Dear Public Diary ,
Years ago, I read Show Your Work! by Austin Kleon, and I still remember the feeling I had when I finished it for the first time because it felt less like reading a self-help book and more like sitting with someone who truly understands how difficult it is to create something while constantly questioning yourself, your talent, your ideas, and whether anyone will ever care about what you make. It became one of those books that stays quietly in your mind long after you finish it, the kind of book you keep returning to whenever you feel creatively lost or emotionally disconnected from your work, and what makes it special is not complexity or big revolutionary ideas, but the simplicity and honesty with which Austin Kleon talks about creativity, sharing, and building a creative life without pretending to be extraordinary. A few days ago, completely by coincidence, I found the book again while going through old files and unfinished notes, and I told myself I would only reread a few pages before sleeping, but somehow I ended up getting pulled into it all over again, highlighting lines, pausing between chapters, and realizing that some books change meaning depending on who you are at the moment you read them, because the same sentences that once felt motivational years ago suddenly felt deeply personal this time.
What I have always loved about this book is that it never tries to convince you that creativity belongs only to geniuses or naturally gifted people, and maybe that is exactly why it feels comforting to read. Austin talks a lot about how creativity is often built through curiosity, consistency, sharing, and genuine passion rather than perfection, and one of the quotes that stayed with me the most was:
“You don’t have to be a genius. You just have to be yourself.”
I think we spend so much of our lives believing that creative people are somehow different from the rest of us, as if artists, writers, filmmakers, or musicians were born carrying some magical ability that normal people could never reach, when in reality many of them are simply ordinary people who loved something enough to keep showing up for it repeatedly, even when nobody noticed them yet. Austin talks about allowing yourself to be an amateur, about collecting the things you love unapologetically, and about sharing them without constantly worrying whether they are impressive enough, and honestly that idea changed the way I look at creativity because for years I thought I had to become exceptional before I deserved to share anything publicly, while now I understand that sometimes people connect more with honesty and passion than with perfection itself.
One of the most beautiful parts of the book is the idea of sharing the process instead of obsessing only over the final polished product, because we often hide all the unfinished, imperfect, messy parts of creating when those parts are actually what make art feel human. Austin encourages people to document what they do, to share sketches, drafts, notes, inspirations, mistakes, experiments, and unfinished ideas, and he explains that people genuinely enjoy watching something evolve slowly over time because it allows them to feel emotionally connected to the work itself. He writes:
“Become a documentarian of what you do.”
And I think this sentence alone completely changed the way I see social media and creative platforms because instead of viewing them only as places where you must present finished masterpieces, they can become spaces where you simply allow people to witness your growth, your thoughts, your creative routine, and your journey as a person trying to build something meaningful. A lot of people believe that audiences only care about perfection, but honestly I think what people truly connect with is sincerity, because there is something deeply comforting about seeing someone creating imperfectly and still continuing anyway.
Another idea I deeply connected with was Austin’s discussion about storytelling and the importance of explaining your work instead of expecting it to magically explain itself, because artists often love saying things like “my work speaks for itself,” while the truth is that people naturally connect more deeply when they understand the emotions, struggles, memories, or inspirations behind what they are seeing. Austin writes:
“Your work doesn’t speak for itself.”
And that line stayed with me because it reminded me why I have always been drawn toward reflective writing and blogging rather than simply posting finished thoughts without context. I love explaining where ideas come from, what certain movies made me feel, why specific books emotionally destroyed me, or how certain moments in life quietly shaped the way I see the world, because sometimes the story behind the art becomes just as meaningful as the art itself. I think this is also why I have always loved sharing my influences publicly instead of hiding them, because the people, films, paintings, books, and songs that inspire us become part of our identity as creators whether we realize it or not.
Austin also talks beautifully about the importance of crediting your inspirations openly rather than pretending your creativity appeared out of nowhere, and honestly I loved that because originality has always been misunderstood. People act as if being original means creating in isolation, untouched by anyone else’s influence, while most art is actually built through admiration, inspiration, and emotional connection with the work of others. This post itself exists because of his book, and I genuinely love admitting that because there is something beautiful about tracing inspiration from one creator to another. In fact, “Steal Like an Artist” remains one of my favorite books of all time precisely because Austin understands that creativity is often about collecting fragments of inspiration from the world around you and transforming them slowly into something personal and human.
One of the strongest lessons in the book, especially in today’s online world, is Austin’s warning about becoming what he calls “human spam,” meaning people who only speak about themselves, promote themselves endlessly, and forget that real connection requires genuine interest in others too. He writes:
“If you want fans, you have to be a fan first.”
And honestly, I think this might be one of the most important things anyone creating online needs to hear because audiences can immediately feel the difference between someone who truly loves connecting with people and someone who only wants attention. Austin encourages creators to become part of communities, to support other artists sincerely, to share work they admire, and to engage with people as human beings instead of numbers, and I think that lesson deeply shaped the kind of creative space I want to build for myself because I never wanted this newsletter or blog to feel like a performance designed only to chase views or algorithms. I wanted it to feel like a quiet conversation between people who love similar things and find comfort in discussing them together.
