Cool Kids

I recently received a comment on one of my articles that stopped me in my tracks. Not because it was surprising, but because it was painfully familiar:

“I stopped submitting any work at all because I was constantly trying to guess what editors and the industry as a whole might want. It was exhausting! A bit like trying to decipher what the cool girl at school was going to want, wear, say, or do.”

If you’ve ever felt this way, you’re not alone. In fact, I’d argue this is one of the most common reasons writers stall out, burn out, or quietly stop sharing their work altogether.

Trying to write while also trying to anticipate an invisible audience is exhausting. You’re not just drafting scenes or shaping sentences; you’re running a constant background process in your brain that asks: Is this marketable? Is this smart enough? Is this too much? Not enough? On trend? Off trend? Will my friends and family like it? It’s like writing while looking over your shoulder at an imaginary panel of judges.

And eventually, something gives. Often, it’s the joy. Sometimes, it’s the writing itself.

Here’s the reframe I want to offer, especially if you’ve ever felt frozen by that guessing game: you are not auditioning for the cool kids. You are the cool kid.

You are the one making something from nothing. You are the one sitting alone with a blank page and deciding to put your inner world into words. You are the one taking on the risk of being seen. That’s not beginner energy. That’s not outsider energy. That’s power.

Being “cool” by judging other people’s creative pursuits—by standing on the sidelines, arms crossed, pretending not to care—is only cool in 80s movies. The cool kids now are the artists. The storytellers. The people brave enough to say, this matters to me, even when they don’t yet know who else it will matter to.

So if you ever catch yourself stalling because you’re trying to predict what agents or editors want, what the market wants, what success is supposed to look like, pause for a moment. Come back to the work. Ask yourself what you are curious about. What only you can write. What feels honest, even if it feels a little scary.

Because the work that resonates most deeply rarely comes from chasing approval. It comes from trust. Trust in your instincts, your voice, and your right to take up space on the page.

If you are subscribed to this newsletter, I hope you have already started to trust your creative instincts without the gatekeeping or guesswork. And if you know a writer who’s been stuck trying to please an imaginary cool crowd, feel free to share this with them. Sometimes the most helpful thing we can do is remind each other: we were never meant to audition in the first place.

Warmly,

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