“I’m just flexing my writing muscle.”

Writing a regular Substack newsletter means spending time on the platform itself (funnily enough).  Its scrollable newsfeed reminds me of how glad I am to have given up social media, though the posts themselves are usually much less offensive.  Most of the ones I see are either from established writers, or a barrage of people “just flexing my writing muscle”.

Often, “flexing my writing muscle” involves the writer congratulating themselves on picking up a few more subscribers, or discussing their hobbies in detail.  Many of them talk about one day writing a book.  

It’s all a bit dull, if I’m being honest.  There’s no wit, no bite, and no real opinion.  None of the things that make a piece of writing interesting to read.

It’s easy to fall into the trap of starting a Substack and asking people to follow it, before we’ve found our voice.  Before we know what we actually want to say.  Social media has generated an assumption that our every last thought must be shared and/or monetised immediately, or it’s worthless.

(I’ve kept a private diary since I was eight years old.  Recently I’ve been writing entries with “what could I potentially do with this?” loitering at the back of my mind.  It’s like when I listen to a song on Spotify and think about how it might affect my ‘Spotify Wrapped’ at the end of the year.  Or when I take a walk without my phone, then fret about how that walk didn’t contribute to my daily step count.  As Blur once opined, modern life is rubbish).

“Flexing my writing muscle”, for me, is something we should do behind the scenes.  At least in the beginning.

Watching people practise something they love can feel reassuring, especially if we want to do it as well.  But it’s not very exciting, and it’s rarely interesting.  There’s a popular assumption that anyone can write, and while that’s true, writing is also a skill that should be honed over time. The ‘write’ of passage (sorry) begins with being both unfocused and a little bit crap.  It’s a necessary part of the process.

For example, most writers start out by copying a voice they like or admire, because they haven’t yet discovered their own.  When I first started writing short stories in 2006, I based my style on Chris Brookmyre and Charlie Brooker; two ‘black humour’ writers I really liked.  It took a few more years of “flexing my writing muscle” – updating my blog, completing the first draft of a novel, and testing different ideas offline – for me to develop my own voice and feel confident using it.

If you want to write a book, don’t talk about it.  Write it.*

My blog had a few followers, but I didn’t ask for them.  If they left I wouldn’t have cared because that blog was my personal sanctuary, first and foremost.   Nobody was paying me to write, and nobody was expecting me to write.  It gave me creative freedom that I think is extremely important.

In 2022, I wrote about the comedian Bob Odenkirk’s memoir, Comedy, Comedy, Comedy, Drama.  In it, he talks about how performing on the ‘Stage of Love No Money’ helped him develop a “cool artistic life” for himself.  Before he hit the big time, he spent years “writing and recording stuff, making mistakes no-one was listening to.”

I’m not saying we’ll all hit the big time if we never show our work.  I just think we need to consider the possibility that, just like the daily goings-on of our lives, some of it is best kept behind the scenes.  Then, when it’s finally time to perform, we’ll be ready for our close-up.

*(If you do want to write a book, but you’re not sure where to start and/or you’d like a bit of friendly support, I’m here for you).