your truth doesn’t have to be marketable

it just wants to be heard

I’ve learned this about my work and your work,

the stories that demand to be told, don’t ask for permission. They don’t ask who’s listening. Truth doesn’t care if it’s marketable. It just wants to be heard. Writing isn’t about following a trend. It’s following the thing that won’t leave you alone. This is tricky work, illuminating work, dirty work, lonely work. But writing and storytelling continue to change lives. As the writer - it helps you organise and reshape your ideas - rewiring your mind as you go; it’s about untangling thoughts, expressing them and learning how to think better. As the reader - well, you learn you aren’t alone.

I reckon I touch on universal topics almost by mistake - I never set out to be relatable or try to say what is needed; I write only what is in my heart. Sometimes, this works out well for me. Other times, I am unceremoniously humbled because fewer people engage. There’s no way of knowing the rhyme or reason - I’m certainly not here to spot trends and try to jump on them. It is too cynical for me, and I won’t enjoy the work anymore.

No, either way, I must remain honest. What is in my heart today is the internal struggle between the truth and what readers have come to expect about what I write, and of course, the external pressure of marketability - which - to keep on doing this in any real way, I must try to ignore. But marketability is linked to my survival, and so it never quiets. Add that to the whole metrics and numbers feature across the platforms. Sigh. Sometimes I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to go and buy a fucking laundromat. But I have to. Write. Writing is the thing that follows me - and I am still waiting to write my favourite piece ever. With every book, I get a little closer.

While money matters, I am learning that I cannot conflate one thing with the other. I cannot measure my worth by book sales or subscriptions because stories and art are worth creating, free (as they can be) of external accolades. Still, try telling that to people who do this for a living, people who do this to keep the lights on.

I was in my late twenties when I first met with a literary agent. She had a swish office in London and was interested in my writing style. After reading my poems about people on the verge of emotional and spiritual ruin, she told me, “Go off and write a love story.”