Remind Me... Why Do I Write Again?
Because it's oh-so easy to forget.
There’s an episode of Euphoria (2019) that I think about quite often. Rue (played by Zendaya, in case you were unaware) lays in bed and she tells us, through expository voice over, that she has been laying there—right there—for hours, watching episode after episode after episode of a certain British reality show called Love Island. Her face is covered with a glittery makeup look that is days old, her position in front of the laptop doesn’t shift once, and she lets us know that she needs to pee, really needs to pee, yet hasn’t got up to do so for the last 24 hours.
I think about this episode often because a couple years ago, that was me.
According to my Netflix account, I’ve watched BoJack Horseman. According to my Netflix account I haven’t just watched a couple of episodes of the show, no, I have watched the entirety of every single episode between its first and penultimate season. I can’t for the life of me remember doing any of this.
Now, you’re probably thinking that someone else could’ve watched it. Sharing Netflix passwords with the group-chat is the norm so it’s possible that someone logged onto my account and watched the show on my dime. The thing is… I’ve never shared my account with anyone. My big ass family already use the account, and everyone has their own personal profiles to watch their shows/movies from. But even then, even if a sister or a cousin made the mistake of pressing play while on my profile, how does that explain me having the whole intro song memorised?
How do you explain that back in 2020, when I had intended to watch the show for—what I assumed—would be the first time, I found myself dealing with some of the most intense and uncomfortable bout of Déjà vu I think I’ve ever dealt with? I would click on an episode, hum along to a song I swear I had no business knowing, and then watch an episode that felt so familiar, so oddly predictable (despite how unpredictable the show is written to be) that I couldn’t enjoy myself. Now, I’m not against rewatching something. In fact, I do it all the time. But rewatching something after being prepared to watch something brand new is an automatic let down—no matter how good said-something may be.
Why doesn’t anyone talk about how depression causes memory loss?
I’m not going to say something crazy like “I’m not depressed anymore,” because anyone that’s got it knows that they’re stuck with it, knows that life is all about learning how to deal with it. Instead, I’m going to say that I’m dealing with it a lot better (a whole lot better) than I was when I was 17 years old. I feel good. I promise I feel so very good, lately. But even the most mentally healthy humans forget things at times, so it’s normal that I continue to do so. Sometimes I forget where I leave my keys, forget my cup of tea on the kitchen counter while leaving it to cool down for a moment, but, more recently, I’ve been dealing with forgetting why I write.
Just over a week ago I posted this note.
I spent a lot of time on a certain Substack post (cough cough, here), and I was admittedly quite upset to find that it didn’t automatically go viral. I’m getting embarrassed while typing this out'; it’s never easy to admit that a piece of work you expected to blow up only amounted to a momentary fizzle. I will admit that I reacted to this unmet expectation in a completely logical and level-headed way—I thought about never writing again.
Dramatic? Oh, absolutely! But when creative self-doubt rears its ugly head, it doesn’t care enough about you to do so logically or within reason. “Your essay/painting/song didn’t get a large response because you’re bad at what you do, and no one cares to see it!” Self-doubt is fertile soil where that line of thought can take root, can grow into something ugly and uncontrollable.
Luckily, I was able to control it. Pulled my gardening gloves on and uprooted that line of thought almost immediately. The note I posted is evidence of the time I spent in that metaphorical garden.
[…] your post is successful because you wrote it and you posted it. a lot of likes and comments just means a lot of other people are witnessing how you succeeded.
So, if I don’t write for external validation… why do I?
I watched BoJack Horseman years ago yet have no recollection of it. I consumed approximately 1,500 minutes of a piece of media, but I don’t remember how it made me feel, I don’t remember if I liked it or hated it, I have no quotes to call back to or favourite moments I can access on a whim. I binged an entire show numb, and I have nothing to show for it. And that, dear reader, is why I write.
I write because one day, a couple years ago, I crawled so far inwards that all the memories and emotions and thoughts I had at the time got buried down there, and when I gathered the strength to crawl out of that place, I forgot to bring them all along with me.
Now that I’m out, now that I can feel the sun on my face, I write not just to remember but to also celebrate; I write to celebrate my lack of numbness. I feel things vividly now. Oh-so vividly! About everything! I consume media and it doesn’t pass straight through me. Instead, I pass through it, and it always always always leaves something behind. Some sort of residue always sticks itself to my clothes, a certain smell always latches itself onto my nostril hairs, a taste always remains on the tip of my tongue, and I write to explore the beauty of being affected by the world and all its art that surrounds me.
Books evoke emotions that I can now access. Movies trigger memories and lessons from the past—whether positive or negative. Music moves me enough to put my own pen to paper, moves me to create something akin in beauty. I write three-thousand-word reviews of the media I engage with because I now have the privilege to care enough about what it is that I’m consuming. And maybe someone else will read it and love it, maybe they won’t, but in the grand scheme of things… that doesn’t really matter.
I don’t write for you, dear reader. I write for me. And, somehow, somehow, that makes posting here, sharing this with you even sweeter.
Why do you write? What keeps your pen on the paper when all that external validation falls away?
ah this is so wonderfully said and written. Recently I watched that video from that youtuber I've followed for years, she was talked about taking notes about what she reads. And she simply said sometimes she has nothing to say about what she reads, she takes notes simply to remember it. And it's true, putting the pen to the paper (or finges to keyboard although it sticks less to my brain lol) changes everything. It connects it all - past, present and future. And it makes the media we consume alive somehow. Sometimes at the cinema I get frustrated because i cannot scrible down as i watch the movie, which is silly because then I forget, but still. On the moment i wish I could press pause and write things down so the feeling I had the first time i saw a particular scene or heard/read a particular quote stickes forever?
I feel like this essay speaks personally to everyone who reads it. Because each one of us at this stage of consuming media but not celebrating it, noticing things around us. We are in this never ending loop which creates a short of time blindness.
Recently, i have been putting effort to watch, to read, to listen and participating intentionally. When I do things with intention it makes me love my life more and live the moment to the fullest.
Loved this..especially the lines " I pass through the media..."💌