Writers Have Feelings Too.

Wherever I go, I bring my whole self with me.

Last week, I opened up about my challenges in making my Substack writing financially sustainable. While I didn’t expect anyone to subscribe to me, I also must say that I didn’t expect so many people to unsubscribe to me.

I can’t lie that it hurts to login every day and see that even more people have unsubscribed from both paid and free tiers. I wish the first thing I see on my dashboard weren’t a glaring reminder of how many subscribers and dollars I’ve lost.

Can I just access my drafts, please?

It feels like I’ve been kicked in the shins for speaking up about my reality as a black woman writer who creates outside the box. It’s almost as if some people were angry that I spoke up, and wanted to do me in just a little bit more.

Aside from this, I wondered if some people speculated that I was quitting my blog, so they preemptively withdrew their support.

Obviously, I am still here.

If I am quiet at all this month, it’s because I’m working on a book.

To be honest, I think it’s a miracle that I kept publishing every single week through my big move to a new city, estrangement from my abusive family, and all of the mental health challenges that I experienced as a result of pulling through these transitions without adequate emotional support.

I may have been publishing work that diverged from certain people’s expectations, but I showed up fully nonetheless, sharing the delicious fruit of my heart and mind.

…

But in regards to all the people who unsubscribed-I once again question, why an appropriate response to an Artist’s discouragement would be to withdraw support.

However, I do think that it drives home the point I made in my last piece, about not being valued as an Artist.

Am I allowed to be a living, breathing creature with feelings?

Is it that the moment I feel pressured to give up, everyone abandons me?

Are they not aware that the work I do comes with unique challenges?

I’m afraid that we’ve become so used to soulless, factory-farmed Art that we forget that good writing takes time, space, energy, resources, heart, and soul.

The only writers who can consistently bear fruit without these elements are robots.

And I’m sorry but I am not that.

Thankfully, if that’s what you want, you can find it anywhere.

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Like many talented black writers, I’m often expected (mostly by white people) to cater to the perspective of the average white person.

My blackness is acceptable as a touch of spice in my writing, but not the whole cake.

If I write about my lived experiences as a black woman in a way that makes white people uncomfortable, suddenly my perspective is divisive, threatening, or dumb.

The easiest thing to do is to cancel me.

Especially within the pseudo-intellectual “heterodox” sphere on Substack that is still largely whitewashed and narrow-minded.

I think the fact that I am both, wholly myself and aware of my social positioning means that I have limited use as a political pawn or a comfort animal, which leaves many people asking, “Well, what are you good for then?”

Often, the retracted head pats also lead to financial loss.

Today, I reminded myself that being fearful of losing money for speaking truth is not financial freedom. And, if some of my former readers only supported a version of me that isn’t real, then it’s best that they move onto something that truly is not real.

I’ll find a way to rebuild.

I still felt discouraged on a more holistic level, because in the 17 years I’ve been a creator on various platforms, I have never built a “large” audience (>5k) for my work.

As a multi-disciplinary Artist (Film, Dance, Writing), I’ve gone through many points where I have not felt recognized and compensated for my talent and hard work in the ways I deserve.

On the other hand, where it may be easy for me to capture attention, I often feel that the spaces where I am initially welcome to shine my light, do not have the capacity to hold space for me in my fullness.

So, I ask myself, is this even possible for me? I try not to give up on my dreams.

I remind myself that I have been here before, just in a different format. Hopefully, this too shall pass—even if it’s only a feeling that passes, for my own peace of mind.

And I remind myself that even though I’m not where I thought I should be by now, I am still OK.

Beyond OK, I am whole…and that is what matters most to me.

I am very grateful for the enriched connections I have formed through this platform. There are people following me who really get it, and who truly support me in the ways they are able—even if, after this chapter of growth, they are now a smaller minority.

I remember all the fruit that has come of me embarking on this journey, including valuable connections, and increased visibility to other black women who are scouring the Earth for someone they can relate to.

But I resist the urge to burn my candle at both ends, anxiously writing things that I think will make people pay or stay. That has never been my way.

I promised myself that wherever I go, I will bring my whole self with me.

My voice has inherent value, and the magic is that it flows from my heart, whenever it is time.