I'm back

And more mediocre than ever.

I mused about starting a new Substack on Instagram recently. A few things whirled around my head. The two main recurring, perhaps obsessive, thoughts on the matter have been:

• most people who would like to read my stuff are likely already subscribed to this long-abandoned account

• who the hell do I think I am?

I’ve always loved writing. I’ve especially loved writing an almost stream-of-consciousness on all kinds of topics. But why? Who actually wants to read the ramblings of a 36-year-old with an ordinary job and no public profile or status? Who actually gives a damn about what I think about books or TV shows? Or my opinion on the state (important to read this in my north Dublin accent) of society or, I don’t know, the best snacks?

The before times

I am of generation blogger. I was one of the first little Irish bloggers that could. I shouldn’t brag about this because, of course, I was so mediocre I never made anything of it. That’s kind of my brand. Mediocrity is my jam.

In those times, blogging was kind of like having a hundred or so digital pen pals. It was communicative and community-based. We used our Twitter accounts to connect with like-minded people and Facebook groups to support each other. It was quite lovely, and I still interact with people I met online through blogging every day, some 15 years later. I even have some great real-life, in person friends from that era too.

We all just wrote. I don’t ever remember stopping and thinking “Oh my god, who would even want to read this?” I just went with it. Whether it was reviewing an album, posting eyeshadow swatches or revealing perhaps too much about my personal life at times, I just wrote and hit that publish button. How liberating, in hindsight, it was not to care or worry about what might happen after the button was hit.

But that was the before times. Before we started to commodify our hobby of writing. Before we started caring about “Facebook reach” and brand event invites. Before Instagram had business stats and before the existence of influencers. Before certain corners of the community got weirdly toxic and smelled like school bullying if you got too close. whew. Gross.

I had dreams of being a journalist from a very young age. It is the fault of Patrick Fugit in Almost Famous, Kate Hudson in How to Lose a Guy in 10 days and, oh so very obviously and predictably, Carrie fucking Bradshaw. I was going to be the working-class Carrie Bradshaw. The Irish, girl version of William Miller. You can imagine how amazing it was to the young me, and others like me, to discover the art of blogging. I could have my very own column! It was a glorious time to be online.

Yeah, dream on dreamer

Alas, although I still work with words and delicious, juicy content structures and strategies (nom, nom, nom 🤓), I did not have what it took to make writing about whatever the hell I wanted my career. I didn’t have the drive. I am a product of the recession, graduating right into a time when you either worked for free or didn’t work. I believe, first and foremost, in safety and security above dreams. Which, as a bona fide dreamer, is a tough way to be. I didn’t have the confidence, and I near wept every time someone told me to just stick to a niche. A niche! In this mind?

Soon, content became more ephemeral and short-form, and honestly I have never had any interest in yapping into my phone about stuff. I’m not a social content creator. I’m a writer. Words are always far better tapped out on a keyboard than they ever are coming out of my mouth. I simply didn’t have the desire to continue in the world of content creation if it meant giving up my peace and my hobby of posting crap on Instagram for a few quid and the potential of a kind of career adjacent to the one I dreamed of as a teenager in the 2000s. The one I have is just as adjacent and far more anonymous, which absolutely suits me.

And yet here I am again. Trying to carve out a little place to practice writing. To see if someone likes it. In a safe and secure job that I never want to leave. Holding tentatively on to what might be a dream.

Let’s see if I can keep it up long enough to write anything of interest.