121 substack posts taught me no one cares about my writing

Internet strangers care about me as a person, isn’t that better than being awesome?

Dear internet stranger,

If you hadn’t opened these emails I’ve been sending, and responded whether with genuine curiosity or a quick emoji, I wouldn’t be writing. Not here, not anywhere, nothing except grocery lists. 

5 years ago

It was the lock down.

First, with the rest of the world, I was physically locked down, then eventually sh*t happened and I continued to be locked up in spirit and mind, way after the world started being mobile again.

I started scratching here on substack when it was really just emails! Because that’s exactly what I needed, to reach out, make a connection to someone somewhere in the world, casting signals into the nebula as in Carl Sagan’s Contact. 

And you, my dear internet stranger, replied. 

Originally an impulsive escape

This substack was initially named after me, as it was an impulsive escape from the then-social media plague of branding and performative culture (which we now know has persisted become a common cold).

I owe it to you that I even started. 

And, started i did with memories of failing composition in both languages i studied and literature, too.

5 years ago, I didn’t know i was neurodivergent, i struggled, as with everything else, with writing. I didn’t understand where the problems lie, or even what my problems were.

Eventually, you, internet stranger I’ve never met, waved a digital hand at me, and winked. I feel more care than i ever had from my school teachers. 

Last week, i sat down with lemon water and pepper crackers and a weighted blanket, i picked and read a handful of the last 121 posts I’ve written to you. 

The first 50 or so were so fun. I actually giggled reading what I’ve written. 

Bad entertainment

Soon after, the tone went from jolly irreverent to self soothing and later it was just a struggle. Struggle. And more struggle. I’m sorry. 

Not sorry for what happened to me. Sorry that you had to see it, as if the world burning isn’t entertainment enough. 

Lunarian said that i was expecting too much of myself, to do what i set out to do from day one of this substack—to be honest, AND then expect to be upbeat in hell.

To give myself credit, I did try. But, oh boy, that was as exhausting as the struggle itself. 

Growing & naming

I can’t remember when I changed this substack name to match the name i use for my rubbish created creatures—THE beakies of Noisybeak. I changed the substack name because I felt myself growing. This collection of written expression had to feel bigger than me. It was us, me and the beakies.

And, time has passed, yet again, surprise! Once again, I’ve grown.

I’ve grown smaller, relative to the world. The world that i want to build. A new name is coming. 

Tell you more soon, dear internet stranger. Wishing you the stars. marn