The Worst Piece I’ll Ever Write…

Call it ‘immersion therapy’.

After working in the media industry for the past four years, I’ve learnt that success doesn’t happen overnight, not just in terms of analytics or fame, but in the quality of the work itself.

When I was 23, I started a podcast called Insert Your Name Here (try and find it, I dare you).

Ten episodes reviewing Harry Potter fanfiction hosted with a friend from university. Looking back, I think we actually did a decent job, considering we had never done a project like this together before.

We were lucky enough to have the algorithm on our side, gaining a modest following thanks to a semi-viral TikTok debating how miserable it must be for sixth-years to endure the Sorting Hat ceremony every year over again and again, a topic that unexpectedly divided viewers.

But the pressure of one successful video quickly spiked into fear, like a virus taking over a computer. It felt too soon to be noticed. I thought, ‘I’m not good enough’.

Although that project felt public and short-lived, it sparked a private conversation about creative insecurities in my own safe space of writing, somewhere I’ve always felt comfortable in.

Back in 2021, I found myself in a strange place in life: lockdown (ew), heartache, power dynamics. I began writing what I now like to describe as a Tumblr-post-inspired self-help book, reflecting on the relationship I had with myself and the fast-paced spinning environment around me that felt like it would never be still again.

Especially in my newfound career in radio, I was tackling imposter syndrome that suddenly had me feeling like a first-year at high school, not only in what I knew of the industry but who I was among adults, even though they didn’t always act like it
(I say that in so much love, those guys taught me how to drink again x).

Although it’s a slightly strange read now, it’s something I revisit often and consistently add to.
It feels safe.
I use it to check which of my values still align with who I am today. I consistently wrote about a life I somehow knew could exist, but had no clue how I was going to get there.

And yet, rereading it, I realise how often this guilt comes up, to dream of liking myself, or the things I create:

Monday 6th September 2.34am 2021

“They say we need to romanticise our lives. Who’s they? I’m not entirely sure.
Probably a large number of people on TikTok, followed by a flurry of Pinterest-inspired photos.
There’s something slightly unique about those images, familiar, yet desirable.
But again, they’re like so many that came before them.
But why not do just that? Romanticise our lives?

This idea of loving yourself, of romanticising yourself, just feels odd to me.
I mean, I can buy as many face masks as Mecca will let me and read every ‘girl boss’ book I can get my hands on, but sometimes I’m so fixated on an end goal that doesn’t even exist, I end up being left behind in a race against no one but myself.”

As much as my journey of loving myself/romantising my day-to-day life is dialled all the way to 11 (everything I do is disgustingly whimsical - even when I’m raging), artistic perfection never stopped me from creating.
But it changed how I measured progress, and how I saw growth as a creative. I hope this understanding encourages others to do the same.

When I tell people, “I want to be a writer,” their immediate response is often, “Oh cool! About what?”.

And the truth is, I don’t really know.

It’s taken me years to understand that’s okay.

The tiny patch of real estate I have on the internet is a good testing ground, a space for exploring, learning, expressing, and observing this messy, evolving experiment that is the creative lifestyle.

And when people ask me why I want to write?

Because nothing is more contagious than slamming an enemies-to-lovers book down on the bed at 1am (there’s only one bed at the hotel), your best friend relaying FBI-level gossip, or getting swept up in those tiny moments that make life feel romantic. Moments pulled from someone else’s story, but now suddenly belonging to you.

It’s contagious. And I want to give people that feeling, a sense of comfort, so they don’t feel alone, the way so many of these stories and movements have comforted me.

So I like to think of this page as “whatever’s of interest”, a place to figure out my relationship with writing, both fiction, non-fiction and things that makes the world attractive.

In reality, I’ll never be ready to put anything out into the world, but in posting this, I hope it is the worst piece I ever write, and I’m okay with that.

I hope I look back and cringe at the honesty, but still admire something innocent about this snapshot in time, romanticising my way through my mid-late twenties, proud of how far I’ve come from once hesitating to post anything at all.

Like a first jump in a cold plunge, a first kiss, or a hot mat class without any warning about how fucking hot those places really are.

I suppose you could call this piece a bit of immersion therapy :)

Album playing while writing: Fearless – Taylor Swift