Sadness in Writing
I always knew you needed a mild state of sadness to write. I know now that you need it only to be mild.
Between now and this time last year, a bunch, okay maybe 7-8 people at max, asked me why I don’t write this newsletter anymore. They asked me a lot of other questions like why do you never leave your apartment? Why do you never come out hang? Do you even exist irl? Will you let me hit? I mean…you get the gist. And the answer to most of these questions was embarrassingly bland — I can’t, I’m sad.
excerpt from my favorite interview with my favorite girl in the world
It’s honestly disgusting that all that these great sad women had written about going through — is ACTUALLY POSSIBLE to go through! Like WTF? I’ve always admired the sad women in books and movies with a weird sense of envy, but as I feel myself slowly getting close to becoming one, I only want to puke. 🤮
Unsure of whether it’s because the feeling is just so objectively distasteful or because I do not possess the faculty to churn all those feelings into art as all those people did.
I should paint. I should read. I should write. I should do everything society expects of a sexy sad girl or my sadness is a waste. I should always remember that my sadness is to serve. In lieu of the sadness that this world gave you, you now owe them art xoxo
And if the pressure to write wasn’t enough. I was now feeling the pressure to write — as a SAD PERSON!
Like I have all the ammo man. I have sadness and an audience of a few hundred who love to glorify the (art) coming out of sadness. It’s the perfect recipe for content that sells..so why can’t I just…sell?
I didn’t write because I realized I can only write from a mild state of sadness. The writing will never happen when I’m actually really fucking sad. And turns out, I was in fact, really fucking sad!
I thought my sadness was rooted in my being stuck at home. Then I moved, and suddenly my sadness was rooted in my moving cities. I am now beginning to explore the idea that my sadness is rooted in me 👍
But I also stopped writing because I got exposed to a new realm of incredibly smart people doing incredibly cool things and writing incredibly thoughtful shit and because I thought thots could never be as thoughtful as all the thoughtful things these writers were writing.
But somehow in the middle of all this, I forgot that the last thing I ever intended thots to be was — thoughtful. This newsletter was about everything I have ever advocated and, fight to normalize — mistakes, errors, typos, nonsense, and mediocrity. So I will not try to live up to the identity of someone I’m not (a girl who makes sense)
I realized that somehow in the middle of — oh this newsletter is about only me and not for if and how people consume it — this newsletter became very much about me AND how people perceive me actually 👍
I also realized how not giving a fuck can never be a one-off task. It’s not a one-time life decision like hi guys, starting today I’m a girl who doesn’t give fucks. A girl in the state of no-fucks-given does not stay in the state of no-fucks-given unless consciously chosen to, every day. It’s a daily affirmation. A daily climb up the giant hill of giving no fucks, a small skid down the slippery slope of which, can lead you to — you won’t believe this — actually giving fucks (sometimes even ones that have no takers)
editing kaav: it has struck me that reading this would lead you to believe that I’m a basic girl who probably read that basic book called something like the subtle art of not giving a fuck — when in fact I’m a very quirky girl that reads only super obscure e-books (twitter)
I have just been reminded that I do not write for writers. I write for people who wish they could write but don’t. I do not write for smart people. Smart people have other smart people to read. I write for nutjobs and blatantly mediocre girls who walk like they have main character energy when heaven knows all they feel like is a prop in their own lives.
But I guess I write now. Again.
And like when you welcome someone to your house party, if they have a limp, you ask them to sit, not to dance. I am knocking again at your inbox, with a limp in my leg and a lump in my throat. Sit with me and share some tea. Maybe I will have it in me to dance again.
No like actually. Share some tea, anonymously — here or on my NGL 😜
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I feel seen. attacked. and 278 other emotions I think
angel girl