Sharing My First Text on Substack

© Chrononaut

After tinkering with a single text for over a year before finally sharing it, I concluded that one of the main things standing between me and my life is my striving for perfection, i.e., seeking everyone’s approval.

So what’s new?

I realize that a lot of people, if not everybody, suffer from this to some extent.
However, it struck me that, while the text was in no way controversial (a personal and pretty cheesy ramble about choices), many of my friends and acquaintances wrote to me (privately) to say how proud they were because I dared to share…and I felt the same.

I chose Substack, among other reasons, to be able to simply write, without thinking about how many little red hearts will my thoughts land. Once I shared, I felt very vulnerable and found myself maniacally checking the stats.

© Chrononaut

How did we get here?
A complex question, for sure, but I think we can agree that social media holds part of the answer.
Humans are communal beings. Generally speaking, we like being liked and feeling like we belong. Some platforms have exploited this by using buzzwords such as followers and creating an environment where building an audience has become the goal rather than a side product.

One of the messages that I received after sharing I need to stop waiting reads as follows: I hope this will inspire more people to come forward who, in a time where judgment holds the highest value, are not afraid to share what they carry within.

In a time where judgment holds the highest value…
After reading and rereading this slightly terrifying phrasing, I wondered about how many things are we missing out on because of this environment that we’ve created or been pulled into.
And especially when it comes to art: how many great stories, poems, and photographs are buried in drawers and forgotten hard drives?
Are there writings comparable to Shakespeare’s or Tolstoy’s that haven’t been shared? Or perhaps a poem that wouldn’t have had such reach but could heal one of my wounds?

I am, in fact, a lucky owner of a couple of such wound-healing pieces that have been deemed unworthy by their creators. With their consent, I would like to share some of them in my next publication, The Artist's Trash Can.
If you are interested in taking part, email me at info@chrononautphotography.com with something that you’ve made, that is close to your heart but that, for one reason or another, you’ve not dared to put out there.

©Chrononaut

When Alba was born, I told myself that I wanted to become the bravest I could be, but until today, I couldn’t have defined what I meant by that.
This morning, I listened to a reading by David Whyte that consumed me completely.
In it, he speaks about the linguistic origin of the word courage and its template in Old Norman French, Coeur – Heart:
Courage is the measure of our heartfelt participation with life, with another, with a community, a work, a future.
To be courageous is not necessarily to go anywhere or do anything, except to make conscious those things we already feel deeply, and live through the unending vulnerabilities of the consequences.
— David Whyte

I created an account on Substack out of a longing for a space in which I can dive into myself, into the world, and share whatever I retrieve, as raw or mundane as it needs to be at that moment.
A space in which I can change my mind and surprise myself.
I want to free myself from all constraints and give others that same freedom and support…or maybe I’m just being hit hard by a thirties crisis :)
Anyhow, much appreciation to anyone passing by or deciding to join me on this expedition!

To end, I leave you with a quote from Hermann Hesse that was gifted to me by a dear friend. It has been pinned up in my kitchen for years, but it has somehow been surprisingly easy to ignore:
I was not there to write poetry, to preach, or to paint; neither I nor any other person was there for that purpose. These were incidental things.
There was only one true vocation for everybody: to find the way to oneself.
One might end up as a poet, lunatic, prophet, or criminal – that was not their concern; ultimately, it was of no account.
Their concern was to discover their own destiny, and live it out wholly and resolutely within themselves.
Anything else was merely a half-life, an attempt at evasion, an escape into the ideals of the masses, complacency, and fear of one's inner being