One of my main problems as a writer is the deadline.
It’s always been a problem. Always been a bitch. I don’t stick to a schedule and sometimes skip deadlines which end up with moi, apologizing to my editors in both of our langues officielles, trying to make it up to them.
And I hate it.
When I started is this even real? having a substack wasn’t even a thing. “Substack, c’est quoi ça?!1” would ask me through Messenger my friends in April 2020. Explaining that I was launching a newsletter that I would send to them seemed farfetched. But today, everyone has a newsletter, and everyone charges for content, which is extremely sad IMO, but I’m not here to talk about the “journalist to influencer” pipeline.
This is another subject, for another day, when I’ll be angry at some journalist using their clout for more money.
No, today is about deadlines, about writing, about how hard it has been to write for myself. And how hard it has been to actually produce something I can be proud of lately. When I decided to fix my main objective for 2022, it became clear to me that I needed to work on my first novel. And working on my novel meant pitching fewer articles, and writing with a goal. Writing without a deadline, but my own. It meant listening to myself, finding my voice again.
The problem is that without a clear deadline — and mostly because I’m not accountable to anyone but myself — I don’t feel the urgency to write. I put things aside because I’m tired instead of pushing myself, and yet, I know.
When I push myself, I make great things. I’m creative, I take the lead. I see myself accomplishing stuff that even a cishet white man could not accomplish — apologies to my cishet white dudes reading this. But when it comes to me, to my projects, it’s as if sometimes I still hear the words I’ve been told a thousand times…
“Nothing you do is good enough.”
In therapy, I’ve learned that you can still hear your abuser, even when they aren’t in your life anymore. Even years after the abuse. I still hear his voice clear, as if he was next to me as if he still have control over me. I hear the words again and again, and I give up.
So yes, I gave up writing this newsletter again. Maybe because it was I felt like no one really wanted to read my ramblings? Maybe it was that conspicuous feeling that anyways, this wasn’t going to work out? Maybe it was because I honestly felt like I wasn’t a good writer?
It must have been a mix of all these reasons. But they are all connected to one thing: those words, I keep hearing again and again and again. Me not being good at anything, me not being a good writer, me just failing at everything I decided to take on. And they became too heavy. I was good at writing for others, but as someone on writing for herself, the voice became too strong. It was unbearable for me to write for myself and I was easily tired, never satisfied.
Recently, my therapist told me that I had to change my perspective. That since my abuser wasn’t around anymore, I could take my rightful place in the sun. He hasn’t been around for a while now, why shouldn’t I become the main character of my own movie? Why can’t I make my own decisions? Why can’t I rest? Why am I constantly driving myself to the edge of burnout — or am I already burnt out? — when there’s no one asking me to do this? Why am I self-sabotaging every project I take on? But mostly, what do I want to accomplish right now?
Well. The answer is simple. I want to write my novel. I know the outline, I know how my characters look, I dream about them, I know the story — for fuck’ sake, I lived part of it!— and I know the ending. I’ve known the ending for the past two years. I just need to write it. I need to hold myself accountable and stop hearing the voice.
And so, I decided to book myself a writing retreat. Actually multiple ones. Once a month, I’m away, writing. Not saying where I’m going, not saying anything about it. I just want to write. Alone with my characters and the stories they want me to tell. Not posting on social media, putting my phone on silent mode, limiting the outside noise.
And I’m dreading it. I’m dreading it because of the voices. What if they decide to come back when I’m alone, writing, trying to figure out the story. What if I’m not able to write? What if I decide to give up midway through? What happens if I hear the words again?
“Your writing is not good. You don’t know how to write.”
I think I’ve resolved myself to always hear them. Always think about them, in the back of my head, hear his voice stabbing my confidence. But I have a choice. I can move past this. I can choose to ignore and take control of what I do and what I make.
Like is this even real. I’m taking it back. I’m going to write about my life and what I’ve lived until now.
Like my novel. I’m taking it back. I’m writing it. And I’m going to do a good job at it.
And for the rest, he’s just a voice, a bad dream, a vague souvenir. Something that doesn’t deserve my energy or my time.
I don’t need validation anymore.
It’s a heavy subject for my return, but I wanted to address this. This feeling. I will try to publish a newsletter a week, every Sunday, just to see how it works.
On writing retreats, I will try to put all my energy into my novel, and skip on the newsletter. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get a little something. To sweeten the deal.
For the moment being, this newsletter is staying free, but I might add a paying tier for which I might develop more content. We’ll see how this goes! Don’t panic, this is an ongoing project and you’ll be advised if I turn to paid content. :)
I promise to be a little bit more lively next week, but until then…
You won’t mind sharing this, won’t you?
See you next Sunday.
-xo
Yara
French for “Substack, what is this?”