Isn't it weird how writers have voices. I recently read a great piece. It was called 'Beckett Drove A Deux Chevaux'. The writer spends the whole piece talking about stuff and things. Not being vague here. He was literally talking about “stuff” and “things”. Wanting stuff, buying things, you know, capitalism. I was locked in. Nothing on my mind. Not a thought in my head.
This is a Deux Chevaux for clarity. Poop, even in the 1950s.
I was engrossed, and I'm always surprised when that happens. Sometimes I read high-quality content by great writers that I respect, and I desperately want to immerse myself. But I can’t. It’s as if I were going to a famous restaurant, raved about by friends and family. For maximum enjoyment, I would ensure my stomach is fairly empty beforehand, which is a matter of timing; I WILL enjoy that meal. Doing the same for my mind before voraciously consuming a book? That’s another story. I can't focus when the time's not right. I love being in the flow state, when time is but a brief moment, it’s one of life's joys. Although that state is a force of nature, and nature is uncontrollable. I'm sitting there doing my thing, I click a link, and then bam, twenty minutes pass. I hear the voice; the voice is a hallmark of good writing.
The difference between a good writer and a great writer is that you can hear their voice. Their character is conveyed through their writing. I don't want to be a great writer, at this stage, I would simply settle for okay. It's one of those skills that has 360 degrees of applicability. The challenge here is that new hobbies past the age of 13 have this air of productivity, it’s rarely ever fun for fun's sake.
Even this Substack, which is supposed to be a pure fun hobby, where I'm genuine, creative, random and spontaneous always takes on this hybrid, ostentatious/productivity element. I'm writing but I’m also like, 'Hey people, look at me, I'm doing a thing’. I check the metrics, read up on growth strategies, edit my content to be bipartisan. I fantasise about the second-order effects of this brand-new skill, and how it can change my life.
Hobbies that are done in silence have this pull to be public. It’s only in public that you can receive praise, accolades and validation. Isn't that how you know you're good? By being better than others, by having likes and comments and engagement. That’s how you know you’re really good at a hobby. When you can monetise it. What is money, if not distilled tangible validation. Yuck. Seeing a talented writer doing their thing is an artform. I'm like 'Damn, now that person has their shit together. What did they do? How did they write? What did they sound like?' They have the ‘voice’ and it’s bellowing from a mountaintop.
I've been actively writing for what? Almost three months now? I've not studied the craft. I'm not an expert when it comes to literary subjects. I forget the difference between an adjective and a pronoun, and that was not a joke. Some concepts seriously refuse to stick in my brain. If I want to write in a manner that has gravitas. To produce content that is genuinely entertaining and inspiring; I’ve got to climb the mountain.
For my writing to play back in readers' heads like a cavernous echo, I’m going to have to learn a lot. There's a reason why there's not many voices at the top. It's a bloody long and difficult journey. Like all great artists, I have to struggle. They follow a scripted route, more often it's to be a variation of something else that's already great. You have to copy, to steal, practise, you have to study, refine, redefine and refine again. What’s that saying about good artists and stealing?
'Good artists copy, great artists steal.
What a pain in the ass.
Even writing that out made me feel existential. This is my hobby dammit. I should be doing this for fun. Why do I have to take a studied approach to everything? When did I lose the ability to do something with ignorance and enjoy it? What happened to good old spontaneity? And where is she hiding?
At times, I feel as if I'm playing a video game and I'm completely addicted to the tutorial stage. I keep on dicking around without ever breaking out into the wider world of the actual game. There's not much to do in the tutorial stage. So I sit… wait… stew… I lay in bed… zone out… Should I go to the gym and then cook? Or cook and then go to the gym? But then I hear her call and she tells me to do.
No planning or momentum. No scheduled blocks of creativity or planned fun. I whip open the laptop and my fingers hit the keyboard, and I'm tack tack tacking away, barely a thought in my mind. The hamster is getting mileage on the running wheel. Not an edit or revision in sight. I'm here. I've made it. This is the enjoyable part, the hobby in private. The peak is in sight. But then, eventually, I'm done.
My crazed episode has resulted in this beast that I've churned out in what, 20 minutes? Which is precisely how long it took me to draft what you're reading right now. And it's hideous. A mental shart onto a black and white digital canvas. It certainly has a voice. It's saying, 'Please kill me. Kill me; this life, it hurts.', and then begins the not-so-enjoyable part. I have to kill it.
I am Michelangelo with a chisel and a block of clay. My mind's eye can envision a masterpiece. Although admittedly, I’m not Michelangelo, cue the shock. I am as far removed from that dude by time and space as can possibly be. I’m his dyslexic and linguistically challenged cousin, m1k3Y. So using my extremely limited repertoire of literary techniques, you know, grammar, active voice, short paragraphs... I’m out of literary techniques already? I chisel away with my trusty pre-highschool literary utility belt.
Pluck something here, cut a word there, tweak the tone everywhere. Eventually something starts to form, It's not good. In fact, it's far from good, but it's legible. Thinking back to the moment of serendipity that spawned this and comparing it to this plucked, pruned and manicured essay. I wonder how much of this is still my ‘voice’. Will I ever truly capture that natural flow? Am I doomed to forever be voiceless? An eternal waffler? Will people read this and be engrossed, enraptured and engaged? Or is this the rambling of a man in his mid twenties drunk on bits, bytes and his own heady sharts? I’ve not a clue.
Hitting the publish button on yet another essay, I feel the anxiety bubbling up. The number of choices I could make, the people who will be reading this, the wording I've used, the fact that it's under my real name. Fuck it. Eventually, a calm settles over me. Who gives a damn about a voice? I'm doing this for fun. Maybe not pure fun. Pure fun is for kids, like eating cake till it makes you sick. Pure fun gives you green poops and anxiety. But this gives me enough joy to continue writing. I admit, it is a little more fun when it's not in a vacuum. So I'm going to follow the script. Do the things I'm supposed to do, post online. And maybe, just maybe, one day, I will have a voice too.
I’ve also been teaching myself photshop so cooler thumbnails pending.
I hear your voice, Ibrahim. Very well done, and said!
In my opinion, the best writer on Substack from a pure craft standpoint is Michael Dean. I highly recommend him.
https://www.michaeldean.site/?utm_source=%2Fsearch%2Fdean%27s%2520list&utm_medium=reader2&utm_campaign=reader2