On self indulgence

One of the number one concerns I hear from people (women) sharing their writing for the first time, is the worry of self indulgence. The central feeling of: who the fuck cares what I have to say and what gives me the right to say it? I get it. We all have our own personal tale of why this haunts us, something someone said, an overhang from school when all our opinions in our own essays had to be backed up by someone else’s, the way that carries through to the workplace. It’s actually a long process to take those layers off and think: it matters because it matters to me. 

For some delusional reason I don’t really have this fear. So much so that there were times I probably should have shut the fuck up. Eg, in my aforementioned think piece about Brexit when I had no facts only feelings about what it meant. But a few horrifyingly embarrassing moments aside, it has served me well to have such conviction. And I have some stuff to say. 

It gets a bit existential, like why does anything matter? What does it mean to say anything? And you sort of have to hold on, (as best you can) to the belief that it does and you do. When I think about the pieces of writing that have had the greatest impact on me, it is NOT academic essays, magazine articles backed by experts and sources or well researched books. And I’m not saying those things aren’t important, I'm just saying, that isn’t what squeezes my heart and grabs me by the shoulders to shake me and wake me up from a slumber. The thing that jumps off the page to bite me is someone’s expression of truth. It is an honest account of human existence. So. 

Self indulgence is neither here nor there. In fact if you experience life acutely and it makes you want to write things down, then I’d argue the most generous thing you can do is write them down. I think writing about life is a generous way to live. I don’t necessarily think it is of the most noble importance, or that it means anything more than anything else, only that, if it’s in you to do it, then it’s better to do it than to swallow them. The words. 

When I was single and dating various wrong-for-me men, I’d often feel unable to not say my piece when it was all over. I’d find it hard not to send that long paragraph text message to a boy who didn’t care about how he hurt my feelings or treated me badly. I’d need to explain it. Teach him! Issy once said, it’s not your job to teach everyone, some of them don’t deserve your words. And that was a very nice way to put it, but the essence of what she helped me realise is to consider where to put my words. Holding fire on some of those paragraph texts isn’t such a bad thing. And that doesn’t mean gagging yourself of expression. The expression can be elsewhere. 

And so I return to this, it is an act of generosity to write. And it is an act of generosity to share. It means something to read something that makes you feel less lonely, more seen, starkly mortifyingly seen, to relate, to see something of you in them, to feel it. That means something. And if your worry of self indulgence stops you, well this is a you thing. 

Now here is what I think. We have internalised a lot of things, but one of those things is that it’s embarrassing to care, to put yourself out there, to be vulnerable with truth. To prove this I’d suggest reading most people’s instagram captions. Pithy one liners, things that could definitely never be received as embarrassing because they have a coolness, a distance, they don’t make anyone go red in the face. Because imagine being so vulnerable as to post a photograph where you personally think you look nice and not undercut that with one sentence of nonchalance. Imagine being so vulnerable as to say something real? 

I realised quickly that not everyone was here for my exact flavour. It was too much for a lot of people, repelling even? But it was always more important for me to say the thing than to be seen as cool. And once that is gone, well there is a world of freedom to be had. The stronger I have got in my own flavour, the more distilled, the more good that has come to me. And even the people who cringe inside, well, I always have a feeling if given the opportunity they would like to be my friend. Know what I’m saying? We’re just icked out by ourselves and when someone shows us those insides, well yeah of course sometimes we wanna hurl. But stand still long enough and there is something else. 

Our insides are weird and grimey and uncool and contrary and not always nice and sometimes mean and not always smooth at the edges. But seeing those things, seeing yourself on the page, that is the stuff. Who said what to you to make you think that you having things to say was self indulgent?