Didja . . . even notice I was gone? 😟
Probably not and it’s fine but OKAY: I’ve been rethinking how I distribute Gemini Mind. Specifically, the Monday-Thursday email cadence.
I should take this to my therapist because there’s def internalized patriarchy here re: not wanting to take up space (before long I will be typing in primary voice!!). I know you love me—and I can see who loves me the most bc #OPENRATES and #ANALYTICS hehe—but I don’t want Gemini Mind to feel like inbox clutter. I took a breather this week and thought of ways to finesse it.
Because the answer wasn’t to simply write less. Gemini Mind isn’t only for you. A significant impetus in this Gemini genesis (move over, Lin-Manuel!!!!) was to have it serve as a personal writing exercise. And boy howdy, has it ever. If only you could see the mental process behind the curtain! It’s noticing the point of diminishing returns between editing and over-editing (making it better vs. making it different), honing the ability to let ideas lead me, but also to parcel and wrangle them in real time, killing my darlings because lyricism doesn’t always serve impact, on and on.
One of the things I love about Substack is the ability to update posts on the site after you send emails. If you’re ever extremely bored, you can cross-reference GM emails with their posts online. I am always updating, editing. Dear goddess, it’s agonizing. But nothing with a voice—literally nothing—is birthed without agony.
In service of these competing quandaries, starting next week, I’ll publish posts on the site Monday-Thursday, with one email each Friday to spotlight all of them.
(And then I will see the 2% clickthrough rate on hyperlinks and shake my fist and cry out “PEARLS BEFORE SWINE!” because Gemini Mind is also an exercise in divorcing ego from writing—but like it doesn’t have to be, JUST SAYING???)
I’m sincerely enjoying this creative outlet, and grateful to have you here for it! I was hoping it would feel like blogging circa 2009, and it does.
Back then, I had lots of ideas and little inhibition. It was low-stakes writing for a village of friends and I loved it. But then came Bloggers with a capital B. The Blogging Industrial Complex fucked with millennial writers (especially women). I conflated writing with blogging, and what was once a perfectly serviceable platform suddenly outgrew me. Or at least that’s how it felt back then.
This insecurity was magnified by crises of faith, career, and identity. I was young and married with a cute little dog, but my thoughts weren’t, ahem, monetizable. And you know, I’m glad they fucking weren’t, because it meant that I was facing the grey. I rejected jejune pride in my transparency—access to heartwork is a privilege, not a right—and closed the book to rewrite the pages.
Thank you for reading this chapter.
See you next Friday,