I don’t write anything genuine.
I don’t write anything genuine. But somehow you’re still reading this, so thank you.
When I began writing for Slim Radio, I felt the imminent temptation to be the ambiguous third party. It’s an enticing idea when one writes publicly–not having ‘any stake in the game’ constructs an artistic space where there are fewer toes to step on and more to gain. You don’t have to reveal too much of yourself while still gaining the courage to put pen to paper. Pop culture, political topics, or interviewing people became attractive possible bases for articles when Sunday deadlines for the radio would rear their ugly heads. Because writing about yourself is much, much harder than writing any of that.
Lately, I’ve been starting to feel like I don’t write anything genuine because of this. I felt that my work had a tasteless lack of vulnerability and seriousness that only the most authentic of writers can elicit.
Publishing my writing was not something I did until just over a year ago. To be quite honest, writing had always been something that I did but never considered a real hobby (whatever that means). I only knew how to write a sterile essay and some tenaciously typed notes app angst. Words that can conveniently hide from the world. Now, I am operating within the technically foreverness of the internet. Shall I be plagued with unsuspected moments of humbling cringe for the next fifty years, lying awake, oddly fixated on the quality of writing I published online in my twenties?
Well then, who am I talking to? Who really reads this anyway? In reality, I want to tell you all my long-winded irrelevant dramatic tales, my serious reflections into my own life, my slip-ups, my insecurities, my joy. The ugly parts. The things that really matter, rather than some vice-news-esque exploration into why there are so many Italians working in coffeeshops in Amsterdam (article coming soon?).
However, the reality is that parents read my work. I have this position on my resume (and if you’re here, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE). Publishing my writing publicly for anyone to see is already unsettling enough, to detail the worst moments of my life just to convince myself that I have a “genuine” piece? Is that what writing is?
Ultimately, these fears of being an ingenuine writer stemmed from wanting to project the same authenticity I perform in my everyday life into my public writing. I felt, for some reason, that the main tension between creativity and practicality lay in authenticity. Across the world, social and cultural norms dictate what is appropriate to share in public versus private spheres, and this undoubtedly extends into published writing as well. Hence, opening up the intricacies of my private sphere to the world seemed bold, ambitious. And it is. But is this the only way to be authentic in your writing?
Thankfully, when I talked to my writing team members about my thoughts, they schooled me on how frankly ridiculous that was. Eliza, one of the members of our team, adeptly countered with her media studies perspective: “Forced authenticity is never real authenticity because sharing information about yourself doesn’t equate to revealing who you truly are. You are still constructing a specific image of yourself that you want to be perceived, a form of self-mediation. And most importantly, depending on people’s reactions, you might end up altering yourself.”
When you lose privacy, you lose the ability to be different versions of yourself with different people in different contexts. This is an integral part of how we function as social beings and regulate social interactions. You’re not going to write to your grandma the same as you would write to your partner. Yet publishing online condenses these interactions into one. Therefore, when writing things more personally, you often have to ask yourself: do I want this to be my identity as a writer? Or am I okay with playing a different role when people read my work?
Take, for example, the phenomena of "trauma dumping" to create instant closeness with strangers. In my own moments of doubt, I foolishly believed this forced intimacy and boldness was the only way to accelerate closeness to my reader. And often it can! This is why oversharing online can often feel really good. However, the difference is that we don’t have the real steps in between to establish a relationship. Thus, the authentic self you’re oversharing is still perhaps not a genuine one–how are you able to be completely genuine when anyone will have access to the things you post online?
The truth is that writing about yourself isn’t necessarily difficult—it’s just not always practical. It isn’t always practical to expose your most intimate moments to interpretation by faceless readers. Nor is it socially or financially feasible to break down the boundary between these elusive public and private spheres.
My insecurities were absurd because in everyday life, I don’t question the authenticity of someone who spends years pouring themselves into research, presenting findings in the most objective, scientific way possible. Even if it’s sterile, even if every trace of them has been weeded out. Objectivity and a lack of personal bias are integral to certain disciplines—does that make their work any less genuine? Of course not! And yet, I held this bizarre expectation of myself that I had to write something deeply personal and difficult to say in order for it to be "authentic." When in reality, the beauty of writing lies in taking an authentic part of yourself and connecting it to something else. That's what we do in our little team, in every article we write, about the hundreds of topics we explore.
When I first started writing for the radio, I had a million ideas, none of which were about my personal life. Now, I often feel like I have something to say. This article isn’t meant to suggest that I won’t give my loyal six readers glimpses into my chaos—I will. I think the world would be a better place if we could all feel a little more comfortable sharing more without fear of social repercussions.
So, when is writing truly authentic? When is it genuine? The answer is that there’s no answer, because everyone has a different vision of what authentic writing is, and it really doesn’t matter. Maybe I just needed to touch grass.
