Substack’s “write your first post” prompt reminds me of a specific, unused hard cover notebook that is patiently sitting on my shelf. Its numerous pages are blank, and as an added bonus (and curse) are also neatly perforated. That little detail makes the notebook unique amongst all my others, and thus even more special. I bought this notebook in a Barnes and Noble, during a brief and rushed visit to NYC, even while knowing that I would have to lug it home to South Africa in my already overstuffed suitcase. But the pretty cover and heavy bond ensured there was no chance I was going to leave it behind. I had so much witty wisdom to fill the pages with, duh!
Problem is, this notebook is still blank and I bought it before my children were born (my eldest turned 23 this year). It has indeed been lugged from one home to another, through different chapters of my life, different relationships, different kinds of pandemics (not all of them Covid). It has lived by my side through traumas and tragedies, broken hearts, happiness and pure moments of bliss, but the book itself has remained empty. When I page through it I see no evidence of any of my life’s experiences.
Why am I so hesitant to spoil a book that, let’s be honest, in a worst scenario is easily replaceable with a quick online order? Do I somehow believe that if the book is not perfect it must mean my life is not perfect? Maybe this is why I insist on keeping my book pristine while my life is a bit of a mess. A fake facade, of sorts. I seem to be scared to mark it with the evidence of a life I live every single day. Even worse — and I might as well admit this to you now — I have a whole bookshelf in my study, filled with similar books, each book just as blank as the next. It seems I have forbidden myself from documenting my life with doodles, messy notes, deep essays and pretty postcards, while at the same time preserving the hope that one day I just might. Silly me.
Well, on this one day, I have a new notebook. It’s called a Substack newsletter. It’s beckoning me to write my first post, to tell the world what I am thinking, who I am, how I can help. I have so much to say, don’t I? A real blabbermouth. Since words on a screen are not as permanent as pen marks in a notebook, I have easily started to write, but unfortunately have been even quicker to delete. And when inspiration strikes and I write again, I also delete again. It’s a dance. But to hell with it. I’m just going to write. I am going to publish. Every day. For 31 days of May. I will allow myself to delete words, but not paragraphs. Ideas that I formulate, I will then convey. And yes, I can warn you right now, I’m going to make a mess. And I’m going to be proud of it.
I can’t tell you exactly what I am going to write about, because I don’t exactly know yet. I want to write to and about women who are 50yrs and older, who are boldly (and finally!) grasping the life that they have always deserved but have inevitably delayed. I know all about those types of things, because I’m 52, introspective and curious. I can blabber about things that affect our sense of sensibilities, and I can do it for hours. Most important though, I want to build a community within these Substack walls but also beyond them, that prioritises connection and support as a coping mechanism.
So yes. I am ready and very much looking forward to making this mess. And when I am done starting the mess here, I will start making a mess of my Barnes and Noble notebook, just for kicks. It’s about blooming time, no?
Thanks for reading,
Eve D