I started it first probably around 9 months ago, then flooded Notes with my outpourings, wrote a couple of posts, which I later deleted not to be seen again.

Then came the rebranding.

A big one. I kicked things off with a glorious name: wasted 20s. (Don’t ask why! Randomly!)

Looking back, I have to respect the drama and curtsy before my 30s in full swing.

Then came a brief period of cryptic pseudonyms, because apparently having a perfectly normal name was no longer enough, and I was desperately searching for something.

An identity.

A thing.

Eventually, after several incarnations and considerably too much thinking about branding colors and names and strategy, and colors again, I arrived at: Literary Atelier, drenched in burgundy because, quite simply, it matches my winter palette (though staying loyal to this branding is proving hard).

And I think this might finally be it.

It aligned quite well with what I’ve been doing offline lately, such as my newfound love of gathering people together around books or writing, and hosting writing workshops.

Couldva, wouldva

Perseverance is, on the other hand, the noble struggle I’m saddled with. That I want to make a living out of my words, and am on this path now, is something that brings me immense joy, tinted with sadness too.

Why now? Couldn’t I have done it earlier? Wouldn’t it have been easier?

Yes, it would.

Perhaps you know this feeling too well – crying over lost chances or talents you didn’t unearth, so now they rot in the ground. Ouch.

And Substack, so it seems, might be one of the ways of snapping out of the malaise.

We are all here for pretty much the same reasons.

Scrolling through Substack, reading various posts, in the inundation of get-rich schemes or how to monetize your Substack posts, there is a pulsating tissue of creatives who dream of carving their own path.

Me, you, we — we want to be read.

Paralysis

But again, rebranding nibbles at my feet, because it all just makes more sense to have a different name. Essentially, it doesn’t matter, and it’s just paralysis.

Writing a lengthy post may loom over you, towering with its 2k unwritten words, whereas changing the color palette is a click away.

Looking at bigger accounts can also leave you unable to move all your body parts.

Reach is such a funny thing: it’s not that it matters, right?

You just want to write because, well, you love writing.

But a reader here and there wouldn’t hurt, would it?

Or a thoughtful comment?

Or, lo and behold, a share!

The numbers game

I think comparing myself was one of the reasons I felt demotivated to keep going — shame on me, I know. Maybe I started too late, didn’t join this first wave of writers here? Or maybe my writing simply isn’t on that level?

Yes, it might be.

It’s continually hard to assess your own work: one moment I think it’s a work of genius, then I want to throw my laptop out of the window.

You’ve been there. I know you have.

But then again, the sorts of “I started Substack a few weeks ago and already have 1k followers” posts make me wonder whether maybe what I do is wrong.

Apparently, I’ve plateaued at 240-something followers, and I’ll be honest:

I want people to read my work.

You want that too.

I want them to tell me if they don’t like it, but if they find it good, well, I don’t mind being showered with compliments on my brisk pen.

That’s why all the Notes of the share your work variety (yes, I wrote those too) garner such stellar activity.

You want to find your people, and get appreciated for that, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

A need meets its demand in a not-so-delicate, and certainly not cryptic, dance.

A writer is a weird creature.

An image of a madwoman in an attic comes to mind (or a siren, for that matter), but it might be a crazy man too, bent over a pile of paper – or a laptop, it’s the 21st century.

A writer untangles his thoughts, one thread at a time, and then wants people to appreciate not just the words, but the mind that created them.

The writer’s dilemma

The writer’s fear, in its various iterations, circulating here:

And if they decide it’s not very good?

Being an unpublished writer is safe, and potential is wonderfully flattering.

It points towards endless possibilities, and I bet you they’re endless: you can be anything before you are something, in your imagination at least because there’s no evidence to the contrary.

Once you start publishing, the fantasy meets the page.

I wish you'd meet this fantasy and turn it into reality.

Regardless of what anyone says, because essentially, it doesn’t matter (ha!).

I wish you the perseverance, the motivation that burns at night, and the thirst to keep going, the kind where you wake up and drink gallons of water, only to discover you’re still thirsty.

The kind that carries you through periods of stagnation until you find your folks here, so you can stop shouting into the void.

And then you’ll stop feeling like that:

Like a weirdo, trying to get everyone’s attention.

And I wish for myself to find my people who’d like to gather together and discuss with me:

why do we create?

If you’re one of that sort, make yourself known to me.

That said, because I just don’t know how to market myself properly, please come talk to me; I have absolutely no idea how to promote this thing, this literary salon I’m dreaming about.

Who am I? If you made it that far, that is.

I’m Mariola, and I love good self-mockery, coloured with just a touch of sarcasm. I like to tell it like it is and poke fun at things along the way, myself included! Sometimes it’s very bleak, sorry.

I’m not into the flowery, too-beautiful motivational-talk spam here (and today’s was peak good-talk energy and universe-aligning-with-the-stars blah), but just so you know, I’m on my way to building my writing life here. If that resonates with you, I'll take you with open arms.

My friend, between a top-up of wine and choosing a dessert from the great number of one available, confessed that he worked day and night while getting his business off the ground.

“I lost 5kg. I forgot to eat,” he said, wiping his mouth with a cloth.

A hush descended on the table because a starvation diet as a potential cause of workaholism doesn’t sound quite as good as a recommendation from an influencer in Bali, living solely off fruit.

“I was obsessed,” he added and downed his wine.

The hair on my arms stood on end. I’ve always had a soft spot for the word obsessed – please do not diagnose me.

“How did you find time…to do anything else?” The other friend set the ball rolling. “Like…to live?”

“I didn’t,” he replied. “I live only now.”

This conversation, over plates of Thai delicacies and sodden with never-ending wine, pried open the valve in me, inundating me with tangled thoughts. While I could well internalize some of my friends’ disapproval, one of the most pivotal reasons being different life stages, theirs characterized by the greatest responsibilities and crying mouths, I totally get him: a single man who got lost in his pursuit, functioning on the verge of irrational devotion.

We all want to have it all: to have our cake and eat it too, licking our fingers and staring at the very cake, thickly plastered with frosting.

We all want to have it all but without getting frosting on our fingers.

But it doesn’t work this way.

What if I tell you that the reality is quite harsh, and entails cracked, grease-stained hands, for that matter?

Would you get your hands dirty?

You don’t need a better work-life balance; you need something worth obsessing over.

Whenever I got into the zone, I was catapulted into a different world and made incredible progress. Granted, it may look obsessive from the outside, and let it. Not everyone can relate to that at any given time, but I do believe that each of us carries this spark, which could ignite in a propitious environment. Therefore, choose your obsessions wisely, for they demand irrational devotion, that is, if you want to go all in.

