The Beautiful Mess Between Intention and Accident

Why I'm Still Writing

I remember staring at that Substack page six months ago, cursor hovering over the button daring me to click it. Click publish, you coward.

Eventually I did. After lurking in the shadows for months, consuming other people's words while hoarding my own.

Why do I Write?

I had no plan. No niche. No content calendar. Just an itch to put words somewhere that wasn't my non existent journal.

And now? 1,000+ subscribers later? I still have no bloody clue what I'm doing.

But I'm doing it with intention.

The Accidental Audience

The most shocking thing about publishing your thoughts online isn't being comfortable with the vulnerability. It's when strangers start nodding along to what you’re saying.

Initially I wrote for me, my kids (future archival evidence that I had thoughts beyond "where are your shoes?" and "Have you done your homework?"), and the lurkers. That hasn't changed. But something else has emerged, a presence I didn't account for in my original calculations.

You're here. Reading (or listening). And Returning.

I find myself explaining British terms because I know most of my readers are American (60% cousins from across the pond compared to only 9% my fellow Brits, and the rest of you spread to the winds of the world). I catch myself thinking, "Do I need to translate this?" before typing something particularly British.

I've gone from writing in an empty room to writing in a room where people are quietly watching. And I get stage fright when people are watching!

"This post made me feel seen" someone wrote recently, or words to that effect, I have changed the actual wording to protect the innocent. I stared at those words for a full minute, not really knowing how to reply. My stock reply to something like that is self depreciating humour, I'm not good with compliments. And after all how could I make anyone feel seen when I'm still figuring out how to see myself clearly?

The Dashcam Confessionals

My writing process remains chaotically unrefined. When inspiration strikes while driving, I turn off my audiobook or podcast and deliver impromptu monologues to my dashcam, saving the footage to reference later. It's absurd. I'm essentially making confession tapes about my half-formed ideas to an electronic priest mounted on my windshield.

But it works, unlike other solutions I have tried including Google assistant and ChatGPT transcription. I often wonder what anyone would think if I captured an accident and had to submit the video to the insurance company or police.

I still write in bursts of consciousness, pouring everything onto the page before my ADHD can drag me down a research rabbit hole from which I might never return. The difference now is in the editing. I'm more intentional there. I consider you.

I'm writing this for me. But I'm editing it for us.

The Surprising Vulnerability

I never planned to write about myself this much.

I thought I'd be cleverly solving considering novel problems from my keyboard, like my handwashing post. Interesting questions, creative solutions. Done.

How we're Loo-sing the Germ War

Instead, I've published pieces about my ADHD diagnosis, my family struggles, the messy parts of trying to improve myself when improvement feels like chasing a horizon that keeps retreating.

I've even written poetry, for God's sake. Me, the person who once claimed poetry was unnecessary, depressing and written for the sole reason of making the kids who had to study it miserable. Now I'm over here counting syllables and feeling smug when I find the perfect metaphor.

On the Brink of Change

The Community I Never Expected

Over 1,000 subscribers. 500+ readers per post. Numbers that would have had six-month-ago me astounded.

I've had to set boundaries I never knew I'd need. I've deleted nearly 200 subscribers who never engaged, vanity metrics that fed nothing but my ego. I've structured my time: writing time, reading time, replying time. I'm no longer a slave to notifications.

And yet, connection remains the unexpected treasure of this journey. The people make it easy to keep coming back. DMs from people who weren't comfortable being vulnerable in the comments. Conversations in the comments that sparked ideas for future posts. The strange intimacy of strangers recognising themselves in your words.

I'm glad for all of you who form part of my community and I feel blessed to form part of yours. I only feel guilty that I can't read all of what everyone writes, there's just too much.

I probably don't help myself in that regard, eager to make new connections, starting monthly challenges with

Moon Arica

, practically daring people to write stuff that I had to read. Incidentally it might be a good time to mention that this post is an entry to the Kaleidoscope Project Monthly Challenge for April, where the theme is "Intent".

The Kaleidoscope Project April Challenge: Intent

I had pretty much completed this post before I even knew what the prompt was, and foolishly assumed I would be able to get away with publishing it as is. I was wrong about that. You see in order to intentionally write about intent, the intent to write about intent must be there from the beginning, and it hadn't been.

The Question of Value

I have been asked on more than one occasion "What's your long term plan, will you turn on paid?"

Eventually. Probably. The post explaining my philosophy on this is already written, sitting in drafts like a loaded gun I'm not ready to fire just yet, because with the publishing of that post, I will turn on paid posts and there comes the question of value. Do I have something worth paying for?

I'm also wary of reactance, the psychological phenomenon where something you love transforms into obligation once money enters the equation. If my aim for writing is for it to become the thing that pays the mortgage, does it remain the place I come to decompress? I don't know yet.

For now, I'm protecting the joy.

The Detail in the Detour

I still have no niche, maybe I’ll fall into one. I'm still that cat chasing the laser pointer of interesting ideas across the intellectual living room floor. But a pattern has emerged in the chaos.

Curiosity.

It's the thread connecting everything I write. The questions keep me going. The not-knowing keeps me interested. I don't think I could have named my publication better if I had taken six months to decide on a name.

I've discovered I'm not writing to showcase expertise (because I have none), I'm documenting lessons in real-time. And perhaps that's why people connect with it. No one wants to learn mountain climbing from someone shouting instructions from the peak. They want the climber one handhold ahead, turning back to say, "Try this grip instead, I just figured it out myself, it worked for me."

The Intentional Accident?

Six months ago, I was wandering. Now? I'm still wandering.

But I know why I keep walking.

Intent isn't knowing every turn in the road. It's understanding why you put your shoes on and step out of the door in the first place.

I write because untangling my thoughts helps me breathe easier. I write because sometimes people read something I've written and breathe easier too. I write because curiosity demands expression, expression invites connection and connection makes the whole messy human experiment feel less lonely.

The funny thing about intentions, they often reveal themselves after you've already begun.

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Your turn: Why do you write?

And if you're still lurking, watching from the safety of the shadows, consider this your unnecessarily dramatic sign from the universe: We need your voice too.

The world has enough polished experts. What we lack are honest explorers.

Come join the beautiful mess and add to it.