Why Substack?

or, why writing?

Here I am, doing the one thing I feel I suck at: trying to give myself another chance to become better at it. Better than my own self, of course. Competitions never lured me. I always wanted to do better in my own eyes, am I better than yesterday, yesteryear? Rather than trying to validate my progress by looking at whether or not I’ve pleased the people around me.

I vividly remember myself as a little girl with big dreams and even bigger secrets- secrets I wanted to share with someone. But even with my tiny brain and limited understanding, I concluded that people couldn't be trusted. That autumn evening, when the picturesque falling leaves resembled poetry, was the first time I got myself a diary.

I could imagine my special life ahead, so I wanted to keep a track of where I am going, how I am growing. That’s how it began: huddled in a corner at night, writing about my life as a child of nine. I absolutely loved it- the quiet, the rhythm of pen, the friction of paper, and a true friend that I’d finally found. I could share my heart out with my dear diary, without the fear of being judged or misunderstood, and above all, my secrets were safe.

But as I kept writing more and more, it started becoming a need. I didn’t feel my day was complete, until I had written something, anything.

This reminds me of a T.S. Eliot quote,
”You write because you feel the need to free yourself of something.”

It’s been more than sixteen years, and I still feel that urge, that maddening drive, that undying need to scribe, and in the process, feel more of what I already feel.

I’d been on two other writing platforms before- one platform died out and I was invisible on the other. I’ve been on Substack for a year now, seeing the communities grow and support each other, but I never thought of publishing my poetries and writings before. The simple reason: I am too scared to be invisible. The accurate reason: I don’t think I am good at writing, and if I remain invisible here, that fear will be significantly fuelled.

Then why now?
Life’s too short, isn’t it?
I may as well die knowing that I tried, rather than regret letting my fear win again.

To love is to be vulnerable, I believe. Whenever I sing, I am vulnerable to the judgements of others and my own, to maybe hitting a wrong note while being deeply immersed in the melody, and realising that I ruined the song with that wrong note.
But I tell myself that it’s ok, it’s ok that I bared my heart and became vulnerable in front of an audience. That I loved fully, I lived fully.

I’m going to tell myself the same when I publish my works here at Substack-
I am here to love fully… I am here to live fully…