I do not know what this is.
Start here. It's as good a place as any.
Every good Substack publication should include in the About page, and for extra points, in a pinned “start here post”, a clear explanation of what the publication is about, what readers get from reading it, why they should subscribe, who the intended audience is, who the author is, how often articles are published…
There should be a clear call to action, perhaps testimonials too, buttons encouraging readers to subscribe now and upgrade for extras.
In 250 characters or less, describe who you are.
In 255 characters or less, describe what you write about.
I have tried to do that, but I have found it somewhat challenging.
I have written and rewritten by bio, my publication description, my start here post, my about page, welcome page, a variety of email templates for a variety of purposes…
And while I’ve been somewhat happy with what I have written and rewritten each time I write and rewrite all of those things, I still don’t really know what I’m doing, and what this is.
What I do know, is that sometimes I write something that seems to come from a wild place. Somewhere that is both deep inside and far beyond, as if the words have risen from the fathomless depths of my soul and fallen, star bright, from some vast enchanted elsewhere.
Maybe that’s as good a place to start as any, to find out who I am, and what this is.
I got lost. Between one pencil stroke and the next.
I sit at my desk in my studio. I look down, pick up my pencil and draw a single stroke. The edges of reality soften and blur. I can feel adventures and memories brush the back of my mind. Ideas and inspiration and endless worlds to explore and discover where the tip of my pencil touches the canvas.
I am lured in, lulled by opening words that are a siren song, that draw me into dangerous waters and onto jagged rocks that threaten to sink me. I am caught on the barbed hook of clickbait titles that rip a hole into my soul and let the monsters in.
Do the words pour forth from your soul as effortlessly as it seems? Rising on gentle updrafts of thought, as an eagle effortlessly rises on thermals, circling ever higher, the barest shift of muscle and tilt of feather lifting beauty to new pinnacles?
What if there were faeries dancing in the woods? What if there were goblins making mischief (as well they should!) What if there were elves stealing berries for their puds? What if there were pixies whispering secrets through their hoods?
It cannot press pencil to paper with the weight of a heartbeat or capture the spark of a soul with hands of sinew, blood, and bone. It cannot lay flakes of graphite across canvas with fingertips alive with thousands of nerve endings, nor transform a blank page into black feathers with the pressure of a human touch.
Step quietly. The gallery is open.
Her artwork is not framed in gold and hung upon a wall.
It is not spotlit in silence, captioned in italics, or roped off with signs that say do not touch.
It is not encased in glass, or auctioned to the highest bidder.
You will not find her sculptures on plinths,
Nor her textiles hemmed and stretched behind velvet cords.
No alarm will sound if you lean in close.
“Another shell, really?”, he says.
Yes, but look, I say. Look. This one is different. Look how the colours are grey and black and white. And cream. And speckled sand.
She has not light to call her own No cascade of fusion spilling brilliance Instead, stealing molten gold from the sun Cooling it's blazing fire in her tranquil seas Then returning it to us, silver-bright and cold
There is a tree in a hedgerow along the M40 that has long since surrendered to death. Skeletal limbs stretch skyward, its bark pale and smooth like bone. It stands just before the north bound junction of the M42, marking the gateway of my journey between the adult I have become and the child I once was.
They rise, scattered and solitary, lifting from fields and rooftops, drops of ink against the fading light. At first, a trickle. In twos and threes, they coalesce, wingtips catching the last gold of the day as they are drawn inexorably toward their distant roost and rest.
Clouds heap into the horizon, their bellies bruised with thunder. Azure fades to grey. Shards of lightning flicker in the distance, splintering the darkening sky.
Rising wind, warm and restless, gusts between the buildings, tugging at palm fronds and tumbling an escaped plastic bag high into the languid air.
with love,
People are multi-dimensional, why can't your art or your Substack not be the same? Of course it can!
Some things defy description because there are no words sufficient to contain them.
I think that this applies to your work, Emily!
And anyway, I don’t think that a person’s ‘creativity’ can be squashed into a certain shaped box because creativity, by virtue of what it is, will always be fluid, shifting in nature, changing.
I feel as you do when write, in that sometimes things seem to come from a wild place - or a differing selection of wild places!
But when the words come, I am just grateful that they do!
Some things are beyond definition.
And some things disappear into nothing when questioned too closely.
Thank you for including these links to some of your previous posts.
I really enjoyed reading them.
Beauty beyond definition!