Why I took a break from Substack and what I discovered.

It’s probably just temporary enlightenment.

A picture I clicked from one of my favourite spots in Bir, Himachal Pradesh.

There’s a voice in my head. It’s always active – chattering non-stop. The voice evokes feelings of self-doubt and fear of judgment. It pushes me to compare myself with others and to perform forensics on everything I do. It either gets obsessed with something, playing the record on loop; or the record breaks, malfunctions, blasting tunes that create no melody; only loud static.

For months, it got obsessed with how my write-ups were ‘performing’ on Substack. It kept prodding me to find masala in everything. All you have to do is keep trying, and something will work.

Everything had to be turned into a beautiful story, ready to serve hot. I was constantly thinking of the next idea, digging for some inspiration, flipping around every mundane event in my head to identify something worth turning into a write-up.

But what was it that I so desperately wanted to accomplish? Was it writing? Telling stories? Being seen? Or getting validation, encouragement, plaudits?

I have a theory – whatever we do in life, whatever tasks we undertake, it is the underlying feeling that makes all the difference. When I started my Substack journey, I wrote with the feelings of curiosity and excitement. I was going to tell stories I always wanted to. That’s all.

But then the feelings changed – evolved.

When you start something - an experiment, a new journey - your only inspiration (perhaps) is your intent, and the endless possibilities. Or, at least, that was the case with me. And then, as you get better at it, as you cover some distance, you see people who are way ahead of you on the journey.

This is where things change.

Until now, all you had ahead of you was the vast, empty road and your imagination to propel you forward. But not anymore. You begin noticing the milestones, something that didn’t hold any meaning until now. You start counting the miles, between you and those ahead; and the miles you have covered, and how quickly you have covered them.

You don’t even realize when the journey turns into a race. You keep running, until your feet hurt, and the blisters begin to bleed. But that’s what we are supposed to do, right? Keep running! Consistency is the key, the wise ones have said.

Not really.

Consistency without direction? Effort without pause and reflection?

This is when you stop to look around, panting, coughing, trembling. Is this why I started all this? No, I didn’t.

This is what my experience of last few months with Substack has been like. I realized I had started giving more importance to ‘what could work’ rather than ‘what I wanted to say’. I was searching for the tricks to crack the algorithm. I was looking for a quick fix. A recipe for likes and shares, and perhaps a chance at popularity? Can’t blame myself when an entire culture is being formed around the cult of microfame, can I?

But the problem with this approach is that you lose touch with the core element – your feelings. I didn’t even realize when the feelings of anxiety, insecurity, and impostor syndrome sneaked in, rather swiftly and blatantly, through the front door, and began occupying more and more space.

Everything I wrote was, to me, utter garbage. It wasn’t the story that mattered anymore, it was the response to it. The sudden flood of Substack ‘notes’ on my timeline didn’t help either. I didn’t realize when this platform - that I had chosen as a haven from the otherwise toxic social media - turned exactly into that.

This is when I knew I had to stop. And I did. Initially for days; then weeks, and then for more than a month. I wasn’t going to get back until I had fixed my relationship with it. Because no matter how much I blame the design, what’s more important is how I choose to engage with it. I had to get back in touch with my feelings and detach myself from the algorithm.

The break taught me many things. Here’s what I learnt:

Cancel the noise. Find your voice. Embrace it.

I know it sounds like a contradiction. Find your voice? Which voice? The one that pesters you with negative self-talk? Well, yes!

Whatever it is; it is your voice. When I shut down all the noise, when I stopped comparing myself with the world, and when I wrote in silence, the voice came back. But this time it was calmer. It had more courage. And it made more sense. It took time, but it did happen.

Do I want to fill my writing with wit, intellect, and all the other stuff that I admire in others? Yes. But the only way for me to do that is by working on my voice. When I stifle it, thinking it is not cool enough, not funny enough, not smart enough; or when I feel ashamed of my own voice because I sound too gloomy or too ‘ranty’ all the time; what comes out is just a cheap copy of someone else’s main track.

I learnt it the hard way.

Perfection is the enemy. Validation is worse.

I have been harsh on myself since the beginning of time. Whenever I chose to do something in life, I compared myself with the best and the greatest in that field. I had to either produce a magnum opus or flush my work down the drain. There was no in-between. That didn’t help. It throttled my voice – my imperfect, underdeveloped, and slowly-gaining-its-strength-and-finding-its-rhythm voice.

And when you are in the middle of the sea – the sea of wonderful writings (think Substack) – it is hard not to compare yourself with others. It’s either that or the validation. How the hell did she (or he. Or they) got so many likes for that piece and I got a silent treatment?

That’s the worst. Perfection at least drives you and pushes you to achieve a goal. What does the need for validation do? Makes you wait for someone to hit the left button on the mouse? And that’s what defines everything you are? Everything you want to be?

I knew when I got back, I wasn’t going to seek public validation. Funny though that the first write-up I published after returning got me the most validation so far. Weird.

Not falling into that trap again, universe!

Seek lovely beings who appreciate you.

There’s a scene in Abbas Kiarostami’s film ‘Homework’ where he asks a child – do you know what punishment is?

The kid responds in affirmative. Then he asks the kid what punishment means to him? And the kid says – being beaten up.

But then, when Kiarostami asks him if he knows what encouragement means, the kid replies in negative.

And that’s who we all are – like a child desperately looking for a hint of appreciation and encouragement, of being told that we aren’t just serial blunderers. That we are lovely as we are. We all glow, although in infrared, hidden from normal vision. But we glow.

During my writing and Substack doomscrolling hiatus, I joined a workshop where I came across angelic souls who were always ready to serve the encouragement sandwich. This is when I knew how much difference honest appreciation makes. It provides a safe space for you to experiment, blunder, and fail without fear. Because you know that someone out there is going to find the beauty in your work, for whatever it is.

So, I decided that I was going to be more encouraging to others. I’m going to tell them how beautifully gorgeous their writing is. And I am going to do it for myself too. More often.

Be shameless. You will die one day.

Lastly, and most importantly, be shameless. Shame is a trap. It forces you to act according to society’s judgements and expectations. It stifles your creativity. It tells you that you are not good enough. That everyone is going to laugh at you.

Are they? So, let them. Because why does it matter?

Roadrunner, the documentary film on the life of Anthony Bourdain, starts with a montage of beautiful and surreal visuals and Bourdain’s voice in the background. He says something about taking out a few minutes every morning and thinking about one’s death.

It’s a powerful practice.

It can liberate you from so many unnecessary burdens; shame being one of them. So that’s what I do when feelings of shame and fear crop up at the time of writing. I think of my mortality and the futility of worrying about what others will say. Seems like a stretch, I know. But it works for me.

I mean, I wrote something stupid; so, what? In the end, nobody is going to remember it. Nothing matters. And that’s exactly why you play. Dance. Sing. Shamelessly. You can be perfect – perfectly still - after you die.

So yes, sometimes you just have to close your eyes and hit that publish button. That’s exactly what I did when I wrote my first article after my Substack break. I was going to dump it. Really. In fact, I read it and felt like it was the most terrible thing I had written this year. I thought it belonged in the recycle bin.

But then, I closed my eyes, said the prayer – fuck it – and published it. And that was it. People actually loved it. But you know what, none of them probably remember it anymore. So?

In the end, none of it matters. Period.

Rejoice!

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