Thoughts on Substack and note to myself

Claude called it Manifesto.

I started my Substack at the beginning of the year.

I thought: I need subscribers. I need to promote myself. Though I didn’t even know what I was promoting. But I love writing. I always have.

So I wrote a few engaging posts—the eye-catching ones, not the good ones. Sad.

I figured I had to learn how to do Notes, how to grow, how to monetize. Half the content was “I started from zero, now I’m famous—comment below to do the same.” The other half: “Load this into ChatGPT and you’ll go viral.”

I got frustrated. I stopped posting. And stopped writing.

What could I possibly say that would get attention in this sea of AI-generated selling? With only drops of something beautiful or substantive scattered throughout? And here I was, somewhere on dry land. Hopefully in a forest.

Fuck that. I don’t want to get known for telling people how to get famous, or how to live their lives, or how to heal in one day. It took me a decade to get where I am, and I’m not even sure if there’s such a thing as “healed.”

I don’t know what I’ll write here. The muse doesn’t visit often anymore. But I wish I wrote more. Danced more. Played music more. Created more.

I’m writing this so I can see it one day and remember: I didn’t give up on writing. I was just frustrated—mostly with myself. And the “expert content”. I’m also loading this into Claude to edit and clean it up. Thanks.

I will find my voice. I have “found it” in Russian, it took me a long time and a lot of good books. Also depression is a strange teacher. It’s an art, writing when you’re sad. Letting tears drop onto paper and become letters, words, sentences.

Can you even write from a happy place without selling your soul?

Just a thought to end on: What if the goals and dreams born from depression and sadness and grief are just escape plans?

Love you, my little girl. I really do now. I’m sorry it took me so long.

Without conclusion. Kisses.