This whole thing just came out
and I think it’s a turning point
Dear subscribers
I feel that the more refined a piece of writing is, the more aloof it feels to its readers. Another way to say that is: that expertise feels far away from us; that what's relatable tends to be erroneous, rough, unformed, vulnerable, haptic, loose, fallible, and unvarnished; and what's less relatable tends to be shiny, definite, tight, crystalline, accomplished, otherworldly, rigid, and polished.
Most, if not all, of the posts I've written to you have felt more like producing products than anything else. Products because of how premeditated they've been, of how many edits they've been subjected to, of how much effort I've put into smoothing edges and installing embellishments. I’ve written more like a brand than a human being.
But here's the thing. I'm trying to be more honest with you now. And more honest with myself. Honest because, for me, that's the next great challenge I must face if I’m going to get better.
Two years ago, I was new. I lacked the skills and the confidence and I knew it. In an effort to look credible, I prioritised my professionalisation, with all of the accoutrement of a contemporary blogger brand.
That polish gave me the security blanket I needed to write and publish without being overcome by the terror of being totally shit, or of becoming disrespected or, worse, disliked.
That in turn allowed me to put in many writing reps and to publish 70-odd posts.
It even allowed me to land a job as a mentor and enter a community of other writers, many of whom say they enjoy my words and want me to help them.
Polish, for sure, has been very good for me.
But there is a tarnished side to this story.
Polish has made me scared to take risks with my topics, maybe even more scared than I would have been without it.
There are topics I want to write about precisely because they’re hard: politics, economics, love, hatred, sex, careers, aging, the British class system, crime, selfishness, family shit—there's all sorts.
Supposedly I’m scared because I don't know enough, or I'm scared of what I'll find, or I’m worried I’ll come across (like I may be coming across now) like a privileged man with first-world-only issues.
But really I haven’t faced these fears because I've got no adversity forcing me to. I'm a comfy winner of globalisation. I invent challenges to fill the space where war, illness, or poverty would historically have been.
I've built a polished edifice to write from, and all of my pieces I've written with such desire to be impressive that my writerly posture has become distant, insincere, and even contrived at times.
The more polish I’ve added, the less able I’ve been to write courageously. I have been producing products instead, trying to pass myself off with eclectic taste, unique perspectives, and “game-changing insights.”
I've been doing it with kindness and openness and perfectly good behaviour. But I've been pretending I’ve been working my very hardest when I haven't.
The biggest problem with writing safely—if you're a lover of writing like I am—is that you have to live with the itch of knowing you’re not really writing.
You live with an acute awareness of all the ways you are ignoring or covering up your truth.
You live with the disappointment of growing in other ways but never in the way you want to grow the most.
And since if “you've got it” you can easily “spot it,” you have to watch others cover up their truth too, to the point where sometimes you just want to slam shut your laptop, phone that writer up, and scream down the phone at them:
“You are fucking amazing, so why don't you stop pretending to be so fucking smart and hip and instead write about what you really want to write about?! Tell us about all the things you're unsure of, all the pain you're in, the ways you feel insecure. Show us the person you really are by falling all over yourself on the page, admitting you don't know shit, that you're still scarred from the bully, or the girl that fucked you over, or the parents who abandoned you, or the employer that abused you. Just stop writing about AI or productivity or how to make a thousand dollars, and instead give us all what we really want you to give us, what we all know you're capable of: the pain, the anguish, the sadness, and the confusion. Give us your full energy and your full unformed thoughts, your torn muscles, your receding hairline, the flab around your belly. Give us all the ways in which you made commitments you no longer want to keep—to your girlfriend, to your job, to your blog, and to your dog. We don't want to see another dazzling midjourney image or another well executed title. What we want is for you to come out and use this craft in the way that it has the potential to help all of us the most. Because even though what you're doing is impressive (I'm envious of you!), even though you're becoming successful by my standards, even though you're giving me shiny templates of blogging that I can follow, and even though you're doing it all with grace and care, I can tell it's all because you just want my attention. You need someone to put their arms around the child version of you and say, ‘It's OK. It's not your fault what happened. You're a good kid. We love you. You are enough. You have a good heart. You can do whatever you want. It's OK to ask for help. We will not leave you alone. We see the magic in you. We love your face. We love your smile. And most of all we love your vulnerability. Don't cover that up. It's a strength, not a flaw. It is beautiful and we want to see more.’”
…and then I put the phone down and realise that I haven't really been shouting at anybody but myself.
I've written this message on my reMarkable tablet, which I then went to the park and read aloud, recorded and transcribed, and sent out to you all, my beloved subscribers.
I do love you all in the sense that I love knowing you decided to read what I write. And I love that this message isn't going into the void, because I do want your attention.
The thing I must do to reward your attention is start facing scarier topics. But to do that, I need to change the way I write.
I want my writing to feel closer to you. More inviting. More relatable. I hope writing with less polish will help me do that. I think it’s a turning point.
If you're reading this thinking, “Yuck, I don't want your dirty laundry mate,” then rest assured I won't do this every time (I will still make some “products”).
But if you really can't stand it ever, then you should unsubscribe. I've turned off unsubscribe notifications anyway, so I'll never know if you did.
If you do enjoy this new style of mine, but you're concerned about the length of future posts, give me a pass on this first one. I had a lot to get out. Future posts might be shorter.
At the end of the day, the whole point of this message is to stand up and tell you that I want my blog to feel like a welcoming conversation, not a polished product.
So email me, DM me, add comments, come back at me with whatever thoughts, feelings, and suggestions you may have. This is scary for me to post, but it's what I must do to grow, and I want to grow along with you.
There are terrifying topics ahead, and I need to be fully myself in order to tackle them.
Harrison 🙋♂️
⬥
beautiful
Fuck yes. This is epic. Energetic too.