Begin Again

I have been writing on Substack for well over a year now. When I first arrived, my focus was to build my writing habit, grow an audience, and really hone in on my writing voice. Ive been blogging MUCH MUCH longer.

For the past year, though, I have found myself in this never-ending circle.

I spend countless hours reading other people’s articles, then I look back at my own little space and feel this huge desire to rip the whole thing apart and redo it. The artwork. The layouts. The structure.

And yes, especially the writing.

I have been writing since I was able to string words together. I have a couple of books floating around in the universe, yet I still flounder when it comes to figuring out who exactly I am as a writer.

Apparently, writing for years does not automatically hand you a shiny little name tag that says, “Hello, I am a fully formed writer with a clear direction and absolutely no creative identity crisis.”

Rude, honestly.

The Busy Brain Behind the Blank Page

I think I have ADHD that manifests bigger when I open a blank page on my computer.

It is a voice in my head that says things like:

“You are all over the place.”

“You need to focus better.”

“Is anyone really going to want to read your words?”

That blank page can feel less like an invitation and more like a judgmental little rectangle of doom. It sits there glowing at me, waiting for brilliance, while my brain is off chasing fourteen different thoughts through the woods with no shoes on.

Writing to the Void

A friend who is also on Substack shared a thought that has been sticking with me lately. She wrote a piece called “Writing to the Void.”

Since she shared that, I have seen so many others here using that same phrase in their own notes and reflections. My takeaway from this “void” theory is that maybe we should put things out there simply because we want or need to share them, rather than having a huge, polished, perfectly strategic plan for everything 24/7.

Send it into the void.

Don’t stress so much about whether it is read, seen, appreciated, applauded, shared, or turned into internet confetti.

Just write it.

The theme of doing something simply for the joy of doing it has sparked something in me.

Why I Really Write

Why do I write?

Is it to be seen? To gain a pile of followers on the internet? To become some wildly organized content wizard with matching graphics, perfect branding, and a content calendar that doesn’t make me want to lie down dramatically in the garden?

No.

I write as a way to both share my thoughts and empty my brain.

Whether I am journaling with ink to paper or typing my fingers into a frenzy, the purpose is the same. I have a busy brain that needs to vomit its contents in some form so I can attempt to focus where I need to.

Lovely image, I know. Very elegant. Very literary. Very “someone get this woman a notebook and a snack.”

But it is true.

Writing is how I clear space. It is how I process. It is how I make sense of the beautiful, messy, heartbreaking, hilarious, overwhelming chaos of life.

The Beautiful Chaos I Came Here to Share

I started my Substack as a way of sharing my adventures and rambling thoughts about my life as I work through love, grief, the stress of being a caregiver for elderly parents, growing a giant garden, and otherwise soaking up the beautiful chaos that makes me who I am.

I use writing as a way to work through emotions.

To gather thoughts.

To understand myself.

And sometimes, I even feel like the things I share might help or inspire someone else who happens to stumble by at just the right time.

Maybe that is enough.

Maybe it does not all have to fit neatly into a box. Maybe every essay does not have to march in a straight line wearing sensible shoes.

Becoming a Chaos Writer

How do I manage to get so off track here?

And should I try to just embrace that part of me?

I am a chaos gardener, after all. I plant things with hope, curiosity, and a questionable amount of restraint. I experiment. I overdo it. I learn as I go. Some things thrive. Some things flop. Some things surprise the hell out of me.

Perhaps I can be okay with being a chaos writer too.

Maybe my writing does not need to be perfectly contained to be meaningful. Maybe it can ramble a little. Wander a little. Bloom in odd corners. Maybe the messy parts are not proof that I am failing.

Maybe they are proof that I am still growing.

Starting Over, Again

As I sit here this evening, putting words to my screen once again, I can’t help but feel thankful that I have found at least a small space to release the self-imposed expectations and embrace starting over here.

Again.

Because maybe starting over is not a failure.

Maybe it is just another way of saying, “I am still here. I am still listening. I am still becoming.”

Thanks for joining me.

Again.

Something to ponder: What would you create, write, share, or begin again if you stopped worrying about whether anyone would understand it, approve of it, or clap for it from the cheap seats?