confessions of a closet writer

My coming out story! p.s. there's vomit

You might be wondering why I started this Substack. Fair question.

There’s the obvious, simple reason: I love to write. I find it addicting. When I hit a flow state, the words literally pour out of me like… well, like the time I threw up in my babysitter’s car in third grade on the way home from school, to which my little brother exclaimed, “That’s today’s hot dog lunch!”

For some reason, my brother still taunts me with that story to this day??? And I was mortified by it. throwing up, so embarrassing. who does that? ew. not me.

I digress.

There’s another, more honest reason I started this blog — one that doesn’t involve any vomiting metaphors. I’m ready to claim the title of “writer.”

I recently chatted about this with a group of gals, including another writer friend. She expressed how, for the longest time, she was hesitant to call herself a writer, for fear of being judged, fear of being seen, fear of what putting on that title would mean.

At the time, I joked: “Why is it that women feel as though we have to “earn” a title, while a guy will just like buy a journal and call himself a writer?” I said this in jest, but I think it highlights a (stereotypical) gendered norm where men step confidently into titles, both personal and professional, where women hesitate.

We laughed and gabbed as girls do, but in the days following, I really sat with that conversation. Though I’ve been publishing my writing for years, it has always been done in semi-secret. I masked it under my “value for privacy”, but when I boiled it down, I knew there was something deeper there.

So I peeled back the layers and gave voice to my fears and doubts:

what if people judge me?
are they going to think I’m trying too hard?
what if I’m not any good?
what if no one cares what I have to say?
is following my passion just a silly waste of time?

And then I said, Fuck it. Sorry, it’s typically not my style to use profanity, but this is the one time it feels completely warranted.

I realized I don’t care if no one understands me, if they don’t care what I have to say, if they think I’m silly, or if I’m not any good. I don’t care if I only have one follower on this platform, or if no one ever reads my work.

I am a writer. I’m wearing that title, and I’m not taking it off. Because I would rather be who I am and create my art than live a small life, afraid of being seen, afraid of my own light, afraid of taking that step.

walk boldly,

Caroline