Writing where it's warm

And why I started this Substack

Flowers of a Hundred Worlds: White Phoenix, Kamisaka Sekka, 1909

Hi friends,

I’m starting the #1000wordsofsummer challenge today and finally got to write my first Substack post. Thank you so much for subscribing! This newsletter will be entirely free for a while, so I hope you enjoy. Many of my readers are fellow writers as well. I hope my stories inspire you to keep believing in yourself and to write where it feels warm. As always, feel free to leave a comment below with your thoughts or just to say hi.

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I’ve been “soft writing” this introduction post for weeks. It’s the writing you do in your mind before you actually sit down to write. Some also call it “pre-writing.” Whatever it is called, I did a lot of it. Because starting this Substack feels like stepping up on a stage, but I can’t see my audience and I can’t remember how I got here. I just knew it was time. But what should I say?

Before I fell asleep at night, at every meal, and most recently, while I renovated my bedroom—I daydreamed about why I should keep writing, what I can add to this saturated space, and what fears were stopping me from starting. I have lists and lists to prove to myself why this is a good idea, my Notes App like a butterfly net for thoughts worth remembering. Ultimately, there’s the saying: some write because they want to, others write because they have to. I’ve always felt like the latter.

When I was a teenager, I dreamed of having my own blog where I could share stories and introspections about life, books, writing and relationships. I started that blog when I was around 18, wrote about six posts, and then it shut down once I got a full time job as a journalist. Yet, I never forgot the sense of community I felt from that short-lived blog, and it surprised me to hear people say, years later, that they liked my post and wondered when I’ll write more. That blog allow me to nurture my writing voice and was noticed by my boss at my first journalism gig, who said he hired me partly because my writing voice was fitting for a community newspaper.

The downside of that blog is that I wasted hours on design, fiddling with colours and fonts, rather than actually writing. I’m excited to use Substack because everything is already set up, and there’s also the community aspect that allows us to leave comments to writers and readers.

The most frequently asked question I receive is: what will you write about? I tend to have more questions than answers, and I love interviewing people who have such different experiences than I do, so you’ll likely read about the people I meet. I’ll also explore and document things I learn about becoming a better writer and person. You’ll also read about my travels, random projects, volunteerism in the community, how I navigate my 20s, and wherever else the ideas flow. Here, I write as a form of play and exploration.

Maybe the more pressing question is, why now? To be honest, I’m following an impulse. I don’t have the precise words to explain why certain things feel right at certain times. Externally, I quit my full time job as a reporter in April which has given me more time to pursue travel and other dreams. Internally, fears of being seen and of failure have become a shadow in comparison to the longing to live a life I’m proud of. I’ve noticed that the one thing most inventors and creators have in common is that they are cognizant of death.

Austin Kleon highlighted a few examples in his book “Show Your Work”. In one example he wrote,

When George Lucas was a teenager, he almost died in a car accident. He decided “every day now is an extra day,” dedicated himself to film, and went on to direct Star Wars.

To give another example, Steve Jobs, the man who invented the Apple device I’m currently typing on, said in his 2005 Stanford Commencement Address,

When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like, “If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you’ll most certainly be right.” It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself, “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?”

My friend Sarah sent me that commencement speech video the day I quit my job. I really am so grateful for my time as a reporter, but for months before that day, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was more out there, and I needed to see what. When I wrote for the newspaper, I saw obituaries every week and interviewed many people in retirement who could look back at their life with pride. After a while, I couldn’t ignore the nudge to start betting on my dreams too.

I still remember the first time I became cognizant of death. My grandmother was hospitalized when I was a little girl. It wasn’t her first time. She had a stroke once before, when I was much younger. But this time, during a hospital visit, I caught a glimpse of a long vertical cut on her stomach, held shut by staples. Someone should’ve covered my eyes or given a warning because I think that traumatized me. Just days before everything was fine. Since then, I have tried to live every day as if it were my last. Not in a reckless way, where I spend all my money and stop caring for my health. But I long for every second to last a bit longer. I linger with people I love, hearing their laughter and the echo of their steps. I love chatting up strangers at the airport or at the beach, where our collective breath is filled with good wishes knowing that we may not see each other again.

I was near the beach when I started this Substack, actually, while on a trip intended to help me learn more about who I am. It was last month, in Fountain Valley, California. On the quest to learn more about myself, I realized that a lot of who I am is who I decide to be. There, I read an article by Joy Sullivan about writing where it’s warm when you don’t know where to start. Sullivan wrote,

As writers, all we’re ever promised is flashes, hunches and vague ideas and we must make a meal of them.

She reminded me that overthinking sometimes leads to paralysis, and gave me permission to write what feels good to me, “prioritizing texture, taste, and emotional temperature.” How oddly fitting. There I was, with no clear direction about what to do next in my career, no concrete opportunity lined up, meanwhile I was soaking up the sun, ocean, and laughter with my niece and nephew, in a city with warm weather all year round. In that space, I felt inspired again.

I guess this Substack feels like a big step because, in part, it represents my commitment to being a writer.

And at the end of the day, if my words can bring a bit of warmth to you all, I will feel like I have lived a good life.

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