This craziness is nothing new among creatives, and it has been behind some of the greatest achievements for centuries. Of course, not everyone should strive for this, because being reasonable about your, say, passion for Substack is just fine. It is fine, trust me on that.

Feeding your obsession is extracurricular for those riding the high of their passion, acutely aware that you can’t always make something extraordinary while keeping everything perfectly balanced.

I say what I say.

Perhaps some people have a propensity for obsession, which can be channelled in various directions. Perhaps I am one of them. I remember clearly that each new venture can coax out my passion and dedication, and my friend once asked me: why are you like this? Why does everything have to be black or white?

I didn’t know what to reply, except that the progress I made after taking up oil painting was tremendous, fuelled by the non-stop painting I did during the last months of my pregnancy, my belly sticking out over the canvas. I still have those paintings somewhere in the attic, duly maintaining my image as the crazy lady from the attic.

This time, I’m channelling my energy into different creative pursuits, and I always treasure those moments when I can go all in, which, for the time being, are not as frequent as they used to be. Losing myself in a new story I try to untangle thread by thread, until my eyelids twitch with heaviness and the rays of sun knock on the window, that’s the epitome of passion.

We all have different avenues to explore. My friend got lost in his business, and, much to his delight, it paid off handsomely. The tumultuous path he had traversed suddenly seemed like a small price to pay for having gone all in, and he already forgot about his putative malnutrition and sleep deprivation.

I always say that passion is a wave, and you’re a surfer: you have to catch it when it comes and ride it for all it’s worth, because sooner or later, it will reach the shore and recede.

The waitress brought the matcha cheesecake, wobbling with every movement of the table. The frosting gleamed in the dim light, casting emeraldesque reflections. Wrapping my hands around my cappuccino cup and breathing in its milky, bitter scent, I watched him lick the frosting from his fingers.

“Tea or coffee?”

I mopped my brow.

The plane was a can squeezed to the brim with loudmouths, their babbling jagging the artificial air, pumped every hour, interrupted at regular intervals by infants’ serenades.

“Yes,” the man replied.

“Sir, tea OR coffee?”

“Yes,” he nodded, his eyes vacant.

Taking a paper cup and sloshing hot tea inside, chased by a black stream of coffee, was the impossibility I wanted to commit, but to no avail, and placing the cup ostentatiously on the tray table would be the epitome of my dreams. Instead, I poured what was left in the jug and ducked back with my cart to the galley, clocking the man smacking his lips.

The galley

One of those nondescript flights, which blurred together into one, and one galley, the liminal space, pendent in the sky between point A and B, in the haze of sizzling casseroles, some of which I'd previously devoured — the occupational hazard behind my bloated belly and the reason I couldn't do up my own fly.

The galley is inevitable, and wishful thinking would plant an idea that its role is to sequester you from the others, to take a deep breath while loading a cart just a few seconds before entering the aisle of a battlefield. Do not be fooled. In a headlock of endless service and what would you like, sirs?, the galley lures you into its cavity and offers nothing of silence.

This is where the tea is spilled, quite literally and metaphorically. I would remove the metal container and nestle down with a cup of coffee, performing the discreet calculations of the remaining minutes until top of descent.

The galley was a place to just talk, to untangle the matted thoughts, and in this liminal, airy space, we could hear the craziest and most crestfallen stories.

Perhaps it has something to do with this line of work: strangers in transit on repeat, a whirlpool of new faces each flight, and in that anonymity, the bashful thought that what does it matter?

I will never see them again.

That said, those relationships are strictly professional, with no future obligations, and yet on the verge of the personal, because I just can’t describe to you accurately how bored you could be during a long-haul over the Atlantic.

This is when you finally get an audience for your soliloquies, and in return, you are inundated with deeply personal relationship and situationship problems in the flying universe. I tried to understand why that was, being an active participant in this practice myself, without trying to pin anyone down for the future. Our futures were not meant to merge, and on the off chance they did, we’d just continue as if it were a TV show and a new episode had just rolled in.

No stakes in who you are tomorrow, between one destination and another, a long or short-haul trip to somewhere which is nowhere, as everything is blurry out there (the oxygen is to blame), and you become temporarily unmoored from your core, inhibitions peeling off layer by layer as the hours progress, and that makes confession easier.

1B

People told me stories. She was in 1B, a baby strapped to her chest, its plump little legs wiggling against the seatbelt. Her face has blurred in my memory, but I have a vivid image of her hands, constantly moving, following her child’s incessant activity.

“How much longer,” she asked in a solemn voice.

“Eight hours to go, ma’am.”

She nodded with resignation. I learned that her mother was dying in a hospital bed on the other side of the world, and there was nothing either of us could do about the stretch of time ahead of us.

“I keep thinking if this plane went the speed of sound…” she whispered, “I could still…”

The hot tea with milk and the peanuts from business class were all I could give her at that moment. She thanked me and looked out the window.

I think about her more than any of the others. She smelled of lemongrass and milk formula and had a vacant gaze. I wish I knew what happened. Perhaps she made it on time, and her mother still had precious time ahead of her. Perhaps.

Fillers

Not all the stories carry icy undercurrents – some are just fillers, such as 39 Fox. The older lady with a cat eye look, explaining why she loves dining with men in every city she visits. Quite simple: Tinder date equals a meal, and she has to eat. Two birds with one stone. Or a middle-aged man from 14 Delta, hyperventilating because it was the first time he’d flown in years and he hated every second of it. We talked for a good hour, and by the end of it I was already invited to visit him and his family in the south of Spain.

The crew told stories as well. Of the haunted bunk and the night hag, a lady in an abaya, whose corpse we were presumably transporting, though we were never to know the truth. Tales rapidly escalated to haunted hotels and the good habit of knocking on the door before entering your hotel room, which I never did. I did, however, check under the bed, because crew gossip always seemed to circle back to the story of the corpse under the bed.

We were big on romance, too. An inexplicable number of broken hearts and female consolations: it’s him, not you, what an asshole, dump him. Variety was welcome, too, so what a bitch would also escape my lips when a crushed male coworker unveiled his share.

Perhaps it’s about the histrionic desire to be the centre of attention, to step onto a stage suspended who knows where and perform. Or else, it’s simply the first time you’ve shared something from your depths. Then it’s excused. Anyway, you have time until the death knell, which is:

“TOP OF DESCENT! TOP OF DESCENT!!!” The cabin supervisor announced.

The crew scattered like ants. The supervisor showed me a brochure with a PA to read. I wanted to rip it to shreds in his face and flush it down the vacuum toilet, but instead, I forged a theatrical grin that played on repeat during service training.

The wheels of the Boeing777 touched the ground. As expected, a wave of passengers ignored the cabin crew’s instructions and already stood up, reaching for the overhead bins as if it would magically speed up the whole process, and let me tell you clearly, it will not.

