great expectations

what is a realistic system of creating in the virtual world of keeping up?

my friend,

Happy New Year to you, my dearest.

I hope you got the long embrace I sent in the mail — it said it’d arrive while you were stepping into 2025. <3

Wherever you are, I hope the season’s been treating you kindly. I’ve been thinking of all I want to say this year and looking forward to writing to you about it. I’ve also been taking stock and evaluating how to soothe this constant warden of time-keeping. I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about: feeling time is punishing you for inactivity or paralyzing you in place.

It wouldn’t be right to begin this with “lately,” or “I’ve noticed that…” as it’s a problem that’s existed for years now, though incrementally getting worse.

There are a lot of benefits to the accessible nature of art these days, but I feel prickly about its detriments. It feels like every time I’m pulled to the page, it also pulls me through a cotton-thick sticky cobweb. The somewhat sick or off-feeling that the desire to write, and moreso sharing that writing, comes with maneuvering through the digital sphere.

The flip side of social media’s accessibility is that, while art is more available than it maybe ever has been, delivered right to your virtual doorstep, to some degree it also demands the artist is available to us all of the time as well.

When I’ve done social media “right” or played by the rules it wanted me to, that’s exactly how I operated.

Over ten years ago, I started posting (pretty terrible) poems on tumblr. Then, when I went to college, I started taking poem requests and began writing under a pen name. In order to attract/form an audience, I prided myself on turning out 2-4 of these poems a day for a handful of years — the thought of which absolutely boggles my mind now. 2-4 poems! A day! For years! Through college classes and work! It should come as no surprise to anyone that I wrote myself ragged, but at the time, I felt it was necessary for the craft. (Similar to the same college-age notion that getting help/taking medication for my depression would render me a terrible writer. Barf. Thank god we are capable of change.)

Was that creative schedule exhausting? Inexplicably. Did it deliver? Sure.*

*Again, after years and years of that same blistering consistency. At the cost of sleep, time spent with friends, mental well-being, and having very little memory of college life/classes to show for it. At the cost of knowing significant, young years of my life were spent painfully endeavoring a path that had many other routes to its destination.

Though I was proud of it at the time, I cringe thinking about it now.

I want to clarify that I’m not trying to weasel out of accountability by stating this is solely a problem with the internet. I did choose that insane writing regimen. My point here is that it’s also a symptom of how we interact with art now. (And, of course, late-stage capitalism, to which I will gladly continue to blame.)

Because I wanted my writing to do well, because I wanted to hone my craft enough to eventually write a book, I was fine if the blisters bled a little (or a lot). There’s a truth to sacrificing for art and having a strong sense of self-discipline, but it’s clear to me now that wasn’t what that was. (And that I would have actually benefitted from going much slower, paying attention to those college classes, and balancing that output with an input of reading.)

I am very grateful for all I’ve learned during that time and the fact that there are readers who have stuck with me since. But that same formula of ‘success,’ once you take enough steps back to view its whole shape, is simply mass-production. Creating for consumption’s sake. I handed over the reins to how I would determine success, worth, or if I could even consider myself a writer, to the internet. It wasn’t self-discipline, it was a one-person factory farm. It was creation without a lick of boundaries.

I know my schedule now is almost lax in comparison, but that ceaseless trickle of “I’m running behind, people are waiting” drones on, as if I’m sweating in a restaurant kitchen with a line out the door. These are self-imposed deadlines. Beyond that, this isn’t my full-time job. I don’t have a paid system that people would be cheated out of if I don’t deliver on time, but there’s a monetary incentive: if write more and write well = more likes and more book sales. (Let’s give it up one more time for late-stage capitalism!)

All of this rambling stems from wanting to devote more time to working on a novel, a considerably longer project and one that requires a large share of my writing time, wanting to lower my screen time, and recognizing my pull to create the work that I share comes from an urge and guilt to feed the digital whisper of “more, more, more.”

While I have never been criticized for falling off or lapsing a posting day, I have lost followers and engagement in my quieter periods. As much as I don’t want this to affect me, it does. At this point, it feels a little impossible not to. That pressure to make anything posted the greatest you’re capable of. To say something big and important, all the time, in order to make a ripple in the cyber ocean. To invent absolutes or write myself into knots, making sure I pick clean every corner of nuance.

I’ve seen the same recognition in many creators, artists, and writers I follow, who are pulling back and wondering what a healthy relationship with their craft and the means of sharing it would look like. On the receiving end, as someone who loves reading and admiring art, I am guilty of not considering how much time is spent in production before that artwork makes its way to me.

Digitally, it’s an easy mistake to make. I only know what I can see. Something shows up in my feed, I take time to admire it, maybe save it, check out more of this person’s work, and then scroll to the next thing. My time in consuming it is very little, but understanding it from the creating end, it takes significant time for anything to exist, not to mention what other projects or goals someone has simmering on a back-burner.

It’s important for me to determine my own balance because I love what I’ve built here. I don’t want to call it quits and let it die. I love sharing my work. I love the creative communities that exist online and the friends I’ve made. I love to see people reach out and say they’ve connected with my words. I love to see those words shared across hemispheres. I love the beauty that can exist in producing art and having art accessible to me.

Perhaps it is because this is the first time I’ve allowed myself more space from it that the difference between what I work on in private and what I share feels noticeably stark. Instead of a shrugged, “well, this is how it is / it’s not great, but a necessary evil / a means to an end,” the distance I’ve allowed myself from it leaves space to question, “is it?”

If this system doesn’t feel good to me, if I can’t find a way to do it on my terms, can I really call that a success? Is success only a matter of how aptly, quickly, I can continue to churn out words? Is it growth that I’m after or relevance?

I don’t have the perfect system worked out quite yet. At the very least, I know it won’t be another ten years of grinding to find it. At the very least, I know I’m holding the reins again. What helps is to ask myself: am I keeping tabs on other artists like this? If I see them mention they’re taking a break, do I have any other reaction than understanding? Am I supportive, even thrilled, when I see artists set scheduling boundaries? Is losing anyone who wouldn’t feel the same for me truly a loss?

What is a reasonable expectation of myself, given any other projects, priorities, etc.? What makes me happy? How can I be true to my self-determination, growth, and craft in a way that’s sustainable and enjoyable?

I want to create in my seasons. I want to create like an artist, like a human would. I want my life to be many things, but machinery is not one of them. I want to write with all the same passion and discipline, but not into punishment and self-loathing. I want to give myself the breathing room for my creativity to not always look the same. I want to write for people, not a ticking clock.

The heart of my message is this: I love my creativity. I want to protect it. I realize I have not always been a good steward of it. When I feel that ticking clock, I keep track of where my time is spent: another thousand words added to a novel. A Christmas garland, hand-stitched and strewn across my living room. A long morning spent giggling in bed with my love. Successfully baking my first edible loaf of bread. A long journal entry for no one’s eyes but my own.

When I stop forcing myself to write in order to post and instead, listen and create when the ideas are there, waiting to take form on their own time, I feel a sweet exhale of authenticity.

Ah, right. This is the natural season of things. This is exactly how my writing asks me to show up. This is what’s possible.

Thanks for listening.

with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
flip phone fund (venmo): schuylerpeck

If you’re interested in supporting my writing or reading more:
book link 1: The Ghosts’ Share of Rent (newest book!!)
book link 2: You Look Like Hell
book link 3: To Hold Your Moss-Covered Heart
instagram: hiitssky