Felix sit natalis dies
On one year of writing here
For someone with an elephantine memory for sentimentalist things, I’m unsure why I wanted to start writing Substack. I was probably then buoyed by someone who thought I wrote well. Maybe I wanted to be a cool kid, writing internet blogs like I was in some naughties chic flick. But I remember shooting off the first post in Room 103 of the New Academic Block at university. I did not expect it to go as far as a year, considering my less-than-honourable track record in finishing projects I begin with great enthusiasm. Miraculously, I have published 20 posts in the last year (this being my 21st).
Much has changed in the last year, both in my interior worlds and the world beyond. I have known new depths of intensity, both highs and lows. But probably the most relevant for today has been this assurance that I can actually write. I did not need the dangling carrot of scoring 22 out of 25 marks on an English grammar paper1 to churn out a semi-decent essay. I could write for leisure, I could write as prayer, I could write like it was an act of living. It may sound deeply irrational but I always feared that I would run out of things to write. I believed that the four or five ideas marinating in my mind would vacate to leave room for nothing when I put them down on paper or up on the internet. It has taken me a year to realise that this old tick, this itch of mine to write, is immanent. It needs polish, surely, but it is something I can’t be robbed of.
And yes, I do feel like a very cool kid to be participating here. I truly believe Substack is the home for great writing today.
I vividly remember the first story I wrote, when I was around five. It was in a brown diary, probably an extra that my father got from work. It was this didactic story about a girl called Geetha who lived in Mysore. It was little more than a page long. I wrote it, read it, closed the diary and hid it away. When Amma found it, I was ready to be swallowed whole by the earth out of embarrassment. Sometime later, around the same age, I bought a journal to write thoughts, stories, whatever. I made sure that the journal had a lock and a tiny key which only I would have access to. It was not that I believed it was a bad story. But for whatever reason, I did not want to be known to be capable of something like that. This detour from being embarrassed of audience, to looking forward to seeing my notifications say ‘X liked your post’ has only taken about 17 years.
This has its perils. Substack recently has been inundated with several ‘growth’ posts. Grow to 1,000 subscribers in 30 days. Learn how to monetise your Substack. Follow these 3-steps to be on Substack Leaderboards. I am a child of byte-sized, short-form, instant-click media, I am not immune to the need for more internet validation. But I often think of a Note I read here a while ago (I can’t seem to find it now). The author of that Note said something along the lines of: Everybody’s obsessed with growth to tens and thousands of subscribers. But back when I worked in a local library, an audience of 10 for a book reading by an author was considered a good turnout, 30 was excellent, and 50 was a full house.
If my recollection of the numbers is correct, I have a full house here on Substack. I am deeply grateful for everybody who has subscribed to my writing and appreciate it whenever possible. Maybe someday I will find that first story I ever wrote and post it here.
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This has been by far, my greatest academic cheap thrill.
this is the most relatable thing i’ve read in a very long time while which goes to say thankyou so much for being on substack <3333