As soon as the doors open, 99% of them will disappear, never to be seen again, taking with them crumbs of what you gave them, sometimes actually the full plate, and you, the same applies. It all stays at 30,000 feet.

It’s liberating to know that you can get it out of your system and not be judged, and even if you’re judged: you won’t know about it, really. And it’s not only the plane that becomes this liminal territory – it’s everywhere you are merely a passer-by, on a short layover between destinations.

France has been a recurring theme in my life for some time now, either in the form of cheese washed down with white wine flavoured with cassis, or in my first foray into skiing, during which I realised that, no, I didn’t know how to brake and that my only option was to smash into other skiers.

Apart from my futile attempts to become queen of the slopes and my decision to opt for my sledge instead, France has offered me an interesting way of looking at its intricate social culture, which, frankly, differs quite markedly from Slavic firmness.

It started off innocently enough. Just a regular apéro with a Champagne-like pop (because it wasn’t from Champagne), but perfect in both taste and price. Before the bubbles had washed down my throat and begun to fizz in my head, I had to greet the rest of the guests. I extended my hand, politely and respectfully, because that was what I was supposed to do – that much I knew. A look of bewilderment and surprise was the only answer I got until un bisou cut through the air.

I surmised that I had committed a faux pas, confirmed by a resounding deux fois! Remember: kiss times two, on the cheek! And so I was made to follow this very ritual with everyone in the room, praying that all the names I’d just learned wouldn’t fly away, as they always do. The glass stuck to my hand, glue-like, and that was my introduction to the French way of greeting, which threw my reticent personality slightly off kilter. Because where I’m coming from, extending a hand goes a long way, and there’s really no need for that much courtesy, lest your face contort into a resting bitch face, which on the off chance it might.

Then it dawned on me, quite timely, that in France it’s important not to hurry, and that there are rituals, social scaffoldings not to be ignored. Rushing, it seemed, was simply not on the menu that night, and it made me ponder: do I always hurry, tongue out?

It felt like my hands were tied, but at least I could clutch an ever-full glass, because the host wouldn’t allow it to be empty for even a second. My initial surprise gave way to a kind of acceptance, because all I could think about was the perfect taste of fizz, and a new group of late arrivals, who, frankly, arrived too late. Soon enough I learned that they were still within the acceptable margin, reminding me of a hastily sent message to my friend when I was running five minutes late.

“Tu as du feu?”

The girl next to me asked, her hair wavy anytime she shrugged, which she did a lot. I didn’t have any fire on me, nor did I smoke at all, and when I did, it was ancient history. By way of an answer, a quick no escaped my lips. She sighed deeply, riffled through her purse, and fetched a cigarette, which she placed between her teeth, where it dangled sadly.

“Tu es triste?”

I almost choked, or perhaps it was a stray bubble going the wrong way, but either way, sad I was not. It could have been my face morphing into a standard Slavic expression, of which I possessed multitudes, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. I was neutral at best, and at worst tipsy, which could be at best as well, because of champagne, much to my delight so that I snapped my fingers at my alcohol intake, talking myself into believing that it was far from being inconsiderate.

Then she gasped, tu es sérieuse followed by a hasty allez, allez!, a vigorous wave of her hands, and her disappearance onto the balcony overlooking a Sabaudian lake.

The inner voice in my head whispered that there was still a good chance I was indeed too serious. But I had done my part, and this tension between what is seen and what is real could be significant. I brushed it off, trying not to succumb to the notion, believing firmly that it was just a cultural difference, or, perhaps more aptly, my introverted nature. Or my French was to blame, which is still a work in progress.

After this apéro/party, I found myself reflecting on the experience, appreciating the differences and quirky situations stemming from them. Which brings me to the somewhat cliché observation that we are all different, though so much of that difference derives from where we come from. What I’ve noticed is that the French genuinely love exchanging pleasantries; even a chance meeting with a neighbor can easily transform into a full-fledged conversation, a far cry from the quick nod I’m used to recalling from my own side of Europe, particularly in a staircase that always reeks of a wet dog.

As much as we cannot generalize, because exceptions are everywhere, I think that France as a culture refuses efficiency when efficiency would interfere with human interaction, which is something I find endearing. On the other hand, my upbringing oriented me in a slightly different direction, though, as highlighted above, that’s not the only blueprint that could’ve been internalized.

There’s so much wisdom and curiosity in examining cultural tendencies and trying to make sense of them, and I always find it astonishingly peculiar how permanently fluid those undercurrents can be.

Liminal spaces

The best parties always happen in the liminal spaces, the areas in between, like a balcony where the scorching sun cooks your neck and beads of sweat materialize on your forehead. Because we cannot forget: it’s this relentless heatwave across Europe taking place, after all, and this is when I found myself packing my carry-on to board a plane to Paris, which welcomed me with 34 degrees at night – what a solace after the exact same weather back home in Warsaw. That said, consolation was to be found on the balcony, where a sporadic lake breeze cooled off literally hot bodies, or on the cold kitchen tiles, gleaming under the dim lamp.

A small digression here: in misery we unite. Cigarette smoke tangles up, the blouse gives a moisturized cling, and in that I feel a sense of unity which enhances the experience, because this very inconvenience makes it all the more memorable.

Ever since experiencing the rite of passage through the door in France, I’ve become acutely aware that it’s a whole other social construct one needs to abide by: you can’t just leave. Wait, what? You’re gonna just say goodbye and that’s it? Now when there’s this flurry of excitement as we’ve just started talking?

My brain scrambled as I drifted briefly down memory lane, only to discover that I’m an efficient person whose departure is imbued with its true meaning, not the setup for a faux départ.

A prolonged practice, some claim, stretched to its limit until it reaches its tipping point, and then you find yourself downstairs, stubbing out a cigarette with your shoe or tossing it into the drain just in time to catch a glimpse of an incoming car, which might be your Uber. Or rather, a social ritual, which again circles back to the French attitude that they do have time, and celebration plays a pivotal role in their way of being, even though it can be a hard slog to get out of a party, at least in my experience, but, again, how bad can it be that we’re prolonging what feels good?

This is what France has taught me so far, and I have a feeling there is plenty more waiting to be discovered. You actually have time. Time for small talk. Time for a proper coffee. Time to sit down for lunch at work and taste your wine because why not, rather than voraciously gobbling a sandwich in front of your computer screen, leaving crumbs all over your desk. And beware not to schedule calls at twelve with French clients, which I did once inadvertently, only to realize that no, pas possible, not this time.

