll learn that writing is the thing I’ve been missing my whole life. I don’t know yet. All I know is that I’ve felt compelled to start for a very long time. And I finally have.
It’s hard not to get stuck in the comparison game. But what if instead of focusing on results, I focused on how it felt to write about my doubt? To actually publish after years of being too scared to? What if Pamela focused on how she felt during her surf session, the terror of going over the falls, the peace while watching the sunrise? What if we stopped obsessing over the outcome and paid attention to the feeling?
I don’t know what day ten, fifty, or a hundred of this writing journey will bring, but it doesn’t matter. This one felt good.