Of course I give a f*ck

On not making ourselves wrong for caring

Possibly my favourite journal: ‘The Tree of Dreams.’ By Peter Pauper Press.

Sometimes, when I put something I’ve created out into the world, it feels as if I’m speaking to a room full of people with folded arms. It doesn’t matter if it’s a new coaching offering, an email to my work email list, a letter here or a LinkedIn post. Folded arms, eyes down. That’s what I see.

My logical brain understands how social media, Substack, and email lists work. My logical brain knows that only a tiny percentage of people who see and appreciate what anyone creates will show a visible response. I certainly don’t respond to everything I enjoy. Who has that kind of time and energy? My logical brain gets all of this. But sometimes my body doesn’t.

My stomach tightens, because it thinks I’m at that meeting again. The one where I voiced my opinion in a room full of people, and no one acknowledged I’d spoken. My body remembers the silence. The awkward cough from across the table. The way my boss checked his phone and changed the subject.

My body remembers my very first art lesson. Eleven years old at secondary school. The teacher peering at my sketch of an orange. The way she held it at the edge, as if trying not to smudge a photograph. The way she laughed. My body remembers the other girls’ stares. Wanting to disappear. It remembers art feeling less fun every time after that.

My body remembers my English teacher’s response to the poem I wrote when I needed to create something, anything, to make the reality of people being bombed just a thousand miles away, whilst we sat reading Shakespeare, easier to bear:

“Bravo on your use of metaphor Claire! Well done. But why don’t you write one about forgiveness, rather than war. Or nature? Write about trees. We can put that on the display with the other girls’ work.”

My body remembers the thousands of moments I have shown myself and regretted it. All the times I have not felt seen.

Today, it is still the inevitable silence that follows the sharing of what I have made that my body most notices. Whether the silence lasts for a few minutes, or hours.

“Nobody cares”  it whispers.

“Don’t do this to yourself, again.”

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An inspection of the self-help titles in my Kindle library implies that the answer is somewhere out there. Surely some expert or other holds the solution to this affliction?

I should be able to embrace my creativity with wild abandon. Put it out into the world, and let go of the outcome. The absence of any need for acknowledgement a kind of holy grail, glimmering in the distance. If I keep going, surely I can reach it.

For years I viewed my debilitating recoils after each instance of making myself visible as an obstacle to be conquered. The battle officially commenced during soon after quitting my job and becoming a solopreneur. I realised my business would die if nobody knew me or my work existed. There was no better motivation to just get over it.

And try I most certainly did. Too many strategies to list here, all of which included in one way, shape or form, bracing myself and pushing through the discomfort. At one point I hired someone to help me find a rhythm with my business writing. Surely if they pressed send, whilst I attended to other matters, the angst would lessen?

I began creating way in advance, using an automated scheduler to post my writing at random times. I tried deleting all the social media and email apps from my phone so I could not obsessively check whether someone, anyone, had seen and acknowledged the existence of the poem, or post, or offer of a workshop I had thrown into the abyss.

But more often than not, after an initial celebratory “Finally! I’ve cracked it” I descended into the whole charade sucking the life out of me once again and concluded I was just too sensitive to play this game. That I should stop marketing my business and get a proper job. That I should let go of the idea of sharing more of my writing.

It took too much energy to be worth the rewards, and martyring myself is neither attractive, nor enjoyable.

The question I have been repeatedly left with at the end of each one of these exhausting cycles is the same every time: What is the point?

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Each one of us has gifts to offer the world, and I want to offer mine. That is what I know to be true, underneath the layers of gunk.

But gunk is the wrong word. To offer my gifts in ways that feel sustainable, I must find ways to be kinder to myself. I am still healing from those times the younger me shared her creative self and it was not deemed to be enough or appropriate. It requires tenderness.

When we create from our hearts, our hearts are open. When the response to that is silence, of course it feels utterly sh*t.  Of course we want to feel seen and acknowledged when we make something we care about. It is human to want that - we thrive in community and connection. 

So the question becomes how can I honour that truth, rather than condemn myself for not being able to live up to some aspirational (dehumanised) idea of what being liberated looks like? The more I hold onto the notion that I should not care what the response from others is, the more I block myself from embracing and acting on my inspiration. The more I want to hide.

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I’m discovering different ways to hold myself with greater compassion. The key word there is discovering. It is not something others can teach me, or advise me on. I must discover these ways for myself.

One is a simple practice that I began four months ago. Perhaps sharing it here will helps me own it a little more and overcome the inner resistance that says it is saccharine and self indulgent. Perhaps sharing it will inspire someone else to find their own practical ways to tend to their own creative nourishment.

[The personal missive, and practical ‘tip’ part of this week’s letter are mushing together into one…]

An early version of this missive, created and shared on Instagram (through considerable stomach clenching) many months before I put it into practice

If you’ve ever let me know that something I’ve written has touched you, chances are your words are written in the journal pictured at the top of this letter.

Each week I find fifteen minutes to copy out kind words offered by friends/family/colleagues/connections in response to whatever I have put out into the world. From social media, Zoom chats, voice notes, emails, words shared in real-time conversation. 

A little like printing and framing favourite photos taken on a phone, it allows me to enjoy them, instead of them getting buried underneath the digital clutter and forgotten.

From time to time I sink back on the sofa with a cup of tea and read these words back.

Both parts of this practice remind me that creating what we feel moved to make, does matter. That we can never fully comprehend our impact. I am reminded of the connection to be found in creativity, and the joy of that.

This practice is strengthening my resolve to not hide. There is less recoil each time make and share something. My creative capacity is expanding, slowly but surely. The snarky what’s the point? is a little quieter and I’m able to move through the times that feel particularly uncomfortable with more grace.

It also reminds me of the joy to be found in offering similar encouragement to others as they show up in their own ways. It reminds me that we are all part of the same beautiful web, and of all the ways we are supported - both visible and invisible.

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A journaling practice to try…

Each day capture three gifts you were offered directly: Smiles, compliments, acknowledgements. Or capture particular moments you’ve appreciated - something you have seen or heard in real-life/online/in conversation that touched you. That made you feel glad to be alive.

At the end of the week make a cuppa, sit back and read back what you’ve captured.

Notice how it feels.

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What else is inspiring/nourishing me:

• Re-watching Band of Brothers, now 22 years old. The opening credits alone are a work of art.

• This song from my morning playlist.

• This poem by Joy Sullivan.

• Spending yesterday in a real-life room, learning in community, with colleagues I enjoy [despite the four thirty am alarm and questionable train station-sourced food.] More in-person gatherings in 2023 please.

As always, I welcome your replies and comments and sharing with others who might enjoy Glitter and Biscuits.

With love and shimmies,

Claire

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Find me elsewhere:

Instagram: @clairemackinnonwrites

Website: clairemackinnon.com

LinkedIn: Claire Mackinnon