In 2026, what is it that we miss so desperately? Is it merely an old brick of a Nokia or an iPod with tangled earphones? I’ve been pondering these questions ever since my friend got herself a Sidephone, which she had been impatiently awaiting for more than three months. But then again, it’s a Silicon Valley product, proudly shipped across the Atlantic (or perhaps flown, for that matter) all the way to Poland, so I suppose that serves as sufficient explanation. I imagine her squealing with glee once her precious package finally arrived, though I didn’t witness it myself. What I did witness, though, was something quite different: the purchase of an aesthetically pleasing gadget whose sole purpose is to help you take back control of your life.

Hold your horses, though. I like my phone, mostly for what it allows me to do and the worlds it opens up in a flash. I’m not quite ready to let go of the internet leash. Sorry.

But she was.

“That’s because I want to reduce my screen time,” she said, her head perched on her folded arms beside a glass of milk with coffee (yes, in that order).

I took a sip of my matcha, which wasn’t overpriced at all, considering we were paying not only for the drink, but also for the service, the ambience, and the entire production chain that had brought it to my table.

And then it dawned on me that this is how progress works: an invisible force produces certain things, which later create an abyss, and there you are, standing on its edge. Ups.

So it turns out we’re kinda sorta addicted to our gadgets, and now we’re desperately buying state-of-the-art gadgets to patch the very gap the old ones created. I get it now. And I also get why people resort to such choices, drowning in beeping phones and constant noise, drilling a hole in their heads. I really do. Perhaps this is the way, as the Mandalorian would say.

What's your latest childhood longing? Tell me in the comments. I promise I’ll read it.

Leave a comment

“Wouldn’t an old Nokia do?” I asked as I slurped down the last remnants of my drink.

I caught glimpses of the sky as she coiled a strand of hair around her finger.

“I’m swamped with work,” she said. “I need to stay connected.”

And the burden of that is remaining tethered to WhatsApp and, as I later found out, Uber. Getting those apps onto a Sidephone is an entirely different story, and that requires patience, but that virtue, however, was tested during the delivery phase.

As for me, I’ve accepted my place in the world. I revel in its convenience, reading Substack essays while waiting in an impossibly long queue for a bread roll slathered with mayonnaise. I am fine, I am telling you. But then again, some people aren’t, and they need something that will straighten them up.

The scaffolding of our world, the market, that invisible force steering the economy, is astonishingly vigilant, and it’s unparelled in detecting our longings and turning them into products, and I can’t really fault it for that. Once it senses a desire, it exaggerates it until it becomes a fully fledged product, wrapped in decorative paper, ready to be delivered to your doorstep or else it flashes on your laptop screen. Even nostalgia is no exception, as a single glance at Instagram can confirm. We’ve seen it all: the vintage aesthetic, analog cameras, and Nokias (!), and wired earphones, and you name it. Perhaps some of us would like to believe it’s simply a longing for the past, as we romanticize times we can barely remember, but, for the most part, it is a commodity, neatly packaged and ready to be shipped.

What a strange thing it is to long for something that was planted in your mind before you could blink an eye. Then the desire perched there, in the gray matter, a minute too long. The longing emerges, and we say we’re nostalgic. What we really mean is that we want to return to a time when a conversation could unfold without the compulsive urge to check our phones, hands wobbling. That’s why I can’t condemn the Sidephone, and I won’t. Why should I? It’s a sign of our times: bloated with information and, perhaps because of it, searching for something that might keep us from throwing up. To each his own.

Beyond all this, I truly support the creative juices sloshing through the veins of people who manage to dissect cultural change while the rest of us are still trying to grapple with it. They’re the ones who spot the abyss in the distance and react before the rest of us realize we’re already standing at its edge.

“So, have you reduced your screen time then?” I asked her finally, this time over a definitely overpriced champagne imitation.

A stray bubble took a wrong turn, and I cleared my throat, but I really wanted to understand the efficacy of the dumbphone.

She shrugged.

“Yeah. Sometimes. On weekends.”

That night, on my way home, perched in the back seat of an Uber and catching fleeting glimpses of Warsaw lights’ but for my twitching eyelids, the not-so-random photos of carpet-beating racks flooded my feed, standing triumphantly next to concrete ten story buildings.

“Speak of the devil,” I murmured, and the driver caught my eye in the rear-view mirror, absent-mindedly tapping out some whining rhythm on the steering wheel.

Nostalgia had found me.

I won’t purchase a Sidephone. But I do monitor my screen time. That, I suppose, will have to do.

Wybrałam się na poranna przebieżkę, pamiętając, że nie jestem w trendzie biegowego odrodzenia, bo już w gimnazjum dołączyłam do klubu lekkoatletycznego. Ale tu nie będzie o bieganiu – bieganie jest jedynie pretekstem do pławienia się w myślach głupich i mądrych, jakichkolwiek tak naprawdę, a one doprowadziły mnie do kilku wniosków, którymi pragnę się podzielić, bo po to też ta cała platforma jest. Nie są ta idee kategoryczne - to hipotezy, które chcę zarzucić w świat, jak wędkę z przynętą, i zobaczyć, czy jakaś ryba się na to złapie.

Chciałabym zacząć od Davida Fostera Wallace’a:

“How’s the water?”

A młode rybki odpowiadają:

“What the hell is water?”

No właśnie. Woda jest dla nich tak naturalnym środowiskiem, że trudno im wyobrazić sobie coś innego. Jaką alternatywę? Gdyby one tylko wiedziały, że pluskają się w wodzie. Podobnie jest z nami i powietrzem. Dopóki jest czyste, to go nie zauważamy. O jego istnieniu przypominamy sobie dopiero wtedy, gdy staje się zanieczyszczone albo zaczyna go brakować.

To skojarzenie prowadzi mnie do kapitalizmu, który jest dla nas tak oczywisty, że staje się rusztowaniem naszej rzeczywistości, niewidzialnym jak powietrze, którym oddychamy.

I tu zaczyna się paradoks, do którego zaraz wrócę: nawet potrzeba ucieczki od technologii staje się rynkową niszą.

Tęsknota zatem jest częścią naszego żywota na tym padole: tęsknota za zmarłym rodzicem, za mężem, który wyjechał lub dzieckiem - to są ludzkie uczucia wśród wielu nam dostępnych, wynikające z więzi, które stworzyliśmy, na przykład z miłości do drugiego człowieka. Oprócz tego istnieje też rodzaj tęsknoty na płaszczyźnie kulturowej, która jest w korelacji z życiem, które prowadzimy jako społeczeństwo i jest kształtowana przez warunki w jakich przyszło nam żyć. Mam tu na myśli tęsknoty charakterystyczne dla danej epoki, choć oczywiście nie dotyczą one każdego.

I to właśnie tej tęsknocie chcę się przyjrzeć. Nie mam odpowiedzi definitywnych ani kategorycznych. To dywagacje. Bo jeśli ktoś mnie spyta, co robię w czasie wolnym, to właśnie to: czytam, lub piszę lub myślę. Krążę jak ptak nad doliną przemyśleń, czasem coś chapnę, a czasem nie i wrócę głodna z pustym dziobem.

