I Don't Want to Be Discovered. I Want to Be Understood

So lately, I've been having a lot of fun over on Vocal posting more of my creative writing — stuff like fiction and poetry that rarely to never attracts much interest on platforms like Medium or Substack. I've been entering some of their writing contests, as well, and have even won a couple.

The whole thing has been super fun, as exploring a platform you're semi-new to always is. It's also gotten me thinking about any goals or dreams I might have left for my writing at this point in my life.

Because for years, I carried around this whole grand cinematic fantasy in my head. It goes a little like this.

A mysterious but influential editor stumbles across my work at 2:17 AM, sits up straight in bed, and whispers, “Where has she been hiding?” An agent emails with the subject line, "Let's talk about your future." A stranger with excellent taste and perfect instincts plucks me from obscurity and sets me gently on a velvet pedestal, because my writing is just that awesome.

Cue swelling music. Fade to black. Scene.

It’s a really cool little daydream that I've entertained for a long time. I also assume most creative people have some version of it tucked away in a drawer somewhere, and with good reason. Being “discovered” feels romantic. It equates a person's work with imagery like buried treasure, hidden brilliance, or maybe even a lighthouse finally spotted by the right ship.

But lately, I’ve started to question what that word even means. "Discovered."

The Myth of Discovery

The very word “discovered” assumes I’ve been buried somewhere, waiting to be unearthed. It also centers the discoverer, and the version of me that's somehow turning 50 next month isn't so keen on that part.

With "discovery," someone else gets to decide I matter and name the moment I get to be seen and properly known. Someone else announces me to the world as if I’ve been patiently sitting on a shelf this whole time, waiting for them to notice.

There’s something flattering about that. But there’s something a little ridiculous about it, as well.

I’m the furthest thing from a rare orchid in a rainforest. I’m an anxious woman with Wi-Fi and way too many ideas I'd like to develop someday. I publish things and post art. I answer questions. I write essays about houses, spirits, feelings, myth, and the strange, terrifying geometry of being alive.

I’m right here, I always have been, and I assume I always will be on one level or another. So, when I imagine discovery now, it feels less like destiny finally catching up with me and more like a crooked marketing plan wearing an equally crooked halo.

And if I’m honest with myself, I don’t want a halo now any more than I ever did before. I think I'm after something else a little more substantial.

The Distance Illusion

People almost always really like me from a distance, and I get why.

From far away, I can seem fairly interesting. At my best, I'm also thoughtful, creative, and possibly even a little mysterious, depending on who you ask. I'm good at what I do, thanks to many years of experience, and I'm filled with all sorts of different ideas.

All that looks great on paper, especially with the wrinkles smoothed out by distance. Up close, however, people find they're actually dealing with:

• A person who overthinks the grocery store every single time she shops
• Someone who occasionally spirals about existential nonsense while finishing the dishes
• A woman who forgets why she walked into a room and then stands there, blinking at the wall like a confused Victorian ghost

When people meet the human instead of the highlight reel, whatever silly fantasy version of my personality brought them my way in the first place falls away. And they're left there with someone who has moods and preferences and a very specific opinion about the best way to heat up leftover pizza.

That’s actually the part that interests me now. Admiration might thrive at a distance, but no one can truly understand you until they lean in a little closer. I'd so much rather be understood.

The Myth of the "Final Form" Writer

Once you've finally found your voice as a writer, that's when the pressure comes calling. You need to stay consistent and recognizable. You definitely need to stay on brand.

Awesome advice if you’re selling cereal. Less helpful if you’re just trying to do you and using your writing as a tool to make that happen.

I don’t want to become a fossilized version of myself just because that version performed well once. I’ve written pieces I loved that barely registered, and I’ve written pieces I thought were fine that people quote back to me months later. The algorithm has never once consulted my emotional journey before making any of its weird decisions, either way.

So here’s what I try to remember:

• Voices evolve. They should.
• Calcified certainty ages about as well as a dirty diaper left in the sun.
• A writer who never surprises herself eventually bores herself. Guaranteed.

And once I’m bored, we’re all in trouble.

The Deeply Uncool Reality of Self-Discovery

Most of my better “breakthroughs” happen for me at really weird times, like while I’m staring into the refrigerator wondering if we still have ham or rewatching old Mad Men episodes with my husband at night. This is especially the case when it comes to self-discovery.

Self-discovery, in my case, looks a lot like tripping over my own very predictable bullshit and going, “Oh. That again.”

It’s mildly embarrassing, if I'm being honest. But it’s also very useful.

I don’t keep writing about myself and all the random things I think about because I’ve ascended to some polished understanding of who I am. I write because I’m actively mid-construction, and that's part of how I figure things out.

The Risk (Which Is Ego-Bruising)

Sometimes I have trouble letting people see me evolve, especially if I'm reminded that someone might actually be paying attention. Sometimes folks prefer the earlier draft. Someone might say, “I liked your writing better when…” and leave the sentence hanging in the air between us like a polite threat.

And that's all fine and dandy. I’ve preferred earlier versions of myself, too. Some of those versions actually had something resembling stamina. But they also had questionable judgment and a nauseating amount of self-importance.

What I can’t do is perform a past version of myself just because people actually clapped for her once. I have zero interest in wearing old costumes and pretending they still fit, and most of the ones that earned me praise in the past absolutely don't.

If I’m going to be known, I’d rather be known as someone who's embraced ongoing evolution, as creatives should. Someone who occasionally contradicts herself and actually has the humility to laugh about it.

So, if you think you fully understand me, I promise I’m already in the process of surprising both of us. And if I ever start sounding like I’ve “arrived,” discovered or not, assume the universe is preparing a very ordinary, extremely humbling Tuesday for me.

It has an excellent track record when it comes to that sort of thing.