But if I am being honest, the chapter that emotionally affected me the most this time was the lesson about owning your own space online, because while rereading it I suddenly remembered a version of myself I had almost forgotten completely. Austin writes:
“Don’t think of your website as a self-promotion machine, think of it as a self-invention machine.”
And the moment I reread that sentence, I immediately understood why I started this newsletter in the first place. Long before newsletters, blog posts, or audience numbers ever entered my mind, I used to spend nights writing endlessly in private documents that nobody else would ever read, filling pages with random reflections, fictional scenes, emotional conversations, unfinished poems, and little pieces of stories inspired by my own life. Years ago, I was actually trying to write a novel about a girl and a football player, and even though it sounds almost embarrassing to admit now, I was completely emotionally consumed by that story at the time. The girl’s personality was inspired heavily by me, or maybe by the younger version of me who still believed life would remain soft forever, and I wrote hundreds of pages about her without even realizing how attached I had become to that fictional world.
Then life slowly interrupted everything, as it always does, and I stopped writing consistently, forgot those files existed, and buried that version of myself somewhere deep inside old folders and abandoned notebooks until a few nights ago when I unexpectedly found them again. Reading those pages felt strangely emotional because even though the writing itself was imperfect, dramatic, and sometimes unintentionally funny, I could still feel the sincerity behind every sentence, and I realized that what moved me was not the quality of the writing but the innocence of the person who wrote it. There was something heartbreaking about seeing how freely I used to create before overthinking, fear, comparison, and adulthood slowly made everything heavier. I genuinely had tears in my eyes reading those old pages because they reminded me of a version of myself that existed before life became so complicated, and maybe that is why I suddenly felt this overwhelming desire to share them instead of hiding them forever.
Austin writes:
“Don’t worry about everything you post being perfect.”
And honestly, I think I finally understand what that means now because perfection is often just another form of fear. We convince ourselves that we are waiting for the right moment, the right skill level, the perfect draft, when most of the time we are simply terrified of being seen honestly. But there is something freeing about deciding that your work deserves to exist even in its imperfect form, because at the end of the day creativity is not about presenting yourself as flawless; it is about leaving traces of your existence behind in the things you create.
And maybe that is why the final lesson of the book affected me so deeply too, because Austin’s last advice sounds incredibly simple but might actually be the hardest thing to do consistently:
“Stick around.”
Keep showing up, keep creating, keep sharing, keep building habits that allow creativity to remain part of your life long-term because creativity is not a temporary mood or a short productive phase, it is something you continue building slowly for years, sometimes quietly and invisibly, even when nobody seems to notice. And honestly, that sentence perfectly describes why I keep coming back here every week to write about movies, books, emotions, memories, and random reflections that probably only make sense late at night, because after all these years I finally realized that what matters most to me is not becoming viral or impressing strangers online, but simply having a place where my thoughts are allowed to exist freely outside my own head.
So I think I will finally do something I was afraid of doing for years, and share pieces of those old writings I found hidden inside forgotten folders on my laptop. Will they sound dramatic and immature sometimes? Probably. Will they make me cringe a little while rereading them? Absolutely. But for the first time in a very long time, I no longer want fear or embarrassment to stop me from sharing something that once genuinely meant everything to me.
Instead of editing these passages into something “better,” I want to leave them untouched because they carry the sincerity of someone who wrote only to survive her own thoughts.
“In the realm of soulmates, people often say that finding someone who understands and shares your interests is essential. However, my personal journey defies such expectations. You see, we hail from divergent universes, each with our own unique essence. I am a creature of silence who can go for days without speaking a word. I love reading books, watching movies, and writing in my blogs and diaries. I enjoy listening to music alone and creating fictional worlds in my mind. I prefer solitude and dislike being around people or having conversations. Physical touch is something I even avoid, even from close friends.
But then there’s him — oh, he’s the complete opposite of me. He’s loud, funny, and always cracking jokes. He doesn’t like listening to music alone and always has a speaker to share music with those around him. He loves dancing, partying, his magnetic personality forging connections and friendships with ease. His hobbies involve thrilling challenges like skydiving. In real life, it seemed impossible for us to be together because we were so different. Yet, somehow, we were a perfect match.
Yet, despite the odds, we found ourselves fitting together flawlessly, like the intricate pieces of a grand puzzle. He brings happiness and completeness. Love, in its traditional and banal sense, fails to capture the essence of what I feel for him. With him, it’s different. He’s become my reason for living. We complement each other in every way. We have endless things to do together. I’ve introduced him to my world, and he has shown me his. We are not only partners but also best friends and a family.
Our story defies expectations and goes beyond the usual ideas of soulmates. The real beauty lies in the mysterious harmony that emerges when two contrasting souls come together. It is a tale destined for the pages of a remarkable book, chronicling the remarkable fusion of two disparate worlds into an extraordinary tapestry of love and togetherness.”
When I reread this passage now, I realize how obsessed I was with the idea of opposites healing each other, with the idea that people from completely different worlds could somehow become home to one another. I think younger me wanted desperately to believe that love could bridge every distance, every contradiction, every darkness inside a person.