Moja znajoma niedawno kupiła Sidephona, którego motto to more life, offline. Na minimalistycznej stronie startupa czytamy, że to jest modern, simple phone. Trudno się nie zgodzić: przypomina starą Nokię w upgradowanej wersji. Przez chwilę przeszło mi przez myśl, że przecież można właśnie taką Nokię kupić za grosze, ale Sidephone ma jednak plusy, jak na przykład to, że możemy korzystać z Ubera czy nawet Whatsappa. To zresztą osobna rzecz, że wgrywanie dodatkowych aplikacji wystawia cierpliwość na próbę i wymaga skanowania specjalnych kodów QR. Ale po tym, jak na przesyłkę z San Francisco czeka się ponad trzy miesiące, niespieszne działanie telefonu specjalnie nie dziwi, bo to chyba o to chodzi. O zwolnienie. O nie podnoszenie telefonu po raz enty nieskończony jakby to był jakiś tik.

– A po co ci ten telefon? – spytałam ją.

Moja znajoma przechyliła zabawnie głowę, jak to ona ma w zwyczaju, i nawinęła włosy na palec, przyglądając się swoim końcówkom.

– Żeby ograniczyć screen time. Będę z niego korzystać po pracy.

A więc płacimy za przemyślany, estetyczny gadżet, żeby odzyskać kontrolę nad naszym życiem.

Inwestujemy w ograniczenia, bo mamy trudność, żeby samemu powiedzieć sobie basta. Równocześnie pragniemy życia, gdzie wszystko jest wolniejsze, gdzie nie ma problemu z tym, aby po prostu się nudzić. Takie czasy pamiętam z dzieciństwa, które było jeszcze analogowe - załapałam się prawie że ostatnim rzutem. Mimo wszystko ja lubię mój telefon i to, co mogę z nim zrobić, jak na przykład przeczytać ciekawe wpisy na Substacku w przydługiej kolejce w Biedronce. Jednak rozumiem tę tęsknotę za sposobem doświadczania świata. Słuchawki na kabelku w uszach, Ipod w dłoniach i tylko jedno selfie, które udokumentuje analog vibe. Niepodzielna uwaga, bo nic nie bipcze jak nawiedzone, więc można się skupić na słuchaniu Amy Winehouse. Być może Sidephone i jemu podobne za jakiś czas będą oznaką bycia na czasie, bo trendy lubią iść pod prąd. Jestem tutaj daleka od krytykowania takich wynalazków - ze wszystkiego trzeba wiedzieć, jak korzystać, a potrzeba matką wynalazków.

– I co, ograniczyłaś ten screen time? – moje pytanie zawisło w powietrzu.

Pokiwała głową i opuściła wzrok.

– W weekendy trochę.

Czy to dobrze czy źle? Nie mam gotowej odpowiedzi. Te wszystkie gadżety teleportują nas do czasów, które znamy z własnego dzieciństwa. Bo czasy dzieciństwa, choćby przeżywane w bloczkach zajeżdżających komuną oraz mokrym psem na klatce schodowej, to wciąż okres beztroski i zabaw na trzepaku kiedy nie trzeba było wchodzić w ciężkie buciory dorosłości. Czas płynął wolniej, mama wołała na obiad, a choć według dzisiejszych standardów pewnie się nudziliśmy, w rzeczywistości wcale tak tego nie odczuwaliśmy. Po prostu nie byliśmy przyspawani do tych wszystkich ekranów, na których można robić tyle różnych rzeczy.

A Ty za czym tęsknisz? Daj znać w komentarzu! :)

Leave a comment

Być może nie chcemy wracać ani do Nokii, ani do iPoda, ale raczej do tego, co te urządzenia symbolizują. Zew dawnych czasów, które wydawały się mniej pospieszne czy do uważności, która nie musiała się o siebie upominać. Przedmioty są taką przysłowiową kasetą, a my odtwarzaczem, który wskrzesza stare nuty.

Co ciekawe, mam wrażenie że coraz częściej tęsknimy także za czasami, których nigdy sami nie doświadczyliśmy. Za przeszłości majaczącą się na horyzoncie, znaną z opowieści lub filmów, które powróciły wraz z Instagramem i estetyką vintage. Tęsknota za wyobrażeniem - a więc wyobraźnia dopowiada swoje trzy grosze - a świat jawi się jako bardziej autentyczny.

I w ten sposób nasze tęsknoty wkraczają na rynek, który z wielką uważnością odpowiada na potrzeby. Sama również w tym uczestniczę. Moją działalność w internecie zaczęłam przecież od organizowania spotkań pisarskich i Silent Reading Parties. Trudno nie zauważyć, że one także odpowiadają na tę samą tęsknotę: za rzuceniem ekranów gdzie pieprz rośnie, za skupieniem i chyba przede wszystkim za obecnością drugiego człowieka. A już wkrótce organizuję warsztat pisarski w Warszawie. Pierwsza edycja odbyła się niedawno w Berlinie i było cudownie <3 Nie ma to jak rozmawiać ponad dwie godziny o pisaniu i analizować przed ponad 20 minut funkcję em dash— (oraz rację bytu tego znaku w erze AI).

PS. Nie zamówiłam Sidephona, ale staram się monitorować screen time.

I’ve always dreamed of something more, of reaching for the unattainable, my arms outstretched toward infinity, trying to grasp the ungraspable.

My trip to Berlin reaffirmed the direction I want to take with Literary Atelier. Changes are coming – good changes, I hope. After all, nothing is permanent; everything is in flux.

The first Literary Salon in Berlin turned out to be a space to cultivate craft and conversation. Thank you to everyone who showed up. I had missed conversations that spark the intellect like this.

With the salons, I want to circle back to the old tradition of people gathering to discuss ideas, literature, and their craft. Berlin showed me that there is room for such events within today’s cultural landscape, and I’m brimming with joy that I had the chance to bring one to life there.

We’re living in a world against the backdrop of AI and endless content, and it dawned on me, perhaps quite counterintuitively, that we need to invest in cultivating the humanistic tradition. I find myself constantly yearning to dig deeper into the fabric of our world, to connect seemingly disparate dots, to grasp the ungraspable. I believe we’re witnessing the beginning of a renaissance of the humanities.

I left Berlin with an ineffable feeling that I want to take these conversations one step further: I don’t want them to be constrained by a single location. That’s why Literary Atelier is also becoming an online space.

This new chapter begins in September with the first online Literary Salon.

In Berlin, we reflected on the challenges of leading a writer’s life in 2026. During our first online salon, we’ll continue that conversation by asking a simple question:

Why can’t we stop creating?

