Why I Write About Myself
It’s a Sunday afternoon and I’m home doing laundry in my San Francisco apartment.
I don’t know how long I’ll stay in San Francisco, since I don’t feel like it offers everything I’m looking for and I’ve never been a city girl to begin with. I see people who have a deep love for the Bay Area, and while I definitely appreciate and enjoy parts of it, I’m not bound to this place by a single facet.
Me. Me, me, me. Sometimes him, sometimes them. Sometimes a few others make their way into my stories. But for the most part, I tend to write about myself. About my thoughts, my conflicting emotions, my intuition, and how my body and mind process all of these separate pieces of my unique self.
I write about myself because I don’t know anyone else as well as I know me.
I’m inclined to think that I give pretty good advice, because ever since second grade I’ve been the peer-proclaimed advice-giver. Not even joking — I was the playground psychologist. I used to take on clients at daycare after school when kids had “problems” and needed “counseling.” Of course we were only playing, but I always ended up in the role of the psychologist. At age 10, I was certain that was the professional path I would follow.
I love to write. I love to narrate. Telling stories in various forms — written word, spoken word, improv, visual art — that’s something that I love to do. My career work is wordy. My passion projects are wordy. My tweets are wordy. I don’t like character counts, but I’ve found a balance to co-exist with them.
I’ve noticed that so many writers on Medium focus on writing not only for their audiences, but on behalf of them as well. Creators and editors see the value in stories that share experiences turned to wisdom transcribed as advice. It makes sense; most of us are trying to learn from other people how to best deal with our own mental health, heartbreak, travel concerns, dating drama, and career struggles. My analogy is that the phenomenon is sort of like the “sex sells” concept — self-help sells, too.
Maybe I’m naive, but when I think about reframing my stories in a way that addresses how others can learn from them, I feel like a fake. Sure, I throw in advice and thought probes and I truly do want to readers to consider my points and ponder if they apply to their own lives. But at the same time, I don’t know how their brains work. I don’t know how your brain works. I don’t know what myths or truths you hold or dispel. I don’t know how you were hurt, or by whom, or if what I’ve been through will even resonate with a single one of your thousand experiences. I don’t know what ignites a fire in your soul or sends adrenaline down to your toes.
For those reasons, I recognize that the only person I truly know is myself. And even better — I know how to write about myself. I know how to tell my own story and determine which of the messy parts I want to share (and sometimes, which ones I’ll regret sharing later). I know how to write those things in a way that feels meaningful and personal and honest and true to me. I know how to use my creativity and my emotions to communicate messages that are compelling to read and engaging to think about. But I don’t want to write a self-help letter to my readers because if I acted like what works for me will work for you, I’d be selling you a neatly packaged, egotistical, one-lens perspective. I’m not about that life.
I’m not against giving advice, as nearly anyone who has had even a ten-minute conversation with me will tell you. And I’m certainly not against providing unconditional support to people who need it most. I love helping people and I love collaborating. I endlessly find myself talking to both close friends and near strangers about their problems and sharing how I’ve handled some of my own. In fact, if I someday look back and think, “Damn! I’ve come so far, the things I did worked so well, and the character traits I looked for in other people were all so true and accurate!” then maybe I’ll share that in writing. How I Discovered My Own Definition of Healthy or The Seven Things You Should Know about Bay Area Boys or Navigating the Yuppie Scene of San Francisco are all articles you might see from me in the future. But for now, I only know my story and I’m only sharing for the peace that it brings me and the possibility of connecting — in whatever way — with another reader who stumbles upon it.
I write about myself because I’m struggling.
I’m not struggling to write, that’s for sure. I write all the time for my own sake, and part of my job involves creating content for all sorts of diverse media channels.
I’m struggling to understand what direction to go next, which parts of me share with the world (or with individuals, for that matter) and how the things I do every day add up to who I’m becoming.
Writing is one tool that helps me understand those things, slowly but surely. Writing, both publicly and privately, helps me express myself so that I don’t have to keep my anxiety, enthusiasm, depression, joy, pain, and passion cooped up in my brain or in my physical body. It’s like running; it pushes out the energy that makes me feel tangled or stuck. In fact, that’s exactly what it is: putting my thoughts out into the universe is like running, only without the serotonin. But don’t worry — I do plenty of things to keep that serotonin flowing, too.
I’ve found that I enjoy reading stories from authors who share about themselves authentically and without motive. I often opt for personal narratives over lists of key findings and choose first-hand “just because” accounts over carefully curated tips for success. If they can draw a few words of advice or offer up hope for others as a result, that’s fantastic. But I admire when those results are drawn from something real and raw.
So, as the kids say, imma keep doing me.
I’m going to keep writing about my journey of living with anxiety and about how sometimes I cry on Muni and the way my stomach feels prickly when boys are actually interested in the things I love about life.
Join me, will you?
