When I created my blog in 2019, I had just moved back home to Malawi from America and had been looking for something to do. I’d had the idea of creating a blog for years but never followed it through seriously. Since then, it has been an amazing experience, from connecting with fellow bloggers through platforms such as Afrobloggers to writing a short story that won an award. Late last year, I attended a training where a fellow participant told me on the second day that they had looked me up online and had found my blog and that I should continue the great work that I was doing. I must say I got taken aback as I had not posted for a bit and had only written about three posts in the preceding months. Everytime, I thought about writing a post, I would chicken out and keep it for later, but also when I thought about the gymnastics of posting on social media for traction, I honestly could not be bothered. I wanted to write for writing sake and not worry about who would read it. That is what I have always wanted writing to be to me. 

As a millennial born in the early 90s, a good part of my early life was spent without social media, the computer only existed for Solitaire and music. Social media was something that I was not bothered with until I went to college and finally joined Facebook. I was never comfortable using my name initially as I did not want people who knew me to find me, especially family members. There was just something about people knowing I was online that bothered me, and it is a feeling that has not entirely gone away even as our livelihoods have become dependent on our online presence. 

I have written before of my love-hate relationship with social media, and unfortunately, sometime over the past year, that relationship was worsened by anxiety. I cannot explain it but I realised that I would panic whenever I thought about making a post, and it did not help that posts came with likes. To make a post with a few likes but with many views was something that bothered me. Was my content not engaging or not good enough? Such thoughts could swirl in my head for days. I must add that I really did not grow up with the best self-esteem, looking over the fence was something that happened constantly. As the years have gone by and I have come more into myself, I find that I believe in my sense of self more. There are days when the low self-esteem of the past rears its ugly head, but I do feel that I have a better handle on it. When a story I wrote after going through a rejection of sorts was rejected by a magazine, I was triggered. At the time, I thought pouring my heart out on paper would be something that was felt, seen, and accepted. Boy, I had a lot to learn. On further reflection of the piece after it was rejected, I realised that it was not good enough and still needed work. This is something that I have learned over the last two years when it comes to writing: it is a craft that needs to be worked on, and you have to keep working at it and keep reading. I noticed that with social media, it affected the way I read. I have become used to reading short-form writing as opposed to long-form. X has made it so easy to consume so much content within a short time, such that I started finding it hard to read long-form content. With a book, I felt as if I was wasting time doing one thing. I am now teaching myself to sit still again and to enjoy a book, to take my time with something and not feel like I am wasting time.

It does not help that adulthood comes with its own set of responsibilities that has money attached to it. The lack of adequate finances over the past few years is something that I have struggled and still struggle with. Living in an economy that continues to plummet by the year does not help matters. I remember during orientation week in medical school, one of the speakers talked about the importance of creating a 10 year plan. I was 17 then, and 10 years seemed like light years away. I figured I would be fine with or without a 10 year plan. Well, 10 years later, I was writing on my blog and connecting with people from all over the continent. The funny thing is I had never planned on being a writer; at the time I just thought I would graduate and become a doctor. Two years into medical school, I ended up flunking out and turned to writing as one of my coping mechanisms. To reach a point where I started thinking of monetising my blog as a way of earning some cash was something. I am yet to monetise my blog or earn some significant amount from writing, the best I have done is 60 pounds from my winning short story. I do not even remember how I spent it but winning that money made me see the possibility of earning a living from writing. However that creates a certain pressure to keep writing great and quality content and as a recovering perfectionist that creates an unhealthy environment. When I look at my writing folder in Google Drive and think of the stories and essays that are in the process of being written, I wonder which of them will bring me money, because now writing also means money. As much as I would love to make money from my writing, I do not want that to be the reason I write. 

I have looked at several posts on my blog and thought to myself, well you could have submitted this for publishing and possibly have earned some income for them. I fear what writing for money could do to my craft, and I find myself thinking what is writing to me. Is it a money-making venture, an outlet, a way to collect my thoughts and connect to the world? It can be all of the above really but ultimately to me is its therapy: it is an outlet. If I make money from it, great; if not, still great. 

I always did well in school until I flunked out of medical school when I was 18. That failure upended my life in ways that I still find myself recovering from at 30. I know that I will never completely recover from this failure, something that I initially had a hard time accepting but have now fully embraced. I failed at the one thing that I was good at which was school and had to find other things to excel at. It has not been easy and I am still figuring out what these other things could be. When I first started keeping a consistent journal during my first summer in the US, I did not realise how much I would value it years later when I read the entries I wrote during my college years. The things that were a big deal then are nothing but a fleck in the past, but in that moment they mattered enough for me to write them down. Reading the entries years later, I find myself laughing, reminiscing, and wondering.

It is comical in a way, after all I am only 30 years old. I think of what other people write and think my own is not good enough. But then what is the point of all this if not to try, to work at writing, keep submitting and keep trying and maybe someday it will be good enough. I laugh at how I think sometimes I mean after all, I have won a short story competition before and yet I feel as if I am yet to start. This has affected how I write and contributed to my irregular blog postings. The world is very competitive and I know I have to fight my way through this jungle to make it but I also would like to have fun along the way. 

At the end, writing is therapeutic.

About the Author:

Linda Mchawi is a writer and editor from Lilongwe, Malawi. She won the first prize in the Africaniwa WinterABC2022 short story competition. She works as an assistant editor at Lolwe Magazine and runs a blog called Lindani’s Space.

*Feature image by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash