If you don't open this, I get it
On the longing to unplug and live
I’m drowning in content. On each attempt to clear my inbox, I lose hours.
Yesterday I clicked on a Substack round-up and signed up for three more. Each one looks compelling, but do I need them? Each author is inspiring, blazing a trail across the digital landscape. But are three more living examples of what it looks like to churn out content every week (some multiple times) what I really need?
Despite the promises of each tagline, is it really going to make my life better?
Like a wardrobe stuffed with beautiful clothes never worn, my inbox is already packed with incredible, life-changing ideas, but still I collect more. Hoard them. File them. For what, I’m not quite sure. But it’s never enough.
Content creation is a valid way to make this world a bit more beautiful. But there’s just so damn much of it. Everywhere. All at once.
Where is the time and space and energy to put all the incredible ideas into practice?
[Look. There’s another one. It just landed in my inbox.
And another.]
And here I am, writing this, adding to the noise. Putting yet another collection of thoughts out there to be consumed.
I read somewhere once that five hundred hours of YouTube content are posted every minute. I wonder what the combined total is across all social media platforms (including this one)?
I wonder what all this content is doing to our brains - the short-form, bite-sized format. I wonder what it’s doing to our attention. I wonder how the brain impact differs from that of reading one book, slowly, over days or weeks? Savouring one theme or idea, diving into the depths with the author, slowly.
If it was possible to measure the percentage of people that do something with the ideas they read online (whether practical, or less tangible), I wonder what it would be?
Is so much information being available in such quantity really a good thing for our world? Our creativity? Our mental health?
Creativity gurus encourage us: “Put it out there. Don’t hide your light. People are waiting to find you.”
But are they really? Wouldn’t they be better off finding themselves?
It’s not like I follow any old crap online. The red velvet rope is up, my inbox closely guarded. Sometimes I open and read, and am thankful I did.
When the words make me feel something, time and energy permitting, I let the author know. That feels good, the reflecting back. So does knowing I’m not alone when they’ve articulated something that feels true for me too. Or when they give voice to something I’ve never consciously considered.
It makes the world seem more expansive. It allows a little more room to wriggle around and make sense of what it means to be human.
But my oh my, those moments are evermore fleeting.
I’m not sure I should say this aloud, but today, right now, I don’t want to read anybody else's ideas.
[How arrogant of me - how closed. How downright ignorant. I should want to be part of the ecosystem. Reading makes us better writers, doesn’t it? We need to understand the wider conversation, to be able to make a meaningful contribution.]
But the next newsletter looms like a second helping of dessert when you’ve already unbuttoned your jeans.
Part of me hungers for it. Part of me needs it. It looks delicious. It even has nutritional value.
But I. Am. Full.
There are so many other things I would rather do:
I'd rather read a poem (from a book), this book, stretched out on the sofa. I'd rather marvel at how something so small, something so simple, something made with only 44 words, can say so much, touch me so deeply, free me to write this. I'd rather listen to Chopin flat on my back, my arms spread wide. No lyrics, just beauty. Stand up when I'm ready, or stay on the floor and dance. Ever so slowly. Like barely-detectable slowly. Like if-someone-was-watching- through-the-window- they-would-feel-compelled- to-check-I-don't-need-an-ambulance slowly I want to walk outside on the lane, meander on the fields, by the river, with no watch or phone. I don’t want to know the time, or even what day it is, I just want to walk, until I find a spot to stop and sit. Then I'll listen to more Chopin [But have now realised I can't, because: no phone] I want to close my laptop, switch off my phone and live. I want to join hands with other people who want to do the same. I want to join hands with other women who want to play. [Will you play with me?] For our inappropriate squeals of delight to disturb the tap tap tap of fingers on keyboards and sensible, well-research, credible discourse. I don’t want to read another ‘how to’ or inspirational story complete with call-to- action, edited by ChatGPT. My own inspirational story wants to be lived. Today. Right here. On this small patch of earth beneath my feet. I just need to look up. Say yes. Step outside.
With love and a cathartic shimmy,
Claire
x
p.s. Gather with me and a small group of women, as we reclaim our creativity and write what feels true. Not for anyone else, but ourselves. No critique. No ‘how to be a better writer’. Just creativity and connection. A gentle, brave space.
The first two circles in June were sacred. We next gather on 18th July.
This circle space is on offer monthly, with no ongoing commitment. Full details here.
If you feel the call, I can’t wait to see you there :)
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