#1 On seeing my writing as worth reading
Trying to reaccustom myself to yelling into the void in the new era of online communication.
I’m 32-years old. To some, this is just number, but to many chronically online geriatric millennials, this is a sacred sign; information that you only need half-whisper for them to decipher as “I lived through many a great age—WordPress blogs, Livejournal…”. And while not all 32-year olds are made equal, I am one who has always had a need to express herself through words—be it by being shamelessly talkative (for those (un)fortunate enough to have shared offline spaces w/ me) or by pouring my soul, for lack of a sappier phrasing, into words typed and blasted into the vast abyss of the, excuse the archaism, blogosphere.
A mere three years ago—though pre-pandemic is now somewhat synonymous w/ BC, most people would argue—I wouldn’t dare touch a podcast. I saw those as tedious wastes of time, a somewhat masturbatory ritual for the middle-class white male and his friends, gathered together in a room and vaguely discussing topics that were conveniently used as a clickbait title. Then the pandemic rolled around and I found myself not only listening to them, but actively quoting information I’d gotten to learn through podcast episodes, and even—the blasphemy of it all!—recommending some to friends.
This seemingly unrelated digression is, I promise, entirely related to this first post and not just a stellar example of my mind starting on one topic only to find itself 7 topics away 3min later w/ no clue how we both (if we were to assume me and my brain are not one and the same) got there. Lately, podcasts have given way to Substack posts, both when it comes to consuming, and recommending to friends, enemies, and everything in-between. Those recommendations, however, seem to be peculiarly followed by “I have to one day write a Substack post on (X, Y or Z)”.
So, here it is. Evelina’s Substack, work title. To be updated weekly… or monthly, or twice a day. A journal of everything and nothing; a place to empty the ever turning factory of my brain in more words than a single instagram story will allow me to.