Why do some people continue writing, painting, composing despite endless rejections and seemingly no hope to achieve their creative dreams? What keeps us returning to our artistic pursuits?

Our first online salon will mark the beginning of this month’s exploration. Throughout September, we’ll continue the conversation through readings, reflections and essays.

I hope to hear your voice.

One of my biggest dreams has always been to meet writers from all over the world. Since I’ll be in Berlin, I couldn’t miss the opportunity to create a space where we can gather and exchange ideas.

I want us to explore what it means to be a writer in the contemporary world; what it means to be a creative soul making its way through the tides of life.

We’ll begin with a few gentle writing exercises to tune into our inner thoughts, and then we’ll move into an open conversation about writing, creativity, and the challenges of building a literary life today.

I’d love to hear your stories and your creative struggles, and the reasons that keep you picking up your pen or returning to your keyboard. Being an artist amidst life’s chaos comes with its own set of challenges, and that’s why I want to create this space: to talk, to connect, to write, and to cultivate beauty through art and literature.

Date: 31.07.2026

Time: 6:15 pm (we’ll begin at 6:30 pm) - 8:00 pm

Location: St. Oberholz, Berlin

Please bring your laptop or a notebook if you prefer to write by hand.

You can reserve your spot here.

See you in Berlin <3

Niedawno rozmawiałam z moją znajomą, która udziela prywatnych korepetycji z angielskiego. Zajmuje się już tym od wielu lat i ma stałą grupę uczniów, głównie w wieku licealnym. Większość z nich przychodzi do niej na zajęcia z woli rodziców. Co prawda znajduje się tam kilka osób, które naprawdę uwielbiają angielski, ale jednak prym wiedzie grupa tych opornych, którzy woleliby robić zupełnie coś innego niż siedzieć na dodatkowych lekcjach. Otóż moja znajoma zauważyła ciekawą rzecz: jakaś część zadań pisemnych jej podopiecznych jest na wskroś poprawna. Co to oznacza, wszyscy możemy sobie wyobrazić. No właśnie, możemy - słowo klucz, bo zweryfikować już nie. Jeśli uczeń idzie w zaparte i twierdzi, że napisał rozprawkę zupełnie sam i nie korzystał z ChatuGPT, jest innocent until proven guilty. A nuż naprawdę tak pisze.

To, że LLM-y rozpanoszyły się w edukacji oraz szeroko rozumianym pisaniu to już fakt. Wystarczy wejść na sociale i poscrollować przez chwilę. Co więcej, obecnie jesteśmy świadkami interesującej zmiany z lingwistycznego punktu widzenia, a mianowicie ludzie zaczynają mówić/pisać jak maszyny (to oczywiście uogólnienie - nie wszyscy, jednak ten trend jest już zauważalny). To tym bardziej interesujące, ponieważ te modele językowe powstały po to, aby naśladować nasz język, a nie na odwrót. W zaistniałej sytuacji to my, ludzie, papugujemy LLM-y, które mają dość specyficzny sposób komunikacji. Niektórzy twierdzą, że jak już raz to się zobaczy, to ciężko odzobaczyć. Gdy zarzucam moje myśli na głębiny, nasuwa mi się pytanie: jak będziemy się komunikować w perspektywie lat? Jak bardzo zmieni się nasz język? Będzie co obserwować. Język jest płynny, to taka poczwarka, która utknęła w pętli nieustającej zmiany, wpływ na to ma szereg czynników, a jednym z kluczowych mogą okazać się modele językowe.

Czy AI rozleniwi nasze myślenie?

Gdy myślę o zardzewiałych trzepakach i graniu w gumę obok piaskownicy z psimi kupami, uderza mnie to, że pokolenie mojego dziecka będzie musiało walczyć o to, aby nie zatracić umiejętności pisania, a zarazem krytycznego myślenia. Nasuwa się pytanie: czy będą chcieli? (Brak odpowiedzi). Z perspektywy rodzica ta wizja jest dość przerażająca: pamiętam czasy, gdy pisałam ręcznie opowiadania na konkursy w podstawówce, lub gdy zapełniałam mój zeszyt niestworzonymi historiami w nadziei, że kiedyś ujrzą światło dzienne (nie ujrzały). Bycie zależnym od maszyny w kwestiach tak na wskroś ludzkich jak formułowanie myśli może być przepisem na katastrofę. Bo sztuczna inteligencja miała nam pomagać, a w praktyce często rozleniwia. Co się stanie z kreatywnością przyszłych pokoleń? Sztuczna inteligencja myśli schematami, a kreatywność wymaga, aby zapuścić się w nieznane. Obawiam się, że te ścieżki mogą być coraz rzadziej uczęszczane.

AI slop wypełza z ukrycia

Jeśli chodzi o pisanie, ostatnio było całkiem głośno na froncie sztucznej inteligencji. Powieść Mii Ballard Shy Girl została wycofana ze sprzedaży przez wydawnictwo Hachette. Ponoć w jej książce można było znaleźć typowy LLM-owy język, czyli AI slop, czego objawem było m.in. nadużycie słowa sharp (sharp observation, co nie?). Książki nie czytałam i szczerze, nie mam zamiaru, ale temat zainteresował mnie na tyle, aby trochę poszperać. Autorka twierdzi, że to nie ona korzystała ze sztucznej inteligencji, ale jej edytor, który uczynił to bez jej wiedzy. Z drugiej strony, jest trochę głosów, które są zbulwersowane tym oskarżeniem, a zarazem zniszczeniem dopiero co raczkującej kariery Ballard. Jak widać, dyskurs wokół AI i pisania jest coraz bardziej zaogniony i nie można go zamiatać pod dywan: takich sytuacji będzie coraz więcej.

Nie czekaliśmy długo. Short Story Commonwealth Competition i opowiadanie, które wygrało: The Serpent in the Groove autorstwa Jamira Nazira, i publikacja w prestiżowym magazynie Granta (ah, my dream!). Głosy są podzielone. Tekst obfituje w dziwaczne metafory czy personifikacje, które są przypisywane sztucznej inteligencji, na przykład:

She had the kind of walking that made benches become men.

Że ławki stają się mężczyznami/ludźmi. Okej, okej, ja bym na to nie wpadła. Co burzy krew krytyków, to nielogiczność i sztuczna poetyckość, bezsensowne i napompowane zdania, które wyglądają co najmniej dziwnie i przekazują wielkie nic. Pozostawiam to do własnej oceny. Fakt jednak pozostaje: jest to dość kontrowersyjny tekst i zastanawiam się, czy naprawdę nie było lepszego wśród sterty nadesłanych opowiadań z całego świata.

Oprócz tego mamy oj kochana, jak moglibyśmy to rozwinąć Olgi Tokarczuk, ale na ten temat już dużo powiedziano i nie będę się tutaj rozwodzić. Rynki wydawnicze będą musiały się zmierzyć z nową rzeczywistością i być może rychła codzienność pisarzy to udowadnianie, że pisali bez wspomagaczy. Poszperałam trochę na Reddicie i znalazłam kilka ciekawych pomysłów, na przykład dokumentowanie swojej pracy, czyli trzymanie wszystkich wersji dokumentów (historii Google Docs itp.).

Z drugiej strony, oskarżenia o korzystanie ze sztucznej inteligencji mogą być również krzywdzące, a zapewne w przypadku niektórych pisarzy zaważą na ich karierze bezpodstawnie.

Ponoć nawet niektóre fragmenty Dumy i uprzedzenia Jane Austen są wyłapywane przez detektory AI, co jest totalnym absurdem. Przyczyną może być to, że modele językowe są trenowane na ogromnej liczbie dostępnych tekstów, czyli również na klasykach, więc te dzieła są niejako podwaliną stylu LLM. Mamy zatem tutaj intrygujący paradoks: sztuczna inteligencja małpuje klasykę, a potem cała ta maszyneria bipie na teksty, z których jest zbudowana.

Roland TR-808

Żeby była jasność, AI ma również swoje zastosowania. Progres jest częścią ludzkiej egzystencji, a nasze dokonania doprowadziły nas do momentu, gdy maszyny sprawiają wrażenie, że myślą. Z każdym większym przełomem strach był emocją, która brała górę. Obawy przed nieznanym nie są niczym nowym. Jednak jeśli chodzi o poczynania artystyczne, wolę oglądać sztukę wygenerowaną przez ludzi, choćby kulawą. Ciekawe porównanie przywołał Joshua Rothman w tekście dla New Yorkera. Otóż widzi podobieństwo między Rolandem TR-808 a AI, a ten pierwszy w zasadzie obniżył próg wejścia do tworzenia muzyki. Jego specyficzny dźwięk na dobre zadomowił się w muzyce elektronicznej. Idealny przykład adaptacji wynalazku na nasze potrzeby, mimo wczesnych obiekcji, bo spora część osób twierdziła, że prawdziwa muzyka musi być tworzona przez ludzi, a nie maszyny, i że to pójście na łatwiznę, niewymagające żadnego talentu (wystarczy spojrzeć na już mainstreamową scenę techno, która kiedyś szczyciła się należeniem do podziemi). Wracając do AI: równocześnie narzędzie, ale i zagrożenie – wszystko zależy od tego, jak się go użyje? Zapewne. Jednak w swojej istocie Roland TR-808 nie komponował całego tracku od zera (choć obecnie oczywiście mamy oprogramowania, które mogą to zrobić bez większego problemu), zatem nie wydaje mi się, że 2026 jest odpowiednikiem 1983 roku kiedy to muzycy patrzyli spode łba na ten instrument.

Sublime na horyzoncie

Mimo tej burzy, która krąży nad nami, wydaje mi się, że to właśnie pisanie i nauki humanistyczne będą coraz bardziej potrzebne. Właśnie dlatego, że wszyscy mogą napisać poprawny tekst, że książki wygenerowane przez sztuczną inteligencję już zasiedlają Amazona, że jakość pisania spada i produkujemy nijakość, taką kluchę bez smaku, która zatyka gardło. Skoro wszyscy są w stanie wypluć coś poprawnego, ale bez polotu, to właśnie ta iskierka będzie decydująca. Być może to paradoksalne, ale sztuczna inteligencja (póki co) nie ma zbyt przełomowego głosu i, co najważniejsze, nie jest w stanie wcielić się w człowieka i poczuć rzeczywistości z ludzkiej perspektywy. To tym samym kreuje niezwykłą lukę, a wręcz potrzebę na unikatowe głosy, które zatrzęsą posadami. Jest to według mnie w dużej mierze powiązane z naukami humanistycznymi, których studiowanie pociąga za sobą budowanie umiejętności krytycznego myślenia. Żeby napisać coś sensownego, należy trochę z daną myślą pobyć, obyć się, przejść przez cały proces tworzenia argumentu, a sztuczna inteligencja oferuje skróty. Zatem mimo krążącej gdzieniegdzie opinii, że to koniec z pisaniem, jestem trochę przeciwnego zdania:

z mdłym pisaniem a i owszem, natomiast pojawia się okno możliwości dla osób zdecydowanych włożyć pracę w swoje rzemiosło.

Ponadto nauki humanistyczne, jak sama nazwa wskazuje, to obcowanie z tym, co ludzkie, to docenienie tego pierwiastka, który czyni nas ludźmi. Myśl ta kieruje mnie między innymi w stronę sublime, czyli tzw. wzniosłości – coś nieuchwytnego, zatrważającego, a zarazem monumentalnego. Sublime, którego poszukiwali romantycy, bo chcieli dotknąć czegoś więcej, zaspokoić głód. Czy właśnie tej wzniosłości będziemy poszukiwać w sztuce jako protestu przeciwko sztucznej inteligencji? A może to sama sztuczna inteligencja jest sublime skoro wzbudza w nas trwogę, a zarazem fascynuje? (Tę myśl rozwinę w kolejnym eseju, nad którym już pracuję).

Być może przyszłość należy do humanistów.

Ever since I started reading short stories, I’ve been amused by how much they convey in their succinctness and the way they sometimes say more than verbose outpourings ever could. Now that I’ve decided to make a proper go of my writing, reveling in those confined worlds stretched across a couple of pages seems only reasonable.

Here I’d like to share a few stories I recently read that stayed with me, and hopefully will stay with you, too.

• The Dinner Party by Sima Qunsol

The emotional precision in this story is unparalleled. I read it between sips of my lukewarm coffee while swinging my kid. It’s that good. Intimacy, performance and feelings we all know too well. Sima masterfully entwines strands of plot and human experience to create something that will live in your memory long after you’ve read it.

• Snakebite by Saba Sams

Saba Sams is my discovery of the year. This story is part of her collection Send Nudes, which has all the elements I like in contemporary literary fiction: brevity, bluntness and that unmistakable I know exactly what you’re talking about feeling. Beneath the dirty surface, sticky club floors and dry-mouth the morning after, there is something more: something that lingers and won’t quite let you go.

• The Dirty Kid by Marianna Enriquez

I couldn’t wrench my eyes away from that story. It’s as haunting as it is captivating, and sheds light on the economic inequality of Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Now, this last one isn’t strictly a short story but a book: The Diving Pool by Yoko Ogawa, three novellas in one volume. Ogawa masterfully blends the uncanny and the creepy, and the combination is explosive. Her words carry powerful undercurrents, but it’s never style over substance in that her writing is elusive, and she never spoon-feeds the reader.

