Falling upon Substack's double-edged blade

to be seen is to sell, and it is difficult to sell without selling out.

I’m a sucker for grand ideas.

Big outcomes. Deadlines. Optimistic expectations that more often than not set me up for failure. Comparison. Competition. Perfectionism. Biting off more than I can chew.

My entire being is fueled by this intrinsic drive to make it, to materialise my wildest ideas and usher them into the mortal realm. It’s what I live for. Ideas desperately gnaw at my windpipe, anxious for me to breathe life into them—vitality, grit. I want to feed them all, give them every last breath and watch them transform into something greater than I could ever have imagined before they inevitably vanish. I am too slow. Distracted. Confused. Overwhelmed. Time and time again, I am caught with my forehead creased and my arms outstretched, desperate to grasp at every chance of success.

When I began Ruminations, I wrote monthly—if that. I wrote what I wanted and I wrote entirely from the heart. Over time, the platform grew, my newsletter grew, and my approach to the letter shifted. I had turned on paid subscriptions and found an unexpectedly large readership I was eager to please and never let down. It was all so much simpler when the stakes were lower and Substack felt smaller.

These are growing pains. I’m at a stage in my life where everything I know is changing. In the past fortnight, I quit my job after 4 years in nursing to pursue a life in the arts and I have my final shifts at the hospital this week. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly, but I feel like I’ve pulled the rug out from beneath my own feet and fallen flat on my ass. The uncertainty scares me. The art sector is notoriously difficult to find work in and I am now facing that reality head on. I’m returning to admin work for now, but it’s hopefully just a stepping stone. A means to an end. Despite moving in what feels like the right direction, my dreams have never felt so out of reach.

Over the weekend, I saw Aurora live for the first time. I was up the front, an arm’s length from the guard rail, swaying and singing and sobbing as I became one in a crowd of many who had gathered to watch her transform the grounds of a historic prison (yes, you read that right) into something ethereal. I’ve listened to Aurora since I was a teen and her EP Running with the Wolves had just come out. I’d found it on YouTube, playing in the background of a poem someone on Tumblr had written. I was hooked. Over the years, Aurora’s music has been a constant in my life. I missed the first time she came to Perth and refused to miss her again.

There is a difference between a singer and an artist; one entertains, one ignites. Aurora is the latter. When I saw Aurora, I saw her. An unfiltered, powerful expression of everything she is and stands for and believes and when I say she transformed the stage what I really mean is that she transcended it. She does not perform; she reveals. I’d spent my life listening to Aurora the artist, but in the flesh? I realised that I was seeing and listening to Aurora, the art.

I will cherish this photo forever.

Between watching Aurora live and seeing Doechii and Chappell Roan’s wins at The Grammys, I’ve never been more inspired by artists who are willing to dare. Who fuck up and crash out and build themselves from the soul up. More than anything, I’m inspired by artists who become the art.

Things have changed here on Substack—a natural course of events as any platform you interact with grows. I think many of us who joined pre-notes naively believed we’d found a literary hideaway. It was a platform brimming with possibility and success felt like fair game. It was easy to stumble upon publications sharing vastly different things. I think writers felt more free to show up exactly as they pleased—to offer their style, ideas and voice at their own pace.

Over time, my relationship with the platform has become…complicated. Many of Substack’s updates are double-edged; there’s a price to pay with each improvement. I now harbour the same ripple of anxiety Instagram and TikTok bring me when I open notes. I used to love reading through the letters in my inbox, but now they’re overwhelming to look at, their orange dots urging me to open open open them all at once. The biggest shift as a user of Substack’s platform and app has been its transition from a calm, comforting digital space to one marred by a new sense of urgency and scarcity. To be seen is to sell, and it is difficult to sell without selling out. Or at the very least, without becoming a more marketable, pitchable version of yourself (on notes, preferably).

Many of my decisions have been influenced by my desire for this letter, and thus my writing, to be seen. On reflection, chasing significance has resulted in what often feels like insignificant, inauthentic work. This is not to say that I ever stopped trying to produce good work—no, not at all. Rather, I stopped trying to produce work I was good at and writing how I liked to: slowly, intensely, and in line with my own creative rhythms.

My writing here has become formulaic in an attempt to remain relevant and present on the platform and in your inbox. I hear time and time again that consistent, weekly or fortnightly letters are the key to ‘success’ and building a ‘loyal’ readership, and while this may be true for many, I would rather be the exception that proves the rule.

This is all to say that things are, once again, changing. But this time not to further stretch my capacity, reach for perfection, or deliver what I think could become popular or that an algorithm will like best. This is my small, public revolt. My plea for authenticity and a relinquishing of expectation.

I no longer want to entertain—I want to ignite.

This letter was partly inspired by the following piece by

Hannah Cao

:

I don't want to be cool, I just want to be me

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A small disclaimer

If you are a fan of Altars & Artists, I can assure you the series isn’t going anywhere :) It’s something I’m incredibly proud of and the only thing I’ve remained consistent with on Ruminations (a sign of my genuine love for it). The next artist is writing their answers as we speak and you’ll get to read them very soon xx

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