Well, That Was Embarrassing

twenty-eight days of indecent exposure

On January 31, I created a challenge for myself that I dubbed No F*cks February. The rules were simple:

1. Post 300+ words Every Day on Substack Notes

2. Never Delete A Post

3. If I’m Scared to Post it, I post it

I broke every single one of these rules. Who cares. (No one.) I did good.

The point, I said, was to practice visibility and “find my voice”.

Like exposure therapy.

The first two weeks hurt. Every post felt like getting hit by an 18-wheeler. The next morning I would peel myself off the highway, stumble to my feet, and teach myself how to walk again, knowing full well that the truck would come back to flatten me around sunset.

I know this’ll be hard for some readers to understand. What it cost me. My ridiculous outsized panic over it. How posting little essays collapses my nervous system quicker than encountering a literal predator. Yeah. I have issues.

To be clear: NFF wasn’t a cute challenge to farm engagement.

It was a fight to the death with my most wretched demon, the demon of: this is not ready. you are not ready. you’re not there yet.

That. Stupid. Demon. My arch nemesis. Pushing me to privately perfect my craft, but keeping me from sharing it. The striving never ceases, and neither does the hiding. Nothing is ever ready.

I feel sheepish admitting this. Now I want to convince you that I’m not actually like this. Not in real life. That if I met you in person, you’d get no sense of the sniveling coward I am online. I’m cool. I swear. But.

This is also the truth: If you were to come to my cottage, I would take you walking down winding trails, deep into the forest. We would talk about the fabric of reality. I would lay with you in a field, and hold your hand, and listen to your dreams. But I would not tell you mine. And if you asked to see my studio, I’d glance down at my watch and tell you: maybe next time.

And, honestly, this has worked out. For the most part. I deeply relish the privacy I’ve cultivated. And miraculously, I have been able to make a living as a professional artist while hiding ninety percent of what I make.

Scooter, guarding fresh soil. Studio in the distance. No, you can’t go inside.

Only: the urge to share my work never leaves me. It’s a soaking wet that gets heavier with each new unshared creation I put inside it. And lately, it’s been chafing my armpits.

So. What happened during the 28 days? Did I vanquish the demon?

The short answer: Nope.

On Day One, I had this lofty goal of “finding my voice”.

What. does. that. even. mean.

I thought finding voice meant: Practicing serious writing with such consistent devotion that God’s golden finger would reach down from the sky to open the same sacred portal that was opened for Mary Oliver, and Dostoevsky, and David Foster Wallace. Thereafter, blinding brilliance and hilarious insights would begin to spew forth from me effortlessly.

I was pretty bummed when this didn’t pan out. And exhausted. Trying to sound brilliant turns out to be a lot of work. The early essays sounded like stepping on a crouton. But I kept trying to find my voice. With fervor. The deep philosopher voice. The serious essay voice. The wistful nature girl voice. Most of these pieces legitimately sucked. Only a couple were getting there. And I had to post them all. Every night. Night after night.

Like I said, embarrassing.

During this time, I was also in my art studio, wrestling with a painting called “Revolutionary Love”. The last few years I’ve been creating a collection of paintings based on prompts from my collectors. After making over a hundred of them, I’ve learned that a painting never works when I’m trying.

It’s hard not to try. Especially if you want to make something “great”. But the muse does not arrive on demand. She arrives when there’s enough space for her to sprawl out like a torpid cat in a sunbeam.

The way I paint, only one thing matters: did the muse arrive or no? The painting never lies. I can’t lean on realism. It’s alive or it’s dead.

So when I receive a prompt like “Revolutionary Love”, I know that it will be Sisyphean. It’s impossible not to intellectualize a concept like that.

By the end of the month, I’d attempted the work six times and ruined at least one really cute outfit.

Funny. All month, trying to write like Hemingway and paint like Richter, all hot and bothered over this idea of what greatness looks like and sounds like. Feeling so dire and important over it.

Towards the end of the month, deep ennui settled into me. I sort of stopped caring. I was no longer terrified.

And then on day 27: a miracle. I was completely out of fucks to give. And from that, a liberating thought arose:

Maybe you’re not a great writer. Maybe you’re not even that deep. And so what? Won’t it feel better if that’s not some big secret you’re hiding from everyone?

And like magic, I finally wrote something that really felt like me.

It was feral, but friendly.

Thanks for reading! As always, it’s an honor and a privilege to have your eyeballs on me.

Shout out to the talented author Emma Steel who joined me on this journey.

A few things I made this month that I’m proud of:

If you’d like to support work:

abstract prints on metal : Scales Fine Art

my art web site : Anna Judd Fine Art

creations from the farm: Artisanna Farms

buy me a paint: http://buymeacoffee.com/annarn