The Gate of Good Enough

It’s been ages. Again. I think I’ve made publishing essays into a Big Deal, in my head. Like there’s a solid gate with THE STANDARDS painted on it, and I should just stay quietly on this side until I can produce something ‘good enough’ to open the lock.

Of course, there is no gate, and no gatekeeper either. This platform, through which my words arrive to your eyes, Substack is a way to write and publish directly to readers who have chosen to receive our work, and to reach new readers; to meet with minds in countries and cultures in all corners of the planet. To be inspired and challenged and to hear different ideas and consider our own place in the context of a global conversation. This is an incredible thing and a terrible thing.

Anyone can write anything and put it out in the world, whether to practice the craft of writing stories, or poems, or the forming of arguments, or expressing the self; for bravery, in letting our words fly free, for once they leave us they belong to the reader to interpret however they choose; for connecting with other humans who share and who challenge our views and relate or object to the sentences we set on the page; to start or continue a conversation; to document; to exist.

On the other hand, anyone can write anything and put it out in the world. With little to no moderation, some of the voices driving discourse on the platform at present have given rise to understandable distress. Individuals permanently banned from other platforms for misogynistic and violent content are spraying their venom freely here, and I say ‘freely’, but in actual fact also making a killing for their own - and the platform’s - coffers1. This week’s news brought to us the launch of a Substack newsletter belonging to a UK politician - one who bears significant responsibility for the normalisation of increasingly far-right rhetoric across the nation and whose name rhymes with Fly-Gel Garage. Each time hate speech is sanitised as ‘free’ speech, the more mainstream these individuals’ violent viewpoints become. Emboldened, their followers flood the site, bringing cash2 and contempt in equal measure, and more and more respected writers, usually but not exclusively women, leave. Clearly, there are no defined standards, so why have I built that imaginary gate?

I admit that recently, I have considered leaving, too. With familiar feelings of not fitting in; flailing with questions about my identity and purpose as I approach the two-year anniversary of leaving my career in surgery, it is not a huge stretch to think that spaces like Substack are all about attracting the big names, no matter how abhorrent their views, and that there is no place for ordinary folk like me. I understand why many would choose to write elsewhere. I wondered, it is laziness and technophobia that keeps me here? Because I do not want to be complicit; to accept the apparent trajectory in societal values on this platform or anywhere.

As girls, we were socialised to stay silent, to listen, to be lesser. But the patriarchy that told us to pipe down; the patriarchy that we have so far failed to slay in our wave after wave of feminism, is visibly evolving before our eyes. What we’re ending up with is the malevolence of the ‘manosphere’ that sees us as sex vessels (consent and even consciousness not required) and - if we do as we’re told and look pretty enough (I don’t, and I don’t) - tradwives. The voices of this movement are loud, and far-reaching. That does not mean that I have to listen.

I decided I do not want to leave. I enjoy writing. I have friends, here. I spend time with generous, talented people and I am constantly learning, honing the craft, and being inspired by all that is good. I have been quiet for some time now, yes, but I believe the only way to chip away in hope of change, is to put on some big girl pants, speak up, and to keep speaking. I mean, come on, Louise; I have literally held hearts and squeezed life around the human body: high pressure is my, if not quite ‘happy place’, it’s somewhere I’m pretty chilled about hanging out. I just need to remember that, sometimes.

My fear of the gate of ‘good enough’ is a product of my socialisation. But, I realised I have a choice. I can stay silent and feel shit about the state of the world, and keep writing drafts that don’t pass the imaginary test of what makes acceptable text, or I can just write anyway. I can decide, as we say in my birthplace (Yorkshire) ‘that’ll do’.

I write for all the reasons in that third paragraph, above. I write to make sense of the world around me. I write to declare my refusal to accept a status quo that keeps me low. I write to slow down, and to notice the details of living for this oh-so-tiny flash of time on this planet of breathtaking beauty.

And the quality of what I write? Well, while it does matter, because I deeply respect the time and attention of every reader, I remind myself that quality is subjective, and it matters less than I usually think it does. Quality, like her sister beauty, lies in the brain of the beholder. The details though, they are within my control. And the details, are where we find the extraordinary.

for there to be shadows
there must first have been light
and the brighter the light
the more stunning the dark
but sometimes, surprising softness
within those shadows, hides

Last week, following a year of illness, my lovely brother-in-law took his leave from life. He was 43. As our family and friends prepare to celebrate the time we were lucky enough to share with him, we’re deeply considering the details. Details of how to mark his passing; what music, words, individualities can we include to honour his essence; how might we incite a few smiles at a time of such sadness; how do we express our love as we try to carry on. We don’t have long, to plan our celebration of this man who was loved wholeheartedly, but together, we will take care of the details and do the very best we can to navigate our way through the darkness.

The detail, I think, is where delight likes to hide. Today, embracing the ‘that’ll do’, and flying in the face of division and of death herself, I am choosing to use my voice to delight in the things that matter. I will delight in the detail. Let that be enough.

The poem that follows was born from the gorgeous Anna Wharton’s June month of delight. She is a master3 of the written word, able to balance vital polemic work with stunning beauty in the observation of what makes us human. If you haven’t read her work, please do.

Until next time,

I do admire this wild May flower
dancing as she does
among the chains of daisies
breezy, waving
open faced
she gazes at the sun
Her crowd of periwinkle petals
host a fine delicatessen,
scent arousing
grounding
clothed in thorns
I pause, as she implores me to
I do not know her name
Oh! But can you hear
the symphony
of bumblebees?
All changing places
wings vibrating
long tongues tasting
nectar; shaking pollen
from their mane
I’m tickled by the grasses
snaking, swishing
at my ankles
bare legs rest, caressed
we stand as nature’s guest
to witness coral skies turn red
The sun sets from this place
a whispered sigh
she shuts her eyes
wishing the field goodnight
I feel the final heartbeat of the day
The hedgerow will not sleep, I know
the hare will leap, and fox
will keep her watch
over the sheep
And do you know the dog rose
bloom is near? Her perfume
lingers, here
delight replacing light
as night lays down her cape
til morning; when we wake
we’ll smell June’s flowers, too
just me, the hare, the sheep, the fox, the bees,
and you.

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