publishing for validation

and the insatiable desire to "be seen"

I am in an intimate, near sexual relationship with my substack Writer Dashboard. I check it every day: how many new subscribers? who opened my emails? how’s today’s view count vs yesterday’s, which posts are flopping? I wait for the little purple circle to crown my bell icon, informing me of another like, comment, restack. I want to lean into my computer and kiss the lit up little bell. I want to douse it in a little sauce and microplane some parmesan cheese over it, I want to put it on a pastel plate and eat it for dinner.

I’m sitting here two days after publishing how to keep a sad secret, a post about my recent miscarriages, and I’m watching the bell light up. Why doesn’t it taste delicious?

Another recent post of mine, some news: i’m jealous, culminates in the question, “Why do I actually write, outside of this desire to be perceived by others as someone cool who writes well?” Ironically, this was my first banger of a newsletter. My previous posts were getting 100-300 views, and this one got over a thousand. A bunch of new people subscribed. Was I actually being perceived as someone cool who wrote well?? My post about writing ~for me~ introduced me to a whole world of writing for external validation from complete strangers. And guys I gotta admit, it felt so good lmao.

I wanted, in spite of that, to be loyal to my newsletter’s conclusion. My true purpose for writing is not to get external validation from strangers. I really do write for me. I write with the intention of clearly and honestly expressing my personal truth, and if I do that to the best of my ability, then I succeed.

But if I’m “writing for me,” why am I publishing for an audience?

I thought about this desire to “be seen” through my writing, something I’ve been working toward for years. Here’s an excerpt from a journal entry of mine from March 8, 2022, soon after I’d learned that my first piece of short fiction, Baby Love, was going to be published. I wrote:

Throughout all the stages in my life, I’ve found my own thoughts interesting and I’ve felt maybe like that’s been a private experience. And I’m sort of very delighted and excited by the thought of someone who knew me in some other capacity or time in my life seeing that I wrote a sexy but smart story and being like damn ok girl. But also haha who knows what anyone will think. I guess it’s just a fantasy to be seen truly for who I am, and for people to like that. I kind of hate that I’m writing this because I shouldn’t care this much about what people think but whatever I’m just being honest haha. And I guess it’s interesting to me how deep and feral this desire to be seen is. It’s a desire I didn’t know I had until I started writing.

When the story was published a few months later, some people read it. In my journal, I wrote down every nice thing anyone said. I savored it, and I wrote things like “this feels so good,” and “I’m so grateful.” But it didn’t satisfy me. I sent out another story. It got published. People said nice things. Then I sent out another, and another. Every time I got an acceptance from a lit mag, I wrote another journal entry, filled with the same sentiment as my first one: “I just want to be seen.”

I don’t really know what “being seen” means. I think it’s usually some catch-all I use for “being understood,” “being noticed,” and “being admired.” I thought my writing could be a way to force people to understand me, and if they understood me—even the most shadowy parts of my brain—and still liked me, then that meant I was okay.

Before this week, I would have taken this moment to write a few paragraphs about how I have learned that it’s impossible to be perfectly understood. No matter how well I write, I can’t fully share the experience of being inside my brain with someone else. Having never lived my exact life experiences, another human will never fully, truly understand me.

But then I published “how to keep a sad secret.” And I actually felt seen. I actually felt understood. Your comments made me cry, even the simple heart emojis. They were imbued with such love. I had high school friends reach out on Instagram and share that they’d experienced miscarriages too. My pain was genuinely witnessed and I received real, incredible support.

There was a joy that came with this. The joy of feeling loved. That joy hung out for a while. I shared the messages I got with Peter. I took screenshots of some, to savor for moments when I feel down on my writing.

But as likes and comments continued to roll in, I noticed that I felt increasingly numb to them. I’d look at my phone and find the absolute fucking nicest, more generous message ever and I would feel that joy of being loved for about twenty seconds before going back to baseline. And baseline, lately, has been ummm not ideal. Because, like, grief.

I felt like something must be wrong. I had the joy just yesterday! People were seeing and understanding me! What could be missing?

I went to my Instagram story and did the thing I told myself I wouldn’t do, which was look at who viewed the story I posted about my miscarriages and didn’t say anything. I was like, oooooh okay, this is why I don’t feel joy. Because all of these fucking assholes saw my pain and didn’t even acknowledge it!! I scrolled down the list of sociopathic losers, making mental notes about which of my close friends were completely dead to me. If only they sent me a heart or said, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” then I would feel seen enough! The joy would still be here! It would never leave me!!

But then I imagined that every single one of my Instagram followers responded to my story. I imagined them all hearting and saying I love you and I’m sorry. I would feel seen and understood by everyone I know. But it occurred to me that even then, the joy would not be permanent. I would still, for now, feel sad.

Because something sad happened to me.

There was a small, secret part of me that believed that feeling understood would save me from my sadness. That it would “fix” my grief, that I would no longer feel the emptiness that my loss had left. I’ve held this fantasy that “being seen” and “being understood” is the key to peace. But I don’t feel peace. I am still sad.

I almost titled this entry “writing for validation” but I caught myself. I don’t write for validation. But I fell into the trap of publishing for it. I published to be seen in a particular cool, smart, interesting way, and I published to be understood. I’m using past tense because I’m trying to look like I’m over that lol. The past month has shown me that it’s kind of actually possible to be seen how I want to be seen, and it’s also kind of possible to be understood. It’s just not enough.

So ok then why am I still publishing lol.

I took a seminar with Sheila Heti (queen) in 2022 called “What Do People See When They Read You?” This is from my notes that day:

Exposure is always, in some ways, going to feel bad. When people read you, they see everything! The pain of being seen never really goes away. But writing is relational.

In her newsletter “Writing Personal Essays About Other People,” Lizzie Lawson writes:

It’s not just about what you can live with, withstand, or be willing to give up for your art. It’s also about the deeper connection you could miss out on by not sharing your story.

- lizzielawson.substack.com

I see now that when I publish for validation—to be seen, to be understood—I am centering myself. I want to be seen, I want to be understood. But when I publish instead as a relational act, as a way to bring another person (or many people) into the very personal experience of writing, then I am publishing for connection.

And no, connection doesn’t create that everlasting joy I dream of finding through writing, but nothing does. My job now is to accept that shitty feelings are an inevitable part of life. They suck, but they’re safe and they’re okay. And no feeling, good or bad, is permanent.

When I really think about it, everlasting joy isn’t even what I want anyway. If I had it, how would I write these tortured blog posts <3

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hi to those of you who are new to me and my work! each week, i’m going to share one of my previously published short stories (until i run out) and enthusiastically invite you to give it a read.

this week’s short story is called Emo Night, originally published by Michigan Quarterly Review: Mixtape in February 2024. It’s my longest published story, about a teenager who goes to an emo concert with her best friend. I wanted this piece to straddle a fine line: the narrator, young and in love with the band, does not feel the same creeping dread that the reader does. This story came from examining my teen experiences in the emo scene through an adult lens and noticing how low key fucked up it was. If you read it and message me, I’ll tell you who it’s inspired by <3 read it hereeee!