I’ve been in hiding. A sabbatical, on holiday, stealth-mode. I’ve ghosted you all.
I set an achievable goal of 100 subscribers, and once I got there, I all but abandoned this page. It’s not unusual for me to gamify outlets of joy with metrics, and to toss them in the heap once I’ve achieved some arbitrary number I’ve deemed the equivalent of success.
So I’d like to share 10 excuses for why I’m avoiding the very people I begged to subscribe.
I have been reading a lot of books, and have decided to engage in posting about those books both on Instagram and on GoodReads, as if I’m the first person to have ever discovered the joy of summer reading, and not because I ran out of one-season shows on Hulu and I can’t remember the HBO Max password.
I have been effectively avoiding my computer after work hours, because the 16 open tabs and never ending Slack notifications are increasing my blood pressure.
I ate an entire package of airport salami (the kind that comes with flimsy cheese and is sold at the CIBO Express) while waiting for my delayed flight to Los Angeles to board, and I’m only now recovering from my stomach ache.
I’ve been trying to keep my text notifications to under 45 messages, and the 5 paragraph essays I send to my friends after their 2 minute and 47 second voice memos have all but maxed out my allotted daily word count.
Summer in the City’s great pressure to do everything, be everywhere, spend all your money, and double-book your Monday has meant that I have not sat still long enough to type anything worth posting, let alone open a new Google Doc window.
Recently, I have been refusing to save the numbers of the boys (men?) I am talking to from Lox Club/Hinge/Bumble/that one night I was feeling extremely friendly at a social engagement, and so I spend an additional 19 minutes of my day trying to remember which 914 number lives in Brooklyn and works in film, who is spending the weekend in Montauk before returning to his job in private equity, and who has an ill grandma I should be checking in about.
I’m having my first review cycle at work this summer, and I wrote 6 pages of feedback single-spaced for each of my peers, meticulously ensuring that each of my pieces of criticism were sandwiched between flattery and warmth for optimal acceptance and to avoid making enemies because, admittedly, I love going into my office even if only for the central air.
My grandmother emails me at least 4 times a week, and if I don’t respond within 12 hours, she will proceed to text me asking if I’m still alive (I am, but just barely).
Every time I go outside intending to walk 4 blocks, I end up reaching 16,000 steps and damaging the soles of my Cole Haan sandals (of which my mother has previously informed me are “dinner shoes only”), incurring blisters the size of quarters on the bottom of my feet. This requires me to spread copious amounts of Neosporin, rendering my fingers sticky and therefore useless for typing.
I’m terrified of writing something dumb or “not good enough,” and the thought of posting anything less-than-perfect, even for an Internet hobby website intended to be an outlet for personal creativity and experimentation, makes me gag a little before quietly moving the iPhone Note I’ve been journaling on into the trash.
In an effort to Care Less About Perfection and Seek Joy, I will be writing more often, meaning my writing may take a turn for bad or worse, but please stay a while as I peel back the layers of my creative roadblocks, one restored Google Doc at a time.