Non-boring writing.

Because Margaret Atwood said it was okay.

“Can’t you just write for yourself? No one has to read it. Just get the words out.”

I’ve heard variations of this sentiment from many, many people (and almost every therapist I’ve ever seen). And while yes, I can and sometimes do write just for myself, it’s not very often. This kind of writing practice/journaling may be cathartic for some people, but I find it tedious. Turns out I’m not the only one!

At an event a few months ago for the launch of her new memoir (of Sorts), my literary Queen, Margaret Atwood, in her usual humorously deadpan way answered a question about her writing process and if she did any journalling. Atwood said that her relationship with journalling is complicated,

“I find it boring. Why do I need to write down my thoughts? I already know them.”

With those three sentences, the weird guilt I’ve had for not keeping any of my angsty teenage musings, and the jealousy I sometimes feel towards people who have boxes full of diaries to draw details and memories from were released from the stronghold of my mind. In a crowd of well over 500 people, that admission by Atwood flew right over the crowd and as if shot with a honing beam hit me right square in the chest. In it I heard a blessing, ‘Go my child, write how and what you want, and don’t bother yourself with boring shit.’

Listen -no shade to folks who love to journal. Especially if it helps process all the things we are dealing with in these terrible-no-good-upside-down-awful times. Everyone has to do whatever they can to maintain some kind of sanity. These days, my own processing happens by disassociating from reality while binge-watching BBC crime dramas and becoming way too invested in Jimmy Perez’s mental health (IYKYK).

I came to writing later in life. I’m not one of those writers who was reading prolifically as a toddler, or someone who thinks writing was their pre-ordained destiny. While I did have an excellent high school English teacher—shout out Mrs. Lees—who probably saw something in me decades before I ever caught a glimpse of it, becoming a writer-writer didn’t happen until after I’d had kids, and during the heyday of the mid-to-late aughts mommy-blogging era.

All of this to say, I’ve never really written “just for myself”. 90% of my writing has been online and everything has always been for the people/for my readers/for public consumption.

For (life) reasons I will eventually write about, it has now been close to six months since I have written anything for anyone. I do feel a bit guilty about that and more than a bit rusty. I want to apologize to (and am grateful for) all of you who have stuck around and are still subscribed to this much neglected Substack newsletter.

Sitting here typing, I’m realizing how much I’ve missed the clickity-clacking of my keyboard (yes, I bought myself a super-cool mechanical keyboard that has rainbow backlighting), the quiet sanctuary that is my shed-office-writing-space, and hitting the publish button (or the submission one).

So here I am, back at my keyboard and writing something. I can’t promise any kind of regularity or specific topics going forward, so if that is what you want, please see my recommendations for newsletters that will give you more of that. For now, I will be going back to some writing practices I know work for me and I promise (myself at least) to not go another six months without putting the proverbial pen to paper.

Here’s to non-boring writing. For you and for me.

XOXO,

N~