Reflection: Sharing

My Year on Substack

Happy birthday, Heartfelt Fiction!

This week marks the one year anniversary of Heartfelt Fiction. That means it’s also been a year since I started to share my creative writing publicly.

I write professionally, but always kept my fiction and poetry private. Because I don’t have an MFA or even an English degree, the press of imposter syndrome made me hesitate. Who did I think I was? Why would anyone want to read my stories when there are so many other, more qualified people out there? Shouldn’t us corporate copywriters get out of the real artists’ lane?

Then, in a pandemic-induced need to connect, I joined a writers’ group. Magic happened. I learned I wasn’t the only writer holding themselves back. Seeing these incredibly talented people hoarding their creativity made me question my own shyness. Hearing their positive reception to my creative writing gave me confidence that maybe my work was worth reading.

So, after two years of bolstering from my peers, I started this Substack and an accompanying Instagram. I figured I would lay my words out like an offering, back away slowly and wait.

Something incredible happened when I did. Nothing. Nothing happened. No one harassed me with the insistence that I give up writing. No one called me a talentless fraud. On the other hand, my work didn’t “go viral.” I was not inundated with effusive praise or book deals. I didn’t find a massive social media following. Starting this site taught me that my work is out there in a loud world where everyone is jostling to be heard. I am but one cryer in the town square of the internet. There isn’t anyone listening just for my voice in the din.

That can be a disheartening feeling. I write — as I suspect most of us do — to have my work read. It’s a small way to connect myself and my ideas to others. But mostly, I found it freeing. If no one was listening for me, it also meant no one was concerned about what I did or did not do. All of a sudden, sharing my writing felt like play. Once I had that perspective shift, boy, did I start to have fun.

I wrote stories to share here (this one is still my favorite) and submitted others to literary magazines with equal abandon because, why not? Yes, rejections sucked. Yes, it was deflating when stories got zero “likes” or had low views. But the sting of those lows just made highs all the sweeter.

And there have been many highs. I found a lovely community of fiction writers on this platform and came out of my poetry-writing shell on another. I had stories published by literary magazines and sites. This all means that my stories were read. Characters that once lived in my head also lived, if only for a moment, in another person’s life. That knowledge gives me chills and gets me a little teary.

After a year, I still have a small audience. I’m okay with that. It was never about numbers for me. I wanted the bravery to offer my stories to the world. That some people picked them up is more than enough for me.

If you’re reading this, I also offer my deepest gratitude. Whether you’re a friend supporting my work or stranger who found something enjoyable about my stories, thank you. That you read my work means more to me than any arrangement of words could convey.

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