Freestyle

Failure to Plan

Look, I’ll level with you. I don’t have much of a plan for this issue of the newsletter. (I know what you’re thinking. Does this mean the garbage I otherwise spew is actually an outcome of meticulous planning? I’m afraid so, yes.)

I had half a mind to (re)publish a silly little piece I wrote a few days ago, about the Season’s Greetings emails that are so in vogue this time of the year. The piece appeared in the Indian Express, along with a mugshot sketch that would convince you I suffer from mumps.¹ I have rarely shared a self-portrait with such enthusiasm.

I swear I don’t sneer like that.

I decided against the copy-paste job because it felt like cheating. This newsletter exists to help me build a writing habit. Its raison d’être is to nag and bully me into stringing together sentences I can later inflict upon you. Unless I’m pressed for time, recycling pieces feels insincere. Besides, my in-house editor was left unimpressed by the Christmas email piece.

Since I started this newsletter, over four years ago, Simran has read and supplied editorial feedback on nearly every issue. Her marital vows did not include the covenant: ‘I will review everything my husband writes, and curb the desire to punch him as he hovers around me with a needy look’ — and yet she performs this task without complaint. I insist she share her honest opinion so this time, after she read the draft, she said it was ‘juvenile’ and ‘unoriginal’.

‘I didn’t like it,’ she declared. ‘It just didn’t work for me.’

I blinked a few times. ‘Hmm. Was there a specific part you disliked?’

‘No. I didn’t like any of it. It feels contrived. And this trope of making fun of business emails is such a cliche. Not your best work.’

‘Ah. I see.’

‘Are you feeling bad? I’m sorry! You keep telling me I should be honest.’

I meant to tell Simran I was not feeling bad, and that, yes, she should always express her views in a frank and forthright manner. I value constructive criticism. I was lucky to receive her unvarnished inputs and knew it would improve my writing. I meant to tell her all this to set her mind at ease — but it just so happened that I was too busy sobbing.

---

I never intended this newsletter to become a slice-of-life digest. It was my spectacular lack of expertise in any other field that led to me mining my life for content. Sports, business, science, art — I don’t have anywhere near the depth of knowledge required to write about these subjects. I could’ve started writing poems, I suppose, but while I have the necessary self-absorption to be a poet, I possess none of the skill. So, I took refuge in the personal essay. Quite soon, though, I identified a couple of problems with this genre of writing.

First, it is hard to come by high-quality material. When I’m not travelling, I lead a largely uneventful life. Often, the highlight of my day is finding a ten-rupee note in the pocket of a freshly laundered shirt. When you try to slice a life so bereft of drama, you get stories that are slimmer than sashimi. Second, you run the risk of repeating yourself. In the last issue, I wrote about my uncle ordering Mutton Paneer at a dhaba in Uttar Pradesh. A few days later, my mother reminded me that I’d used that anecdote in an earlier issue, two years ago. How embarrassing! Have there been other instances when I’ve committed this faux pas? Have I previously written an essay about how I struggle to find material for essays?²

Oh no. Image Source.

These questions would haunt me in the past. They still do, to be honest, but the haunting is not as harrowing. It’s more Stree, less The Exorcist. For the first couple of years, I obsessed over every detail of this newsletter: the subscriber count, the open rate, the likes, the views. The response to an essay, whether it attracted comments or was met with silence — it is always polite silence, on Substack, never outright critique — moved the needle of my self-worth. If a piece got lukewarm response, I moped for days; if it generated chatter, I was chirpy all weekend. It was awful.

I am still not immune to the metrics, but in the past year I have sensed a shift. In December 2021, three months on from an impetuous decision to quit my full-time job, I wrote:

I had always believed that nobody could possibly enjoy work, but (trite as it sounds) I am beginning to see how being passionate about something could make it seem less like work…. As long as you continue receiving these newsletters every week, you may be assured that my experiment with freedom continues unhindered.³

How fortunate, and privileged, am I to have continued this experiment with freedom, to have the luxury of devoting myself to doing something I love. Isn’t the joy (or grief) triggered by Substack engagement trivial, when set against a life where I am the master of my time? This is all old hat, of course, but it has taken me over four years to get it.

Image Source.

Let me assure you that this has not resulted in me taking this newsletter any less seriously. I enjoy writing these essays, and I am grateful to you for reading them. I would never take the gift of your time for granted — though I may, on occasions, ramble for a few minutes when I don’t have much of anything to say. Here’s hoping you won’t mind! And here’s also wishing you a Merry Christmas and a fabulous start to the new year!

This newsletter will return in 2026, and I promise that next time I’ll have a plan.

1. The alternative, that I do in fact have a villainous grin and a lopsided face, is not something I am ready to accept.

2. Yes, I have. Goddammit.

3. Don’t you just hate people who quote themselves? Pompous jerks.