I’m celebrating an anniversary this month! I launched the intangibles a year ago.
I've loved my time on Substack, for a lot of reasons. I’d even go so far as to say that it’s now an integral part of my writing process. In just a year, it has made me a better writer.
I think that’s partly due to the fact that when I’m writing on Substack, my writing doesn’t have to "fit in" to what's already out there. Publishing an essay in an existing, more traditional publication is an honor, but it sometimes requires that writers contort themselves to fit into the overall vision of the publication.
This reminds me of an anecdote that writer and creativity guru Elizabeth Gilbert tells in Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, one of my favorite books on nurturing and harnessing your own creativity. As an up-and-coming writer trying to publish her very first short story, she had to make a tough decision when the story was accepted to a high-profile dream publication. We want to run your story, said the editor, but we have to cut it for space by 30%. I can understand if you don’t want to “butcher” your own work, he said.
When Gilbert took the editorial suggestions and “cut it down to the bone,” the story strayed far from her initial vision. Gilbert had to make a choice: did she want to pull the story and spend weeks, months or maybe even years searching for a publication that would publish it just the way she’d written it?
Or did she want to publish it anyway, knowing that if she published something in a high profile, dream publication, it would be advantageous to her career, and most likely pave the way for work down the road that did feel more aligned with her own creative voice and vision?
In the end she chose to publish it, and she was content with the creative contortion she had to do to fit into her dream publication. In fact, she says that the act of editing that short story was a “fantastic creative challenge” in its own right. This anecdote is from a chapter called Lighten Up, that encourages writers to be less precious about their work. And I do think there are moments when writers — even me — should learn to hold their work loosely.
But for right now, on this reader-supported publication that I publish on my own timeline, I can write things that align with my voice and vision every single month, without input from an editor. And that writing feels sacred to me. Because it has allowed me to meet myself more fully.
Because of the level of creative freedom I have on Substack, writing here has become more than just writing; it’s an opportunity to unearth my own authentic voice. And as a physically disabled woman — a voracious reader — who has spent so little of her life reading other physically disabled women writers or perspectives, I think that unearthing process has been an essential part of finding my voice.
I’ve unearthed my creative voice from underneath layers of being told that fiction is more “literary” than memoir. That making up characters in your head takes more imagination and skill than writing about the truth of your life. Since childhood I’ve been pulled toward writing about my own experience, but for so many years it felt “less than.” I likened it to nothing more than writing in a diary. Just that word “diary” was loaded with meaning: a pink book with a tiny gold lock, lined pages, the unserious work of a teenage girl.
And I’ve unearthed my creative voice from underneath the accumulated layers of the way the world has taught me to think about and categorize my body — a body outside the norm — to make other people more comfortable.
On Substack I don't have to worry that an editor thinks my title isn't click-baity enough. I don't have to worry that something similar has already been published somewhere else. I don't have to worry about approving someone else's editorial suggestions, or cutting 30% of my essay due to space constraints.
On Substack each sentence I write doesn’t have to meet anyone else’s standards but my own. So each time I finish a new essay — heck, each time I finish typing a new sentence — I ask myself “Is that something that someone else told me or is that what I really think?” And if it is really what I think, I press publish.
I don’t ask “is that sentence beautiful enough for an editor at [fill in dream publication] to notice and approve of?” I don’t ask “is the opinion that I’m expressing in line with the popular writing discourse that I’m seeing out in the world?” I don’t ask “would my MFA professors like this? Would the writers I most admire like this?”
I just take a moment to get honest with myself. And I ask myself “is this what I really think?” Which is another way of asking, am I writing this for me, or for someone else?
Instead of starting an essay in the hopes that it will be “good enough” to be “chosen” by any number of publications I admire, I start an essay with the goal of choosing myself.
In a way, this unearthing of my own voice mirrors the work I’ve done as a disabled woman, unearthing my own perspective from a world that likes to tell me how I should identify myself and how I should feel about myself.
When I didn’t see any images or hear any stories of disabled women who found love, I assumed that I was unlovable.
“Is that what I really think?”
No. I know that ableism exists and that our society prizes bodies that don’t look like mine. But my inherent worth isn’t dependent on what other people think.
When I asked why I’d been born with a limb difference and people told me that God had made me special.
“Is that what I really think?”
No. It’s OK to sit in the uncertainty of never knowing why my body was made this way. Maybe asking why isn’t even the right question.
When I heard the term special needs, and began to think of any accommodations I needed as special, as different than other people’s needs.
“Is that what I really think?”
No. No matter what our bodies look like, we all have needs - to be cared for, to have independence and autonomy, to have access to work and to the world. My needs aren’t more special. They don’t need a different label.
When I went decades without seeing someone with my body on TV or in advertising, and began to think that if I didn’t see myself in the world, it meant that I didn’t belong in it.
“Is that what I really think?”
No. There’s a place for me here. It may take me awhile to find it.
When I read depictions of disabled characters in books that portrayed them in just one dimension: lonely and bitter.
“Is that what I really think?”
No. I know my own life is full of joy, too. Surely that’s true for other people like me.
Perhaps you are unearthing your own voice, too. Perhaps the world has told you who you are and what you can expect your life to be like. Perhaps you’re just now discovering what you really think. There are ways in which all of us, not just disabled people, are fighting against the assumptions of the world.
This year I’ve been learning how to listen to myself. Usually it starts with a feeling in my body. It feels like this: a drop in my stomach, the whole world pausing, just for a moment.
I’ve learned to listen to this feeling. This feeling means “there’s something more to explore here” or “no, that’s not what I really think” or “I have something I need to say about this.”
I spent a lot of years ignoring that feeling. Now I know that feeling is the beginning of something great. I dive in. I ask the feeling what it has come to tell me.
What does that feeling in your body feel like? How can you use this in your writing? How can you use it to get closer to your authentic voice?
Thanks to all of you who have supported my work this year. Your support matters. Here’s to another year of the intangibles.
Until next time,
Allison
Extras
What I’m writing: I didn’t write last months essay in the hopes that it would be good enough to be chosen by a publication that I admire, but I got lucky and Brevity Blog decided to publish “Meet Me in the Middle.” I am a longtime reader of Brevity Blog and I think it’s one of the best resources for writers of memoir and creative nonfiction, so I’m thrilled to contribute. You can check the essay out here.
What I’m watching: Honestly, I am in a total TV rut. Any suggestions?
What I’m reading: Liddy Grantland, a student in my Monday Night Writers workshop, is featured in the latest issue of Pleiades Magazine, which is a folio focused on disability. The essay “What My Body Remembers” is stunning. You can purchase the issue here. (She’s also on Substack at
)You are reading the intangibles, by writer and creative writing instructor Allison Kirkland. This publication is geared toward writers of memoir and creative nonfiction and the people who love them.
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Thank you, Allison! That was another layer of understanding for me on that lesson of " where did I get that idea? Who told me that?" ❣ very helpful!
LOVE this!
Regarding tv- have you seen Girls5eva? It’s on Netflix now (originally on peacock). I think you’d really like it and enjoy the humor of it :)