V. H. King's Ink

“I didn’t expect this to gain so much attention.”

It’s something I’ve noticed people say fairly often, whether in regards to a particular tweet or post or initiative or project. Art seems to gain visibility over night. Views, retweets, followers, comments, shares. There’s an explosion of interaction, of conversation. And accompanied with it:

We didn’t know so many people would be able to relate and connect to this. We’re glad it happened, but we could have never predicted it.

I never started writing for the sole purpose of publishing or gaining a large following. The thought of having a huge audience is genuinely terrifying–and yet there’s another part of me that says I could handle it, if I had to. I’ve had a lifetime of people telling me to wait and see, telling me how I successful I could be. I used to outright deny it. Writing is part of my always, something that has, is, and will be with me forever. And while it may be one of the things I most care about, I didn’t want anyone else trampling on it or dictating what it looked like. I was scared that people would try to steer my success in a certain direction.

Eventually I realized people were simply trying to encourage me, but that still left me at a loss. Instead of running away from the weight of my words, I found myself crushed under them. If I was supposed to be this great writer, to have such a powerful voice, then how was I supposed to use it? What did making good of this gift look like? What did responsible stewardship entail? How could I guarantee, to myself and others, that I would not fail?

I was asking the wrong questions, because I was operating under a set of assumptions I still haven’t quite fully untangled myself from. I start to get caught up in comparing how successful I am with the steps I see others following to gain their own success–but my path is not theirs. I worry if I’m doing enough. I waffle between light-hearted optimism and sacred certainty, always pushing myself to maintain a certain kind of polished composure that will attract interest, followers, curiosity, attention. And every second, I feel like I’m screaming into a void with no one to answer. I feel like I’m flying blind, with no way to gauge my progress.

What does this mean?

If there is one question which paralyzes me more than any other, it’s wondering what things mean. What does it mean if this site gets little to no traffic? What does it mean if no one likes or comments on my posts? What does it mean if I’m not producing content–stories, promotions, sales, sketches–as quickly or as frequently as other creators?

If there is a question that pushes me to greater honesty in my work and in my life, it’s the exact same question. Knowing what it means when I choose to invest in my work even when I don’t have all the answers about the outcome. Realizing that, as I center and celebrate my own Blackness, my queerness, my disabilities, my spirituality–I also have an opportunity to center and celebrate that in others. Learning that as I lift my voice, I can also lift the voices of others.

Capitalism kills. It always has, it always will, and there’s no other way to put it. Turning content into a profit becomes an expectation rather than an option–and often times, the push to monetize one’s work to reap more rewards hollows out the enjoyment first found in creating art. I used to tell myself I didn’t want to get to that point, but I did not realize I was already there. In some ways, I think I’ve always been there. It’s part of what fueled my initial resistance to visibility in the first place.

One of my greatest hopes with my writing and my art, beyond being true to the stories I hold within me that must be shared, is that others will find something to engage and interact with. I want my work to help people think about things differently. I want it to remind them to embrace the present. I want it to tickle their hope, to draw out their dreams.

I continually learn how to love, how to live, through my writing. My art puts in front of me, boldly and vividly, the things I feel but perhaps don’t always know how to handle. I don’t do this work only waiting for the echo of relatable content. I have to remind myself that, before and after whatever attention is gained, I will have to answer to myself: what does this mean to me?

Am I honoring my journey?

My hope is to pour my heart and soul into my work and let the rest be as it may. I want to allow myself joy during this process. I want to embrace the fun in this. I forget, so often, that I don’t have to earn (or defend) my joy. This post (and many of my asides) might come across as such.

Even if that’s the case, I’m learning to allow myself casual spaces to muddle through this process as best I can–to grump about setbacks, to scream about accomplishments, to laugh at mistakes. I am allowed to be human about all of this–and I imagine that, if I truly want to create work that allows for connection and reflection, then I have to be willing to share that humanity rather than only show the polished parts of me.