Is anything I write worth reading?

Young woman writing by Auguste de la Brely

I’m writing this, my first Substack article, with the freedom of knowing that perhaps no one will read it at all. And to be honest, I highly doubt anyone will and I’m at peace with that. It’s oddly freeing in a way.

I actually work as a Copywriter for a living and used to write my own blog many years ago, primarily when I was a teenager and in my very early 20s.

But as I’ve gotten older I fear I’ve become more cynical. Teenage me was convinced that blogging about the latest Lush bath bomb or piece of homeware meant something. That my voice needed to be heard amongst all of the other voices. And, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that those things don’t have value! But now I wonder if any of my thoughts, feelings or opinion really do hold any weight.

Woman writing at a desk by John Lessore

That was a time though where the internet was much less saturated. There wasn’t as much blog content. You could take a picture of your lipstick on a fluffy bed sheet and it was really chic or cool. Now in a world of easily uploaded videos, ChatGPT and AI generated images, I feel like we’re all losing a real sense of what’s attainable. We’re in an age obsessed with productivity and content. It’s so important to know your own personal brand, they say, but how can you do that if you don’t even know yourself?

We’re also at an age that is prioritising productivity. More content they say! More videos! More films! More literature! And who cares if it’s even created by a person?

It’s hard to keep up with this as one human with one brain and only so many hours in the day. I think a lot, actually, about all the things I want to write. All the opinions I want to put out there. But I feel weirdly apathetic about it all these days. Where do you even start? You have to find the energy to write the thing. Then promote the thing on God knows how many different social media platforms.

Woman writing a letter by Erik Renssen 2018

And, that’s not to say that I don’t think human writing has any value. I don’t believe that at all. I am a writer because I know the magic that comes with something that’s incredibly well written. That amazing feeling where you pick up a book and you can’t read it quickly enough. The addictive thrill of not being able to sleep until you finish it.

Or how about those books that touch you in a way that you weren’t even sure was possible? I remember finishing Never Let Me Go and crying hysterically at the end. I was truly, horrifically heartbroken by that book. Thanks, Kazuo.

Sometimes I feel emotional thinking about Jane Austen and her legacy. A woman who lived a relatively short life by our standards and yet wrote books that stand the test of time and form the blueprint of many of the novels and books we have today. Is that not one of the joys of writing? Knowing that something so magical can actually be created by one person. And, knowing perhaps maybe we might do that one day, too?

So, here I’ll end my rambling with one final note. I may not quite be convinced that my writing has value. But, reader, I know your thoughts, feelings and opinions do. I’d rather read that than ChatGPT’s thoughts any day of the week.