I Am Not A Writer. I Am A Performer Who Happens To Write.
On self-promotion, hypomania, and the exhausting hustle of making things nobody asked for
If you’ve ever wondered whether you’re creating to share or sharing to prove you’re still creating, this one’s for you.
I am not a writer. I am a performer who happens to write.
I write to keep my anxious brain in check. I create art to calm the relentless storm of living with a chronic illness. Writing, composing, singing. It all helps. It gives the swirl of thoughts something to do, turning fragments of ideas and images and inspirations into something cohesive. That process is a relief, both to my mind and my body.
But I’m also a performer. Which means I don’t just create. I promote.
I write or compose and then yell into the void: look at this! Pay attention to me! Did you see it yet? Hello?
That’s me, talking to my mom or my friends, who, let’s be honest, are kind of over it. Or depending on their mood, really over it.
The Friend Who Said The Quiet Part Out Loud
I recently asked a friend why we hadn’t been hanging out. Her answer stung: because you’re always inviting me to your shows.
Ouch.
I apologized because I could see her point. Nobody wants to feel like a marketing demographic instead of a friend. But in my head I’d genuinely thought she’d want to come. I wanted her to see the work I felt so proud of. And when she didn’t? It hurt.
When you’re a performer who mostly produces your own work, self-promotion isn’t optional. It’s survival. You can’t create in a vacuum and hope someone stumbles upon it. You have to sell what you make.
I don’t subscribe to the idea of creating purely for its own sake, not on a professional level anyway. Art exists in the transaction. In how it moves someone, refracts their own experience back to them, helps them see themselves in it. Art must be shared.
But that doesn’t mean the art is inherently good. If no one buys, politely said, it’s not good enough. Try again. Said with delightful encouraging enthusiasm, of course.
And I do. Every day.
The Bipolar Part
I don’t always know when to stop sharing. That’s probably what annoyed my friend. I also don’t know when to stop creating. I don’t have a steady off switch. I wonder if I’m just uniquely wired. Still, it’s hard to argue with the patterns. My brain runs high, fast, and often too far.
Unlike others with bipolar 2 I don’t typically crash into depression. I crash into illness. My body, worn thin by the relentless drive of hypomania, eventually throws up its hands and says enough. The energy that fuels my creativity becomes unsustainable and my body pays the price.
When I sense I’m on a hypomanic bend I try to channel that energy toward people who can hold it with grace. Some smile and nod with a knowing that’s great. Others gently say you’re talking fast again. And that usually pulls me back into awareness.
The cycle is exhausting. I create, I share, I overdo it, and then I’m sidelined by sickness wondering why I can’t just pace myself like everyone else.
The Trap
Here’s where it gets sticky. The hustle of sharing becomes a feedback loop. Am I creating to share, or am I sharing to prove I’m still creating?
Nothing kills the creative spark like having to package it for public consumption. It’s like making a beautiful meal and immediately begging people to eat it while nervously wondering if it’s under-seasoned. Or worse, if anyone even noticed you made it at all.
I’m not cut out for hustle culture. Plenty works against me. I’m approaching 49, which in the world of emerging artists feels like ancient history. I’m a mom so my time is never really my own. I’m sick a lot and have to work in weird bursts. I live in a suburban area that doesn’t exactly scream artist haven.
And I don’t want to move to one. I’m past the point of packing up my life for some hip enclave where everyone’s throwing pottery and quoting Proust. I like my suburban bougie mom life. I like walking my dog to the coffee shop in my sensible vest.
You don’t have to live in a loft in Brooklyn to be creative. You don’t have to be 25 and unattached, cranking out work at 2 AM in a haze of genius and cheap wine.
You just have to make the work.
And then, ugh, sell it.
And then probably not sell it very well. And keep making it anyway.
For years I’ve been haunted by the siren song of the internet. The dream of going viral. The fantasy of being seen.
Me seen. Me seen. ME SEEN.
What a trap. One I fall for again and again.
The work of creating is always a push and pull between your ego and your soul. And somehow in that tension, life mirrors art.
Both are messy, exhausting, exhilarating.
And worth it.
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