I’d like to thank the Substackademy, all my writer parents, anyone who paid me the time of day, gawd…

It’s been a long road — almost a year. I have given a lot of myself to this place. In posts, in comments, in Notes…

How do I feel about it all? Drained but compelled to keep trying things and reaching out.

This note from December 2020 on IG still sums it up.

More deep and meaningful takes on arts and culture coming soon. Probably.

✌🏾

***

While reviewing the year – my year – I realised how many words I have spouted on countless topics. 😲 Some were commissioned, others just let out into the world like little paper airplanes or messages in bottles – mostly on here.

How easy it has been to feel adrift and despondent, to beat yourself up because you aren’t producing anything tangible each day, or ‘enough’, something that can be measured in views, clicks, likes, comments...

Something that validates you and why you’re here. I want to evolve ... to remain open to different points of view, to provoke new thoughts and feelings and to gain pleasure in the act of discovery. To make meaning.

I come from the Joan Didion school of writing – I write to know what I am thinking. It’s a compulsive pursuit and one that may go unrewarded. But that’s ok. You have to do for self first, or you won’t last.

Most freelance writers question their self-worth while they wait for the next commission, many diversify and move into areas such as events and podcasts (copywriting in my case).

I have vowed to keep stoking the inner journalist, even if the inbox bears meagre fruit, pitches go unanswered and posts often feel like a solitary howl into the aether.

I have dreamt about being a journalist since my late teens but it took a while to gain the confidence to deviate from the terra firma of a more respected career in law. That suit did not fit. And my folks never really understood.

What sustains me as a 45 year old isn’t the prospect of fame, wealth (ha) or legacy, it is developing my craft. And luckily, us writers aren’t sprinters with finite careers so you ain’t read nothin’ yet.