This is me, unfiltered.
I want to blow. There, I said it.
Maybe I don’t have it in me anymore. What exactly it is that I don’t have in me, I don’t know. Is it the skill of writing I’ve lost, or the motivation to write? Did I lose my spark long ago, and what I’ve just lost now is the ability to pretend?
The number of times I’ve thought of deleting my Substack this month is crazy. Maybe it’s because I’m so tired I don’t feel like writing at all. Or maybe it’s because I believe I’m not doing so well here. My growth feels too slow, and I can’t help but compare my writing to those who seem to be doing better. I see people who started this year with ten times my number of subscribers. I see posts with hundreds of likes from small writers like me, even Notes with more engagement than my essays. I’ve seen someone write, “I joined Substack two months ago, and I now have 150 subscribers. Thank you to my Substack family.” And I’m happy for them, I really am. But I can’t help but wonder, when will my time come? When will I have my huge break on Substack? When me sef go blow? God abeg. Allah please na. Substackers pity me na. Sometimes I feel like the algorithm just hates me.
Yet deep down, I know the truth. My timeline is different from theirs. Comparison is the thief of joy. Growth is growth, no matter how slow. My breakthrough may be closer than I think. I shouldn’t give up on my writing, or on myself. There may be someone out there who finds light in what I write. I know I write beautifully, and I love writing. But I can’t help but wonder if this is really for me. I know it’s the devil in disguise, imposter syndrome wearing a mask. Slow and steady wins the race, but why can’t I win with fast and steady?
Sometimes I even feel like I don’t deserve the subscribers, reads, likes, and comments I already have. Some of them didn’t come naturally. I dragged people here from my WhatsApp status, sending out overbearing broadcasts about my new posts. “Hey my favourite writer, did you miss me?” That was me practically forcing it down their throats. Yet most of them stayed. Most of them genuinely enjoy my work. Still, I can’t help but wonder if they would have subscribed, liked, or commented if they didn’t know me and had simply stumbled on my writing by chance.
The truth is, it’s not a Substack algorithm issue. It’s me. I’ve been inconsistent. I haven’t stood firm on my Substack the way I should have. I have myself to blame, not tiredness, not losing my spark, not even the Substack algorithm. I blame me for not putting in my best. I blame me for laughing over novels at midnight when I should have been writing.
This makes me remember a poem from the book Gifted Hands by Ben Carson. The poem is titled Yourself to Blame by Mayme White Miller. I read the book sometime last year, and the poem hit me so hard I had to copy it into my notes.
So here I am, venting about my slow growth, but still taking accountability for my actions. Henceforth, I promise myself and my readers to post at least three times a month. Hold me accountable if I break my promise.
So help me God, me, and my amazing subscribers. Amin.
Comparison is the thief of joy.
Writing is for you.
Great things take time.
Rooting for you, I can't wait to read what's next🤍