Do you really have writer's block, or do you just hate the internet?
The paradox of creating stuff online
To borrow the Substack equivalent of “Once upon a time”, I am writing this from a café. It is a crisp, cold winter’s day. I am wearing a beret.
Despite all of this dramatic effect, I have written eff all.
Oat flat white in one hand, non-existent Substack ideas in the other, gazing poetically (or perhaps just constipatedly) out of the window, I will some kind of elfin creature to materialise from the falafel place over the road and come and write this post for me.
Ill-advisedly, I have chosen a brunching hotspot in which to live out my Bradshawian fantasy, meaning I am squashed into a measly corner by the door. Approximately every 10 seconds (I’m counting), someone walks in and interrupts my reveries with the gale-force gusts of Storm Darragh.
Ah, writing—ever a stark reminder of the gap between expectation and reality.
As any sensible wordsmith knows, an overpriced beverage and pleasing aesthetics can only go so far in curing a case of writer’s block. And so the cursor continues to blink tauntingly, my head remains empty, the page is still blank.
But…is it really a block? Or do I just not want to write to a timetable—do I actually have anything particularly pressing to say?
The mess
Something that has been on my mind recently is the paradoxical act of making and sharing things online.
How the potential for creativity and connection is endless—and at the same time, how draining, distracting and downright dangerous this can be for our capacity for creativity and connection.
Perhaps I feel this more keenly as a creative and as a business owner who needs to have an online presence; or simply as a human being facing a supersonic smorgasbord of temptation and possibility, with only a prehistoric nervous system to navigate it.
I started Messy Work back in February, with the intention of publishing something every other week until the end of the year. It’s taken a lot of dedication and sacrifice (mainly of time spent watching Selling Sunset) to keep it up, but I’m grateful for the accountability having a deadline has given me.
Discipline has helped me to develop a consistent creative practice and make sure I nurture my own voice as a writer, lest it grow amorphous or nondescript beneath my work for brands.
Similarly, my little Notion calendar helps me make a habit of posting on LinkedIn—something that does translate to business, both as a writer and a coach.
But there’s a fine line between discipline and…
Rigidity that stifles creativity
Perfectionism that keeps us stuck
And control, which is usually rooted in fear.
If we don’t learn to walk it, we can find ourselves straying from our original intentions:
Forcing ourselves to create when our minds, bodies or souls need rest.
Expecting inspiration to strike on schedule, rather than surrendering to intuition and serendipity.
Holding ourselves to unattainable standards and gatekeeping our gifts, rather than sharing them with the world.
Comparing ourselves to others and obsessing over having—pithier hooks, funnier memes, hotter selfies, more followers, a hotshot book deal—rather than simply being ourselves.
Attempting to coerce the sprawling, volatile realms of the internet into something neat, manageable and predictable.
Quantifying and commoditising everything we put out there—into likes, comments, follows, subscribers, cash—rather than noticing the real riches our creative work gives us.
Usually, this is when we start to feel icky. We spend more time than ever labouring over posts that feel a bit “off” when we publish them. Depressed when they don’t get the results we’d hoped for. Resentful and cynical about the whole damn process. Tempted to pack it all in and lead a quiet life being blissfully offline and unperceived.
But then we’d be missing out on all of the potential the digital landscape has to offer—and let’s face it, traditional ways of monetising creativity (journalism, book publishing, selling records) don’t pay like they used to.
So, if you’re someone who wants—and if it pays the bills, needs—to make the most of creating and building online, how do you wrestle with this paradox?
Make it make sense
Earlier this year, an essay titled “We Need To Rewild The Internet” was published in Noema magazine. In it, writers Maria Farrell and Robin Berjon describe how the landscape of the internet has become increasingly monopolised and homogenised by big tech (Meta, Google, Apple, Amazon, Microsoft, et al).
If we imagine our online spaces as ecosystems, our digital world is plagued by a handful of bullish monocultures; our “land” ruled over by a bunch of exploitative overlords who mine us for content and tithe us our attention.
Trapped in these fiefdoms, we have to create and innovate within strict parameters, at the mercy of rapacious algorithms and omnipresent ads, rather than leaning into what feels truly natural or nourishing.
And so these days, I question whether a case of writer’s block is as simple as procrastination or lack of inspiration—or a sign of resistance.
The work
As I mentioned in my slow business manifesto, I am trying to pay closer attention to this resistance in myself. Peering under the hood of every I can’t to understand if it is, in fact, an I won’t.
Because while my whimsical, right-leaning brain is far too tiny to wrap itself around the technicalities of rewilding the internet, I wonder what it would look like to rewild our creativity on the internet.
Instead of following a schedule, how might we follow our energy and intuition?
Instead of feeding the algorithms, how might we feed ourselves?
Instead of conforming to convention, how might we go against the grain?
Instead of worshipping at the altar of the individual, how might we reprioritise the collective?
Instead of measuring our prosperity using metrics of influence/affluence (like colonialists surveying their empires), how might we value smaller, genuine pockets of community?
Instead of outsourcing our creativity to AI or optimising our voices/faces through filters, how might we celebrate our rough edges?
I am aware of the irony of saying all of this on a platform like Substack—which, although much friendlier than other “corners” of the internet, still resides in Silicon Valley (as I am aware of my “like and subscribe” buttons throughout 😉).
But as I get closer to my goal of making it to the end of the year without missing my publishing deadline, I’m starting to think about what the future of Messy Work looks like. And how, especially as I have more readers giving me the faith and courage to keep writing, I shape it to be as wild as possible…
Watch this space.
I don’t have the answers!
But I sure like asking questions. How does the paradox of posting resonate with you? And what do you think a “rewilded” internet could look like? However rough or evolving, I’d love to hear your thoughts below.
About me + Messy Work
If you’re new here, I’m Lucia, a freelance copywriter, accredited career, creativity and life coach, and enthusiastic Substacker.
This newsletter is dedicated to making sense of, moving past and really celebrating the messy work of life through personal essays, coaching insights, and memes.
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I'm loving writing about odd little stories I find interesting on here - it's very much feeding my brain and reinvigorating the rest of my writing (and maybe, just maybe, someone else might enjoy it too).