Here I am on yet another writing platform screaming at myself.
I was isolated as a child, a victim of an extreme religious cult. Young members like me were forced to do labor up to 60 hours a week. Indoctrinating meetings were enforced several times a week. We were kept from socializing in the outside world. If you didn’t comply, you were harshly disciplined. It was a living hell. Yet, the experience also taught me self-discipline and the drive to succeed.
My book, A Train Called Forgiveness, documents my childhood experience and the effects that experience had upon me later as a young adult. It was written in 2012 in an experimental format. Look inside. I had some moderate success with the book when I first self-published. Most people think the story is fascinating and that it could easily be made into a Netflix mini-series. Yet, here I am, a voice in the wilderness, screaming at myself.
This Place Is More Isolating than a Cult
Here’s a sad truth about my public writing journey since I first started. It’s been an extremely frustrating journey. I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words. I’ve created half a dozen websites. I’ve followed the rules, created a niche, mailing lists, offered free shit, yet it seems finding an audience has only gotten more difficult with time. I’d like to think my writing has become more seasoned during the same period.
I just joined SubStack at the end of 2022. I don’t expect magic. I don’t expect flocks of followers in a heartbeat. Due to a glitch at MailChimp, I lost my entire mailing list a couple of years ago and I’m hoping to rebuild it here. But the fact that the Internet has become more desolate and isolating to me as a writer than an extreme cult was to me as a child speaks volumes. There’s a problem.
Do we really need more social media and apps for writers? I miss the days when I first started as a blogger around 2012. I found community early on. People still commented on each others’ posts. I used to be able to email fellow bloggers and writers like Michael Hyatt, Jeff Goins, Joshua Becker, Kimanzi Constable, and many others, and get direct feedback. Now most bloggers have turned off their comments (myself included) and send you an automated message via email.
Is This Just Another Journal?
I started writing as a young boy. My first creative writings included plays and songs. Later, I received a higher education in communication. During my 30s and 40s, I journaled. There must be 30 journals sitting in an old dusty box in my linen closet. Is that all the Internet has become for writers like me? Another place to keep a journal? Will all my public work wind up in the digital linen closet. Am I just screaming at myself?
There’s nothing wrong with journalling. I still occasionally practice that seemingly outdated format. Still, my goals are not being met. Nobody seems to listen. Is my work that bad? Do I suck as a writer? Am I too self absorbed? I don’t think so. It’s my suspicion that most of us trying to create an inkling of notoriety and income from writing are doing the same thing. Screaming to be heard.
If Everyone Is Screaming, Who Is Listening?
That leads me to this inevitable question. If the Internet has led to everybody screaming to be heard, who the fuck is listening? I’ll be honest, there are very few bloggers and online writers that I read. Why? Because, with a few exceptions, everyone is writing the same shit. It’s a formula. I can often finish the script. I’d rather sit down and read Cormac McCarthy or Wallace Stegner. I’d rather read music biographies. I’d rather write.
Is this it? The end? Have we all become voices in the wilderness screaming to be heard? Is it only the lucky few with the right connections or money who get heard, even if their writing talent is limited and less honest? Has the Internet led us to the end of literacy as we know it?
My Hope for the Future at SubStack
I still keep a website, a blog, if you will. I keep my posts short, most are only a few hundred words or less. The topic is creativity. I also post some of my poetry and music. You can find it here.
So what’s the point in my writing at SubStack? I’d like to write longer pieces here, use this as a place to go deeper into the topics I choose. I’d also like to write some poetry, fiction, and experiment with a variety of formats. Fuck niche. I’m a writer. Don’t put me in a box.
My hope is to find other writers who feel the same frustrations as I do. I want to create a community of writers who just want to write. No absolutes. No rigid rules. No formulas. Just good old-fashioned writing. Perhaps, we can share both our frustrations and our work. It’s okay to vent. I won’t get pissy over a few choice words.
All this said, here I am, just another voice in the wilderness. I long for the days of community I discovered ten years ago. Will it return? Is this the place? Time will tell. Until then I’ll continue being another madman screaming at myself.
At least when I was a kid in a cult I had other kids to talk to. - dse