this is my first post where i don't know what i'm writing about or why i'm writing it. a few streams of consciousness. i'm accepting the idea that i'm a shit writer, embracing a beginner's mindset, and then, full sending, aka clicking “Publish”. i don’t have a lot of subscribers, yet, i hide behind this invisible wall. i put this post in a section i’ve named Wasteland, where it doesn’t end up in your email inbox (although it did in this case — sorry), and i've called it shit before you can.
i suppose it’s a self-defense mechanism thing, like forcing out laughter when you suck at something even though it hurts inside. yet, i enjoy it so much that there’s nothing i’d rather be doing than reading about interesting things, thinking, reflecting, and then, typing furiously in the mornings to “get something down on paper”.
i never thought i was a creative... until now
even now, i would call myself an aspiring creative. i recently started morning pages. boy does it feel good to sit and strike the keys of my Remarkable notebook. i'm still developing a practice, much too early to call it a craft. i don’t want this to be another short-lived obsession; so, no need for labels. take things slow.
i’ve relished in the idea that i’m creative, but can i call myself “a creative”? i am now, for the first time, digging this new identity i have bestowed upon myself. a daily affirmation, faking it before making it.
why am i writing?
because i want to.
says it best:having a shit blog makes me feel abundant.
for now, that’s enough.
i'm not a musician
i started playing music at a very young age — the piano at 3, the cello at 5. at the age of 8, i attended the Juilliard Pre-College Program. i discovered early on that i enjoy the flair of performance. i'd walk out nervously, playing with cold fingers, my bow shaky. a minute in... my mind and body becomes one — a comfortability would ease in. while performing, i'd start looking out, making eye contact with the audience. i wanted to know if people were engaged and vibing.
are people paying attention to me?
are they feeling the music?
early moments of my dependence on external validation. the burden of precocious talent. i remember at the age of 4 being able to identify when people played the wrong note – a gentle discussion with Kostja, a wonderful pianist and russian exchange student that my family was hosting. the first instance of me recognizing my perfect pitch. coasting through ear training.
despite composing my first symphony at 10, winning numerous concerto competitions across the east coast, i didn't feel like a real musician. it was not my identity. i didn't tell people i was a cellist or a musician. i relegated myself to music lover on the sidelines as opposed to musician on-stage.
i knew i wasn't going to be a professional musician; or perhaps, i wasn’t allowed to be one. while my parents said they were hands-off about this type of decision growing up, they clearly had opinions and expressed them. they didn't appreciate the lifestyle of “struggling artist”. despite how gifted one could be, one would always have to grind – if not for work, with one’s self.
and the truth is that i didn’t allow myself, to identify as musician. i experienced limitations in my skill, constraints in my growth. i wasn’t obsessed. i didn't feel the need to be great. i loved listening, disliked practicing, enjoyed performing. i was content being pretty fucking good.
i still remember... enjoying the flair of performance, whipping my bow around, vigorously sliding into notes. i felt the physical, visceral emotion of beautiful music and intense emotion as i listened, as i absorbed, as i was consumed. i found catharsis — a wave of emotion would build like a crescendo, the tension drawn out like a wrong note being played, and then, finally the resolution.
i often find myself in this tranced state when listening to music in the car, going to shows, or being zonked at festivals. my mind and body are one. everything, everywhere, all at once. it's all-consuming.
it's cathartic but also burdensome.
i have lost control.
my mood, my affect, my entire life completely tranced and turned upside-down by some button presses, a couple scrolls, and a click.
turn on sad boi.
the world has stopped.
complete silence.
the weighty, omnipresence of sadness.
the gravity of deep bass notes
in minor keys.
ethereal notes.
delicately played.
poignant, breathless moments.
it's expansive and crippling.
surrendering everything.
and i do…
for a little while…
but i have to tell myself to snap out of it.
i'm not a musician.
(i’ve got work to do.)
i'm a (shit) writer
new label, new identity.
there's a beauty in recognizing that you're bad at something. it's much more than self-deprecating. it's not just about protecting my ego.
it's liberating.
i don't carry the burden of responsibility of being great.
i devote myself to the craft, knowing that i won’t be great.
the flooded excitement of ideation turns into lonely pangs of grit as my fingers smack the keyboard harder and harder as if mental clarity comes from the tactile pain of typing. the hot mess of disorganized paragraphs, straggling sentences, and emotional attachment to ideas that are totally irrelevant to the piece's "shiny dime".
after i press publish, i resurrect myself into the world that i know best -- floating between data science and doom scrolling. i can obsess over the Substack dashboard to see the open and delivery rates of the emails sent to my 45 subscribers. and i love the dopamine hits from getting likes.
it's the first time people are telling me that they're enjoying my writing — is this what toxic positivity is? i've never thought i was a particularly good writer. in school i was confident in my math and science grades, but i was stoked with an A- in english class. it symbolized "good not great."
words have remained elusive. when listening to music, i would hear the words like percussive instruments, not as lyrics. i missed them and ignored them, in favor of other lines: drum, base, melody.
but words are no longer rhythmic and melodic overtones. i groove to the percussion of keys clacking. i jive to the syncopated rhythm of run on sentences, commas, and em dashes. my body and soul vibrate like a deep cello vibrato as i read, think, reflect, and ideate.
i have awakened again.
i feel full, brimming with the optimism that can only come from the prospect of unfettered exploration,
serendipituous discovery,
wanderlust.
it's everything and nothing.
i'm a shit writer.
and i'm stoked.
massive thanks and love goes out to
, , , , for reading this shit.so much love for writing cult peeps:
,props to
’s Essay Club and hosting community gyms to keep us all going.not everybody is mentioned, but thank you all for making my heart feel full and being an instrumental part of me feeling alive and awake.
Excellent! Hold your identity lightly
shit writer, or unleashed poet? LOVED. THIS.