Writer, on her eighth day off of social media has, surprise surprise, so many thoughts about it.
Productivity is marginally up. I am not as of yet the most prolific writer who's ever walked this Instagramless existence. I am still spilling coffee on my shirt.
Hello from my Instagram hiatus! It feels a little bit like I’ve turned off a radio in the corner of the proverbial room of my mind, and didn’t realize how much constant info (and constant updates about each other’s lives) I get all the time; who has had the best croissant breakfast sandwich of their life this week? What cute things has your dog been up to? Whomst among us had their turn to go see Taylor Swift? Did you wear sequins or tulle? What are you reading? And was it on a picturesque blanket that you procured on a trip to Sayulita? Is your Topo Chico seltzer and your sandals that are so comfy but a little too haggard for your Instagram Story conveniently out of frame? Have we millennials figured out jeans yet? can someone let me know? Who has an effortlessly breezy dress recommendation that doesn’t make me look questionably pregnant and won’t get caught in my bike chain (do you know how many dresses I’ve immediately ruined after getting on my bike? I’ll tell you: many. An embarrassing amount. Another one just on Monday. I am, somewhat regrettably, who I am.)
Taking a break from socials was incredibly necessary: I was (appropriately) horrifically embarrassed to see how many times I’ve reached for my phone absent-mindedly to open up the app that isn’t currently there during the first three days. I have become so glued to the metrics of my account, since social media can (and has been) this strange, weird, magical (searches for the next right word) tool / vessel / launching point for literally making my dreams come true. I do not mean that figuratively or take that lightly.
We hear it a lot that social media isn’t real, but here I am, a very real person, connecting with other similarly very real people every day, and these very real people (hi, that’s you) have made it so that very soon, like next week, literally, I will be taking virtual meetings with Very Fancy Publishing People about the book I have been in many ways writing since I was four years old. And those Very Fancy Publishing People are going to ask about things like metrics and graphs and engagement and content strategy, which up to this point has been: try very hard and spill your guts on the internet and then obsess over the obscurity and randomness of it all and try not to care too much but in actuality care so so so much and unknowingly tie all your worth in self as well as your hopes and dreams to being discovered by a few new people every day and somewhere in between, talk about coffee stains on your shirt and what we’re doing with our eyebrows these days and start a movement about insisting on the tenderness of bringing someone you love a glass of water and talk about the baby birds on your porch who might have flown away or maybe - I can hardly even fathom - died and who is this NEW bird in the nest, I hardly know. I think they’ll be impressed by that.
So I’ve taken this little break at arguably a really stupid time professionally in order to declare that strategy and progress and posting consistently to please the algorithm gods and have their face shineth upon me can wait. And a new layer that I wasn’t expecting to this has reared its special little head: I guess I secretly thought I’d become instantly incredibly prolific, writing as if possessed up in my Instagramless chambers, hammering out essay after essay. In reality I have been doing all the boring and necessary business recalibration to create more of a writing schedule for myself so, for instance, hi, this newsletter comes out every Friday as intended, as opposed to occasionally on Wednesdays, like today. In reality I am coming to terms with all the ways I’ve been running on fumes and fear and scarcity and imposter syndrome for the last two years. I am coming to terms with how to be the adult in the proverbial room of my life, who gets to decide how much and how often and how loud to listen to the proverbial radio. I am remembering how nice it is to write in a quiet room, as lovely and sweet and silly and entertaining and comforting the sound of the radio can be. And, perhaps most importantly, that even when I have the radio off, it doesn’t mean I have to do anything particularly incredible/ meaningful/ productive with that time. I could just, like, hang out in my own gentle company, and that would be fine and a good use of time.
Thank you, sincerely, you, dear Reader, for the ways you support my work. I am zero percent hyperbolic when I say each of you hands me an incredible gift each time you read my work, write a comment, share it with a friend. You have changed my life. This feels like a really wild, scary, twilight zone, begrudgingly necessary time of reprieve, inventory, and recalibration. And I’m scared-excited about what is ahead. Thank you for making it so I am not alone.
While we’re on the subject of business inventory etc:
In Good Company - Sunday, June 25th at 10:30am - 12pm EST
Our next gathering of In Good Company (a monthly writing workshop) is going to be Sunday, June 25th. We’ll be writing about the way introduce ourselves.
No need to register - a Zoom link will be sent out to paid Substack subscribers 24 hrs before.
The Collective Conversation - Tuesday, June 27th at 7pm EST
This month for The Collective Conversation, we’re discussing identity, perception, and the way we show up in the world - what parts of ourselves we choose to share, and when/ where/ with whom we feel most ourselves.
Register here for this event!
xo jess.