I am a writer.

I Am Not Here to Influence You

I Am Not Here to Influence You

I’ve read numerous articles now from writers struggling with the same peculiar knot.

We seem to have two options laid in front of us.

Become influencers to prove we can create a following of sufficient interest that a publishing company might feel confident enough to take our work seriously.

• Build the platform.

• Grow the audience.

• Prove there is a market.

• Prove people are interested in you.

And then, perhaps, someone will feed your manuscript into an AI detector before eventually making a decision about the actual words you have produced.

Or:

Self-publish.

Pay thousands of dollars out of pocket to edit, format, design, print, distribute and otherwise usher your book into existence.

And then...

Become an influencer.

Because now you have to find the readers yourself.

Do you see how we're kind of taking it from both ends?

Either way, the writer is increasingly being asked to contort themselves into something worth looking at.

Not necessarily the work.

Us.

Look at me.

Follow me.

Subscribe to me.

Watch me.

Engage with me.

Get to know me.

Trust me.

And somewhere in there, presumably...

I am supposed to write.

Personally?

I have words in me.

They're coming out regardless of whether I have a readership or not.

I believe in my words.

I believe in my stories.

I believe in handing a reader something they can curl up into with their favorite tea and a cheeky snack.

I believe in creating worlds.

Places someone can rest inside.

To me, that matters.

When I was knee-high to a grasshopper, I found Grimm's Fairy Tales.

I learned to read young.

I had a little Fisher Price plastic record player that I would place on the floor, dragging these enormous books down beside it, and I would lose hours there.

Tigers earning their stripes through being whipped.

Lions being set free from ropes by petite souris.

An unnamed mermaid princess sacrificing her voice and enduring constant pain to win the love of a human prince and, eventually, an immortal soul.

All while nibbling Dad's oatmeal cookies and pretending I was taking the nap I'd been sent to complete.

I wasn't supposed to be anywhere else.

But I was.

Entirely.

Speaking of naps...

Do you remember kindergarten naps?

Goodness.

They were my favorite time of day.

All the little mats set up in rows.

My classmates surrendering themselves to the Sandman in the middle of the afternoon.

And me?

My teacher would give me a little wink.

Then she'd hand me a Ziploc bag filled with books from the grades above.

I was in heaven.

While everyone slept, she helped me sound out the words my brain was starving for.

Stories.

Little magickal arrangements of vowels and consonants printed on paper and held together with binding.

More.

I wanted more.

I don't remember wondering who wrote them.

I certainly didn't wonder how many followers the author had.

I didn't know what a platform was.

I didn't know whether the writer was charismatic or attractive or particularly good at talking to a camera.

I didn't know whether anyone wanted to look at them.

I wanted to look through them.

Into somewhere else.

That's what stories gave me.

My love for them was born from a need to escape.

To find somewhere I could curl into while the world swirled around me.

Under the umbrella tree.

That was where I came alive.

And, consequently...

It still is.

I am not entirely introverted, woven permanently into the wallpaper.

I'll come out from time to time.

I like the vibrancy of the world.

People.

Moments.

Experience.

Joy.

Pain.

Grief.

Sadness.

The whole kaleidoscope of being human, both enchanting and grotesque.

I want all of it.

I want to touch it.

Taste it.

Watch it.

Understand it.

And then...

Let me go back beneath my umbrella tree.

Let me curl under my covers.

Let me make a nest of blankets on the floor.

Let me lie in the grass beneath the sun.

Let me have my records playing and my tea cooling somewhere beside me while I build worlds from vowels and nouns and story.

Because that is where I am happiest.

Curating stories and plots.

Watching characters slowly reveal themselves to me.

Following them as they take my hand and lead me somewhere I hadn't planned to go.

Writing it all down.

Reading it back.

Stopping.

Staring at the page.

And thinking:

Oh no you didn't.

Before sharing a delightful little giggle with my own imagination.

That is writing to me.

And I think somewhere among the AI checks and influencer potential and follower counts and self-publishing invoices and rejection letters and algorithms and the enormous machinery surrounding books, something very small and very important is in danger of being swallowed.

The reason we were doing this in the first place.

Publishing is a business.

I understand that.

Books cost money to produce. Publishers take financial risks. Independent authors need readers. Nobody is obligated to gamble thousands of dollars because I happen to believe I've arranged my nouns particularly beautifully.

But storytelling existed long before any of this.

Before publishing houses.

Before bestseller lists.

Before Instagram and TikTok.

Before follower counts.

Before algorithms decided which storyteller deserved to be placed in front of the fire.

Human beings told stories because we needed them.

We still do.

And I can't speak for all writers.

I can only speak from my own experience.

I don't particularly want to influence you.

I don't need you to want my clothes.

My morning routine.

My opinions on whatever product someone has decided you urgently require this week.

I don't particularly need you to want me.

I want to make something wonderful enough that, for a little while, you forget about me entirely.

I want you underneath the umbrella tree.

I want you hiding beneath the blankets when you should be sleeping.

I want your tea going cold because you forgot it was there.

I want you staring at the page thinking:

Oh no you didn't.

I want to build somewhere you can go.

And somewhere outside the umbrella tree, the world keeps looking at the writer and yelling:

Prove it.

Prove people will follow you.

Prove people will watch you.

Prove people will buy you.

Prove you're worth hearing.

But there is still a child sitting criss cross applesauce, on the floor beside a Fisher Price record player, oatmeal cookie crumbs on an enormous book, absolutely delighted to have escaped somewhere they weren't supposed to be.

They never wanted to be looked at.

They wanted a story.

So do I.

I am not here to influence you.

I'm here to tell you one.

I am a writer.

Let me write.

—M💋