NOTEThis post was originally published on Substack.
I’m an average writer.
And I’m perfectly okay with it.
At a time when self-improvement has become the norm, such a statement is almost blasphemous. No one in their right mind should be okay with being average. Shouldn’t we always strive to be the best version of ourselves?
I can almost imagine the backlash I’d get, especially in a platform that’s supposedly “the home of great writers,” and as someone who deals with the written word for a living. Oh, and did I mention that I’ve been writing in English since I was 13 and I hold a degree in creative writing?
Admitting to mediocrity is sacrilege. It practically revokes my writer card.
But I wrote “imagine” for a reason. I won’t be criticized because I’m a nobody in the digital world. I can say whatever’s on my mind, and no one will care.
And today, I’m celebrating the joys of being ordinary.
Yesterday, I stumbled upon a great piece of food writing that hooked me within seconds. I devoured the article, analyzing everything that made it work and wondering how to incorporate similar techniques in my future posts.
How did the writer make her article so personal while being informative? How can her writing style be so simple while showcasing her wit and flair for words? I marveled at how her personality shone through in the introduction alone and at how she explored the intersections among her culinary tastes, her family traditions, and her country’s rich culture and history. Every thread was carefully woven to form a coherent whole. Balanced, tasteful, and engaging.
As I sat there, amazed, it hit me that I could never achieve a similar feat.
I can never produce a piece of writing so beautiful that it will make someone stop in their tracks, take a sharp breath, reread a particular passage to soak in the magic of the words, goosebumps dotting their arms, and something profound tugging at their heartstrings. I can’t even write an article worthy of Substack’s homepage.
Soon after, I revisited my latest post on video games, scanned it several times, and made a few edits, but the final product was still… lackluster. The words were flat, and the narrative was uninteresting. Even I could tell the ending was abrupt, and I could have tied up all the loose ends better. I knew what was wrong with the article, but didn’t know how to improve it. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again: not having the skill to execute your ideas is frustrating.
My old self would have catapulted into a spiral of self-hatred. I probably would have taken a break from writing or deleted the article altogether. After all, I’ve always been a perfectionist and a master of self-criticism.
But when I reviewed my post this time, I could reflect on my inadequacies from a distance. I felt frustrated for a moment, but was mostly pensive and grateful. There’s also a touch of amusement because who would have thought things would turn out so differently in just a few years? My bitter early twenties self certainly wouldn’t.
I’m grateful I’ve matured enough to acknowledge my shortcomings as a writer. I’d go as far as to say that that’s one of the main reasons I could keep this little project going for almost a month now, coupled with the fact that I don’t have sky-high expectations. Sure, I’ll do my best when drafting articles, ensuring they’re as polished as can be before hitting the publish button. But, it’s with the Zen awareness that, despite my best efforts, the final product will still be a rough gemstone—the edges jaggy, the surface cloudy, every unrevealed facet craving a master artisan’s touch. A beautiful gem that hasn’t reached its full potential yet—simply because I don’t have the skill to do so.
At least, not now.
Who knows?
Perhaps by the time you read this article, it will have already gone through multiple rounds of painstaking edits, transforming it from a shapeless rock into a shimmering, expertly cut diamond that deserves to be the first post on your Substack feed.
I’m grateful I’ve reached the point where I can pick up writing again after shutting it out of my life. I was anguished because I could never be good enough for my impossible standards, and I was afraid to confront the harsh inner critic hurling insults at me. But there will always be a writer deep within me, and all these years, it’s been trying to claw its way out, even though my words are often clumsy. Haphazard. Sometimes too bland, other times trying too hard to wax poetic.
Because I’ve embraced the ordinary, I can now type away after my corporate job or ransack my brain for ideas in the early hours of the weekend without feeling like an impostor. I can indulge my creative side and experience the satisfaction of writing and seeing my ideas come to life, even if hours of hard work only yield a mediocre personal essay that can be read in a few minutes. A vulnerable yet clunky article that no one else reads, but hey, who cares?
Without the all-consuming pressure of perfection weighing on my shoulders, I can simply… be. I can enjoy the writing process, talk about whatever I want without a care in the world, and reap all the wonderful rewards of having a creative side project that I do solely for myself.
A sense of purpose. Something to fuel my imagination, keeping the engines of my mind whirring. Something to force me out of bed on a Saturday morning, eager to make my usual stovetop coffee, hunker down at my desk, and start writing. The fulfillment of having something that’s genuinely mine. And other lovely things I’m not talented enough to transform into words.
And maybe by the end of this little project, my writing will have improved so much that this article only comes across as a silly joke. Or me seeking validation from strangers online.
You never know.