What short story or a novella has stayed with you lately? I’d love to hear about it.

The chlorine odor permeates the air. The pool water is uncomfortably cold and engulfs my body as I submerge. The world above me dissolves and my thoughts surrender to the current. By way of disconnecting, time slows (endless laps) and my skin wrinkles and my edges blur. The world is muffled. I can’t hear my instructor’s voice, it’s stuck in-between but my arms break the water time after time til I nip at the feet of another swimmer.

Suddenly, it all looks clear: I go underwater for the same reason I commune with the written word. Total immersion. Liquid all over my body, or rather, I’m inside it. Perfect conditions for my errant brain off-leash.

Now imagine: lukewarm coffee on a desk, arms slumped, your chin propped on your asleep hand. In front of you: laptop’s screen flashes sluggish letters, or vivacious on the off-chance of a strike of inspiration. You can’t hear it because the world is muffled. Eventually it reaches you, as it always does, just like that. You climb a wet ladder, swimming goggles off your head, hair disentangling from the rubber. Checking the glory metric on your wrist, and the porous skin. And then: small feet shuffling and a sudden sodden embrace. That particular expression on a child’s face, brimming with demand, almost squealing–I am here and you know it too well, don’t hide, and that’s a non-negotiable conversation, lips synced. Up until that moment you were swimming, quite literally, water/words popping only to realize there is neither a stray letter nor an underwater bubble to keep you there forever. An interruption, yes, wrapped in a genuine care that doesn’t ask for consent. Later you peer at the pinkish floatie, Peppa at its finest and it never drowns. That’s the third immersion.

I remember carrying the gaudy orange board with pride. Me against the tides. Then a voice echoed, persistent and disquieting, the moment when the nondescript hour turned into something else. The rest was quick and drilled, the Baltic surface rippling. The depths took me in easily, as if too welcoming. My body submerged, flexed and wiggled on an endless repeat, and those flashes of seconds lasted too long. Something wrapped around my head and then it dawned on me that I yielded my control in what turned out to be a mere joke. Someone pretending to drown, and I knew I needed to help as I am of the sea after all. You follow the tide or it breaks you. That much I know.

The feeling after is the reason to do it. Wobbling legs more than once being a proof of a satisfaction because the swimming distance is correct, or that hunch that the entwined letters finally make sense. Submerged, in water or in language, and only then do I disconnect from the ever-present sludge. To dive is to connect. Clarity, though, comes later.

On Friday, May 22nd, I’m hosting an online session with focused on the writing life. We’ll talk about starting on Substack, carving out a space for yourself in ever-changing digital spaces, building a genuine online presence, and navigating life as a writer in the contemporary world.

📅 22 May 2026

🕖 7 pm CEST

⏳ 2 hours

You can grab your spot here.

Perhaps things would have been different if I hadn’t abandoned my dream of becoming a writer. My mind flashes back to a singular childhood memory: a frayed notebook clutched in my hands, me proclaiming before an audience of uncles, aunts, and cousins during a regular family gathering that this was a masterpiece in the making, and that one day I would, in fact, become a writer. Perhaps my short story wouldn’t have been rejected if I hadn’t slowly smoothed over that ardent promise and drifted away from my lofty ambitions, but life, as it often does, got in the way, and with my hands tied, I could no longer pour out my guts onto the page. Perhaps I would have already been a published author. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Meting out my writing workload, it slowly began to sink in that a) I can’t turn back time b) I need to keep going c) I need to submit my work to literary mags. In the mud of writing fever I managed to finish a couple of short stories. Following received wisdom, I even sent one of them to an editor and got quite encouraging feedback: you have a voice! Right, I’m not Ariel. (Sorry for the digression, but I’m the parent of a child currently in their Disney era.) As my first foray into the literary world, I searched for suitable magazines and submitted my short stories. I think I’ve sent out around twenty to twenty-five so far though I’ve stopped counting outside of Submittable. Within two weeks, the first rejection arrived proudly in my inbox. A few days later, another flashed across my phone screen while I was mindlessly scrolling.

I wasn’t entirely crestfallen after having read the last one. I took it in my stride!

That said, I’m still waiting for more replies. Knowing these things take time, I’m trying to brace myself with patience, though it has never been a virtue I possess in excess.

Despite my failures, I’ve really taken to short stories as a form. There is something elegant about crafting those small plotlines or even plotless pieces that, in their brevity, can still feel larger than life, if that makes sense. Consequently, I bought into the belief that it is easier to write short stories than a full-blown novel, though I would now argue quite the contrary. Then again, what do I know? I haven’t written a book yet.

One thing, however, I do know: I almost curtsy before this form of writing where every word has to earn its place in a sentence as the master of short stories, Raymond Carver, once said. In essence, short stories managed to elicit my sympathy in their urgency and less is more approach. Another good thing about them is that they are not much of a commitment, and you can always alter the fabric of the relationship should marital strife arise. That is to say, you can dump one and move on to the next.

Perhaps crafting the story is a battle for another day, but writing takes time, and it takes experimentation, going out of your comfort zone, which can take many forms, even as simple as sending your outpourings out to the world.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of hosting Molly Aitken at Literary Atelier. Molly is an extraordinary writer whose short story was recently published in The New Yorker, and she taught a masterclass on the art of writing short stories. One of the key takeaways was simple: send your work out into the world!

How did the first rejection feel? It should nominally imply failure, and in some ways it indeed does, but there is more to it than that. It’s a flop wrapped in a strange kind of excitement that someone, lo and behold, had actually read your work! And, Lord almighty, does that look like a slightly personalized reply? Yes, surely it must.

Hello writers!

Literary Atelier is a project I’ve poured my heart into. I hope it becomes a community of writers who share a genuine passion for the written word. This is why I can’t wait to share that our inaugural workshop is officially happening on March 24th, and I’m thrilled to announce that our guest is Lucy Rose, the Sunday Times bestselling author of The Lamb.

Beneath the Surface

Lucy will lead an exploration into the strange, the uncanny, and the beautifully unsettled.

This workshop is designed to help you stretch your narrative. Through targeted writing exercises and discussion, we will explore subtle distortions of reality and develop fiction that lingers. If you’re a fan of transgressive work from writers like Julia Armfield, Sophie Mackintosh, Ottessa Moshfegh, or Daisy Johnson, this is for you. We’ll be looking for the stories and characters that shimmer just beneath the surface.

🗓 24.03.2026

🕕 6 PM GMT

⏳ 2.5 hours (includes a 15-minute Q&A)

🎟 You can grab your ticket here.

I hope to see you there! Spots are limited.

I have many plans for the Literary Atelier in the coming months and I hope you’ll join me on this journey.

For now, let’s keep writing!