TW: Brutal honesty and excessive self-indulgence.
It appears I’ve come up against a roadblock, of sorts, when it comes to scribbling away on this blog. Every time I turn up here — you know, ‘show up’ to ‘do the work’ like every upstanding member of the creator economy — inspiration seems to be elusive, at best.
And if said inspiration did exist at all, it promptly drains out of me the very moment I log in here — sometimes in slow, steady, drips, sometimes escaping in one large, unwieldy, gush.
Either way, it’s absent.
Based on some extensive overthinking, I think we can boil it down to two key culprits (I was serious about the self-indulgence).
I’ve been writing for everyone but myself.
The start of 2021 found me in the throes of a freelance frenzy (trust me, my fixation with terrible alliteration baffles me, too). Make no mistake: I’m very fortunate to have secured some exciting projects, and I’ve learnt a lot along the way.
Taking on multiple commitments, however, also got me dangerously hooked on optimising every possible minute, on constantly working, on turning into a toxic productivity machine. I was writing at all hours of the day — at times, racking up thousands of words per day. So much hustle! So little time!
All this writing, of course, was for other people, for other businesses. Never for myself. Never for this blog. Essentially, like every good, standard-issue millennial, I’d monetised my hobby. I’d successfully commodified my passion for weaving words into stories into a neat, hire-me-by-the-hour package.
Working with multiple clients also transformed me into a complete writing chameleon. I’d spend my mornings in American English, afternoons donning a simple, conversational tone for podcast scripts, and evenings whipping up super snappy news pieces for Indian audiences.
This mish-mash of styles, this unsolicited versatility, also made for a writing habit that slowly distanced me from my own style. I lost my (fairly) unique voice. I think I’m still looking for it.
And so, today, writing on the blog feels almost alien — much like trying on clothes from your halcyon university days after the perils of adulting and customary weight gain have kicked in. Is this particular piece ‘me’? I'll have to get back to you on that.
Eventually, as those first months of the year drew to a close, so did all those external projects — although not before I wound up exhausted and down with a case of a certain infectious disease.
I’m not following my own advice (right now).
This freelance fanaticism, of sorts, also extracted any Stoicism from my response to seemingly everyday annoyances (most notably, neighbours who have a penchant for rearranging furniture at odd hours of the night). (Clearly, I’m not quite over this particular annoyance yet).
So, I took a holiday from actually following any of the advice I’d been dishing out in previous blog posts. Sure, I’ve waxed lyrical about the importance of focussing only on what you can control, of finding joy in the ordinary, of being consistent — but, for the past few months, I’ve practised very little of what I’ve preached.
You see, this blog seems to have rather nicely (and unexpectedly) shoehorned itself into the ‘personal growth’ niche. However, my current tendency to allow the little things to get to me — to deeply affect me across the spectrum of mood, performance, sleep — has rendered so much of the blog and its contents temporarily obsolete.
Yes, only temporarily. I still firmly believe in personal growth content. I firmly believe in the power it holds to transform mindsets and lives, including those of my tiny audience. But, alas, with great power comes great responsibility (thanks, Spidey).
And, right now, it feels incredibly disingenuous to write yet another self-development piece that I’d almost certainly not believe in — packed with hope I’d never think to hold on to and advice I wouldn’t consider following.
Of course, if the proverbial genie were to appear and grant me a couple of wishes, there’s no doubt that wish #3 would be to keep this blog alive. No matter what, the rather unoriginally titled salonimiglani.com/blog won’t die on my watch. (This may also explain why I’ve been hiding under little else but piles of book reviews on here, lately).
So, until the version of me that built the foundations of this blog finally resurfaces, I’m doing what I can to stay here, to write about something (albeit infrequently). I just can’t guarantee it’ll add much value to your life — I mean, I’m toying with the idea of writing on the joys of English cuisine next.
Until next time,
S
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Tell me: Am I the only one feeling a tad uninspired lately?
Cover image captured by Manu Schwendener for Unsplash.