“I fought back tears, gazing into his eyes with unwavering determination. ‘My fate is plagued with darkness, and I refuse to bring that curse upon you. My past is shrouded in shadows, my present a chaotic mess, and I fear that the future holds no respite. I love you enough to let you go, no matter the path that lies ahead. As long as you’re apart from me, you’ll find happiness.’
He smiled warmly and replied, ‘So, you’re saying you love me!’
I quickly interrupted, saying, ‘That’s not the main point!’
He moved closer, his voice soft and tender. ‘Actually, that’s everything. I care not if I’m condemned to traverse the depths of hell with you. I care not how plagued your future may seem. All I yearn for is to be by your side.’”
Looking back now, I can almost see how badly I wanted to believe that someone could stay even after seeing every broken part of you.
“He was a home for my soul, bringing boundless beauty to my world.”
“Every time we were together, they mended something within me that they had never broken.”
Even now, years later, those lines still hurt me a little because they capture something so human: the desire to be comforted gently by another person’s existence.
“What terrified me the most was facing all of this in my twenties. The future looms before me with fear, and weariness seeps into my bones. I question my ability to endure any more challenges that lie ahead.”
This one especially feels painfully real to reread because I remember exactly the emotional exhaustion behind it.
“‘Why do you stay awake all night? Why do you avoid the day?’ he inquired curiously. I attempted to convey my perspective by sharing a beloved analogy.
‘Let me illustrate with a comparison between moths and butterflies. You see, butterflies are adored by many for their vibrant colors and their presence in the daylight. They captivate with their beauty. On the other hand, moths are often considered ordinary and unremarkable. But here’s the fascinating part: when the sun sets, butterflies fade away, and moths emerge. They chase the elusive light, and when they alight upon it, they create a breathtaking reflection. The essence is this: each of us has our moment to shine, and for me, it is during the nights.’”
I still think this paragraph explains me better than most things I could write today because nights have always felt safer to me than mornings ever did.
“A soft knock reverberated through the door, and as I opened it, he found me in tears. With genuine concern, he asked, ‘Why are you crying?’ I mustered the strength to reply, ‘I’m unsure which sadness these tears belong to.’”
“Our relationship embodied the fusion of the independent ‘I can do it myself’ spirit with the collaborative mantra of ‘let’s do it together.’”
“‘I have lived a thousand lives within the pages of books, discovering solace and hope amidst the trials of life,’ I confessed.”
“‘I yearn to embark on a journey where I can shed my old self and live as a stranger in a place where no one knows my name. To start afresh as if my past were but a distant memory.’”
I think this line reveals how much I wanted escape back then — not necessarily from places, but from versions of myself I no longer wanted to carry.
“As our conversation drew to a close, she spoke softly, ‘You find solace in caring for others because it mends the part of you that once longed for someone to care for you.’ I gazed back at her, my voice filled with a hint of melancholy, ‘But it never truly healed that part within me.’”
“With a profound wisdom in her words, she shared, ‘Stress doesn’t arise from hard work alone; it stems from our failure to take action when we possess some semblance of control.’”
“He often justified his actions, fully aware of the incessant overthinking that consumed my mind.”
“In the realm of the night, there existed a girl who awoke while the world slumbered. To her, the moon took on the radiance of a sun, and the sun transformed into a mysterious moon. She found solace in the embrace of darkness, for it became her hometown, and the twinkling stars adorned the night sky, creating the only traffic she knew.”
I still love this one because it feels exactly like the kind of lonely magical realism I used to adore writing.
“Amidst the tapestry of emotions, one principle stood unwavering: safety always took precedence before all else.”
And then there was this scene — probably one of the most cinematic things I had ever written at the time, dramatic in every possible way, but somehow still emotional for me to reread now because beneath all the chaos, it was really about anxiety and the need for protection:
“It was my first encounter with the paparazzi. I usually tried to stay unnoticed because I disliked attention and people staring at me. But suddenly, I found myself in the midst of a crowd of people with cameras, all trying to take pictures of me…”
Even now, I can still feel the panic I tried to pour into that scene.
“‘Fear not, for I have sought you ceaselessly, traversing every corner in search of your elusive form. Rest assured, you are not alone, for you are with me.’”
And finally, the passage that affected me the most while rereading everything again:
“She is my solace and my sanctuary. She’s there for me no matter what, the guiding light in my darkest moments. She understands me even when I’m silent. She’s the missing piece that brings meaning to everything. When everyone else leaves, when everything falls apart, she’s the one who stands by my side and transforms the chaos into something beautiful.”
When I reached this paragraph again a few nights ago, I genuinely had to stop reading for a moment because I suddenly remembered the exact girl who wrote all these words years ago. She was emotional, overwhelmed, dramatic, hopeful, romantic, anxious, lonely, and desperately trying to turn all her feelings into stories because she did not know what else to do with them. And maybe that is why I no longer want to hide these writings anymore. They may not be perfect, but they are proof that I existed exactly as I was in those moments, and honestly, I think there is something beautiful about that.
