I used to picture myself as a writer in a very specific way. Because my elders told me this was what to expect, I used to think that, as someone who has always loved to write, I would one day become a writer through this very specific path: go to university, specialize in English or Journalism, take a lower-paying job as an assistant at a newspaper or publication upon graduation, and then “prove myself” enough to get a permanent writer position someday. All you had to do to achieve this, people told me, was to be talented enough, but more importantly, to work hard. Then, you would have the honour of being able to call yourself a writer.
As I have written about before, this traditional path became nonsense even before I ended up graduating high school. The world changed in a way that made finding a stable, traditional writing position like an editor or journalist more elusive as the internet morphed and absorbed the industry of journalism. So although I gained a lot of writing experience, it never was really enough to get to permanently call myself a paid writer. I freelanced for comedy websites and tilapia farms, worked multiple jobs at multiple magazines, wrote copy for websites and newsletters, wrote posts for companies’ social media profiles. I took on writing responsibilities of those above me, to show that I was willing to “go above and beyond,” as I had been advised. But despite this, my experience never seemed like it was enough to gain a stable, well-paying writing job. And the jobs I did get were not enough to pay the bills, especially if I wanted to stay near my family in a very expensive city.
So in the “end” (though it is not yet the end), I was not able to make the majority of my money as a writer. I pivoted to a second job, that could provide more stability for me to survive. At times, this can be emotionally difficult. It is never easy to feel that your dream is over. It is something that can very much affect one’s conceptualization of self, as the Western world cares very much about career and work, meaning it can be emotionally devastating to feel that you did not end up with the “career” for which one’s heart yearns.
Lately, though, as I learn of all the flaws within our media and as journalism declines into something unrecognizable, I have been reconceptualizing what it means to be a writer. When I think about death, as I am wont to do, I am in some ways able to depersonalize my life, and to think about who I am and what I am doing in the context of a historical perspective. As in, when I am dead, and people look back on my life and my writing, will future generations call me a writer, or not? And why?
If one dies, and one has not been endorsed by “reputable” or “prestigious” publications, what does this mean, particularly when media declines and formerly prestigious publications play an important part in the support and endorsement of horrible cruelty abroad? If one cannot get an endorsement from an influential system or organization, what are you? What is the value of your writing? Do systems alone decide your identity and role? And if not, who does?
Strangely, I have been finding lately that the things I am writing about now are more important than anything I have ever been paid to write about. This is not to talk myself up by any means, but to point to the importance and alien nature of this era, as I likely would not be able to write about these kind of things if I worked for CBC or the Vancouver Sun. Culture is changing. Media is changing. And bigger organizations are not yet ready to endorse people writing as freely as they are on Substack. So when I have been paid, I have been paid to write about pretty unimportant things. Ridiculous listicles about spice blends. Banal copy about dog hotels for the wealthy. Social media posts that disappear into the ether.
But now, on Substack, a place where I am no longer trying to hide what I truly feel, I am able to write about things that I feel are truly important. About the damage done by work culture, which drains souls without even promising for one to remain housed. About the tension, confusion, and loneliness that is lingering in the air during the decline of the Western Empire. About the lies told to me by countries that were meant to be morally good, but are actually nefarious enough to ignore and perpetuate genocides.
The miraculous thing I have discovered is that the most important writing of my life may never actually be paid. At times, I wonder if my life purpose is not actually to ever receive institutional recognition or pay for my writing, but to merely be a simple 21st Century scribe, who will never be the best writer or the most recognized, but who tries to be honest and true, and to record history as it unfolds, to the best of my ability.
The word “scribe” conjures the image of a medieval occupation. And indeed it was originally; in the Middle Ages, scribes made copies of manuscripts. They cut sheets of parchment, crafted ink, bound pages of books, communicated religious ideas. In Ancient Egypt, scribes were those who were educated in writing, and often documented the stories of everyday Egyptians.
Prior to the invention to the internet or even newspapers, scribes were people who recorded history. They were not necessarily the best writers in the world; they were simply capable of writing and recording. Some were paid, but there were also those who never were. Some of the most important historical writing that exists was actually the writing of ordinary people. Letters from soldiers in great wars, telling their loved ones of the horrors unfolding before them. The diary of Anne Frank, as she hid in an attic during the Holocaust. These were writings that were not for prestige or for pay, but for the truth, and for the recording of their own lives, loves, and histories.
Perhaps this is my role. To observe, and to record, and not to write what people tell me I must. Though I spent so many hours wondering why I could not be a writer for prestigious publications, because I cannot, I can actually spend my time being more human, writing what I feel is true rather than what I feel an editor would approve, or what would gain me honors or admiration. Perhaps this is just a coping mechanism. I am a proud human, and at times I still want this recognition, even when I try not to.
But at the same time, I feel happier when I can write what I want. Maybe this means my skills and talents never belonged in the world of the past. But they may belong now, and here on Substack, where people are beginning to challenge narratives of the past. Here, I feel people try not attack each other, but rather to punch up, at those that are actually controlling the problems of our world.
When I look back at my journals since 2020, I realize that these more than any my paid copywriting will be important for those who come after me. A historical recording of the pandemic, the Great Resignation, the genocide in Gaza. My writing will never be the best or the most esteemed. But it will always be in touch with my humanity. Though I will make mistakes, I will always strive for my writing to be what I feel true writers are meant to do: record the truth to the best of my abilities, and communicate it with the goal of changing societies—so that as many people as possible can live in a world that is kind and understanding, and supports communities to live dignified and peaceful lives.
Thank you for reading. If you like my writing, please consider supporting me by subscribing to my newsletter. To my followers and subscribers, thank you. It means the world to me that you are here.