It’s happening again. I am up early, candle lit, caffeine in my blood. The children are still sleeping. By all accounts, I have done everything right. Yet here I sit, empty. My mind is blank. The cursor blinks, taunting me.
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I have been ruthlessly unsubscribing for weeks now. Emails. Substacks. Podcasts I never listen to. Are you sure you want to unsubscribe? Yes. Yes, I am 1,000% sure. I need space in my inbox, space in my brain, space in my heart. The task, however, feels endless. A bottomless pit. No matter how much I unsubscribe, I am still drowning in content.
Perhaps this is at the root of my current writer’s block: I do not want to contribute to anyone’s drowning. I do not wish to make “content.” I wish to make art. Slow, meaningful, honest, gritty, from-the-depths-of-my-heart, never-enhanced-by-AI, art.
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I have not been medically diagnosed with misophonia, but I am 99% sure if I were ever given some kind of professional assessment, the report would come back positive. Whenever I hear people chewing food, I feel like I am crawling out of my skin. Like I could murder a small animal. Panic begins coursing through my body, and I feel an acute need to flee the room, to slap my hands over my ears and scream MAKE IT STOP.
I can—and often do—tune out the sound of my kids bickering. I have, at times, let all three of my babies cry. I actually enjoy listening to Olivia Rodrigo blaring through my headphones at the highest decibel while I exercise or clean the house. I can handle the sound of construction, a lawn mower, a TV show humming in the background.
I cannot, however, listen to someone eating chips.
I have tried many times to describe this plight to my husband, who thinks I am being dramatic. I have attempted to explain that when people are chewing food in my general vicinity, it feels like their mouth is IN my ear.
Where normal people probably hear that chomp chomp chomp at a volume three, for some bizarre reason, I hear it at a volume ten.
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The last time I put Instagram on my phone, I lasted three days. The ocean of content hit my nervous system like a person eating carrots next to me in an elevator. I was crawling out of my skin. Overwhelmed. Frazzled. Unnaturally upset for no particular reason.
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A writer recently offered a sale to their well-known Substack, which is all about the craft of writing. I did not think twice before subscribing. Here, take my money. Make me a better writer, please and thank you.
Confession: I often hit subscribe on ANY Substack promising to make me a better writer. I sign up for craft tips, writing challenges, interviews and prompts and exercises galore.
Here’s the kicker. All those Substacks I’ve subscribed to, promising to make me a better writer? I rarely read them. The latest writer guru I subscribed to—the one who is actually quite lovely and brilliant and has plenty of amazing tips—puts out, on average, six new posts a week. Six. New. Posts. A. Week.
I was drowning before I even got started.
It’s not her fault, of course. From what I gather, she earns her living this way, writing about writing. I can only imagine the stress and pressure she feels to keep putting out more and more and more writing tips, to keep the subscriptions coming, to keep the people happy.
The information is, no doubt, good. Her advice and tips and prompts are the kinds of things that could undeniably make me a better writer.
Then again, is it possible to become a better writer if you spend more time reading about writing than actually writing?
Are you sure you want to unsubscribe? Yes.
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Apparently I can work on a book for three years, but I cannot be on Instagram for three days.
What gives?
I am learning this lesson, again, for what feels like the hundredth time: in order to create in the margins, you must protect your margins. Not only in terms of your time and schedule, but also in terms of your actual brain.
Caring for your mind is caring for your writing. Deleting Instagram is caring for your writing. Dare I say it—hello unpopular opinion—unsubscribing from writing tips is caring for your writing.
Alas, a needed disclaimer: I am me and you are you. I admittedly have a low capacity for social media, for videos and “content” and listicles and noise. You might be different. Listening to someone eat carrots in an elevator might not bother you at all.
As for me and my creative life, I am learning I can either subscribe to 15 Substacks promising to make me a better writer, or I can re-read any book by Anne Lamott. One overwhelms me. One compels me to put pen to paper. I can sit on my phone for an hour, engulfed in reels and Canva graphics and Botox ads. Or I can sit in my backyard with a notebook in my lap, listening to the birds. One distracts me. One drives me to pay attention to the world.
I cannot drown in content and make good art at the same time. Those two things are, for me at least, mutually exclusive. Something’s gotta give.
The good news: every day, the choice is mine.
Related posts you might like: The Art I Want to Make, Good Friends Help Friends Set Boundaries, Waiting on Bread & A Whisper
This reminds me of the apt quote: “Do you want to do intellectual work? Begin by creating within you a zone of silence.” A Zone of Silence is always at odds with social media.
Preserve it at all costs.
This is such a compelling read, I think because it explains what I've been trying to to articulate myself (as just a normal person, not someone who makes any sort of a living creating content online 😅). In the last month or so I've tried a new app blocker app (and yes, the irony is a little funny) that limits my socials to Saturday. And interestingly, not only am I less frazzled, more connected to my kids, less likely to explode with inexplicable mom rage, and generally more content with my very normal life...but I also find myself much less enamored with the noise that I suddenly have access to on Saturday. It's like the quiet has become normal again...like maybe we weren't made to exist with this much background noise, anyway. 😵💫😵💫