I Am Not The Kind of Person Who Writes What I Think Others Want to Hear.

I’ve been struggling with publishing my memoir excerpts.

Compared to every other recent piece of writing I have published, it feels like this memoir is the most ignored, least liked, and least appreciated of all.

I don’t think that’s a reflection on the quality or richness of my work—I think rather, it’s just one of those things where my work didn’t resonate the way I hoped it would.

I like to think of my Artist Platform as a restaurant with a rotating menu.

Whatever plants are in season, whatever I ingredients have on hand for the day, and whatever dishes I am inspired to create—is exactly what will be served.

Some people may not like what I am serving that day, or they may only come here because of what I served the first time. Some of last season’s dishes are available for purchase in the freezer, of course…

But if they want to ensure they are served the same thing fresh each time, they may have to find another place to eat for the day.

When you come here, you can rest assured that my food will always be cooked with love, with honest, healthy ingredients…and it’s always tasty by my own standards. There is always a greater intention and story behind my food.

My trusted patrons are here for whatever I am serving.

Everyone else is just passing through.

…

Contrary to what some people may think, I did not write my memoir for the sake of salacious gossip.

I wrote it as a part of my own healing journey, and I share these excerpts to express myself, and to convey some valuable insights I have gleaned through my lived experience.

This memoir is not intended to rake in a bunch of money, or to be popularized.

What I want most, is for someone to come along one day, read the whole thing, and feel deeply seen and acknowledged by my story.

I would love for this memoir to be the thing that so clearly articulates what she has been carrying all along in her mind, heart, and body. The thing that no one else has been able to speak to in such a way.

And I would love for her to let me know, so that I can feel seen too.

And we can feel seen together.

That is my dream for this memoir.

…

My stubborn ass considered throwing in the towel and not publishing anymore. I questioned why I am even writing here.

I wrote a long rant about it last night.

I am sensitive to Feeling unseen. Isn’t that very human of me?

But this morning, I woke up and reminded myself that I can never achieve my dream of feeling seen, and helping others feel seen—if I do not allow myself to be witnessed.

Even if being ignored or judged is part of that witnessing.

I have faith that someone on this Green Earth will be so grateful to hold my creations in her hand and heart one day.

So grateful that I pulled through my fears and sadness to weave this piece into the tapestry of my offering.

Some dreams take time. Could take months, or years...

But in the meantime, this is an opportunity to deepen my relationship with my work—to remember its value even when I have no external reminders of it, and especially when it’s hard.

I think I will need that for later.

…

So it has been an uphill battle to show up every week to share my vulnerable writings, and to feel ignored for it—especially in the face of other works that are deemed more praiseworthy.

I’ve never been the kind of person who writes what I think other people want to hear.

That’s how I landed here in the first place—by writing what others did not want to hear.

Some people will tell you to write for your audience, and I think that’s very bad advice.

Audiences are not a fixed entity—if you do that, you’ll just end up lost.

Your audience moulds to you, not the other way around.

I have to push past all the noise, all the opinions, all the awkwardness, and all the people who are loudly bustling their way out...

to water the little garden that is my memoir series.

Because she deserves to be here too. This is her home.

And I am the one who decides what flowers grow in my own home.

Everyone else is just a guest.

🌸