I tried handwriting a Substack essay in my journal. Here's why I’ll never do that again.

My mornings usually look something like this: wake up, read with coffee in bed, journal (also in bed), then “start the day,” which could mean anything from walking the dog to working on client copy.

But recently I did something different.

Instead of journaling, I decided to try handwriting my next Substack essay. It’s something I’ve heard other writers talk about doing (and loving). I’m also reading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, and she makes it easy to romanticize writing pieces by hand. Plus, I was planning on writing an essay about journaling anyway. Maybe combining these two writing practices would help me think more deeply about them?

The short answer: It did. Just now how I thought.

So I opened my journal to the next blank page. Wrote down the date and time, like I always do. Then I wrote a few details to ground into the now: that my dog was snoozing at the foot of the bed, that my wife had just left for a run, that I could hear the super bringing in the trash cans outside our apartment.

Weird, I thought. I didn’t use their names.

I kept writing. Another few lines about what I could hear—my own breathing, the pen scratching against paper, raindrops hesitantly tapping the windowpane—then a soft turn inward toward my thoughts and what I imagined this essay would really be about.

“This is how it starts,” I wrote. “Journaling, I mean.”

Then I wrote some more. About how I’ve been thinking more about journaling, it’s role in my writing life. How, without it, I might’ve never experienced parts work, or gotten my first paid writing gig, or started writing and sharing my words more widely.

I had followed this train of thought halfway down the page when I wrote, “I don’t like this.” 

But it wasn’t me, exactly. It was another part of me.

“What?” I asked.

“I don’t like this,” it said. “Writing like you’re writing to an audience in the journal.”

“No?”

“No. I feel like we’re performing.”

I knew what it meant, but I wanted to hear more about this. So I asked, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It feels fake.”

We went back and forth like this for a while. I wrote down my questions, then I wrote down the answers as I heard them from this voice inside my head. No judgment, just curiosity. I wanted to fully understand where this part of me was coming from. Why was this distinction so important?

“I need this place to be audience-free,” it said. “A safe space.”

“But why?”

“Because it’s the only place you get to be fully yourself.”

Ahhh, I thought.

As much as I try to write (and live) honestly, I lie all the time. We all do. We write the best version of a story we can. We share concise takeaways without all the emotional thrashing it took to find them. We say we’re fine when we’re not. We laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. We downplay our experiences to make others more comfortable.

And on and on and on.

But in my journal, I don’t do any of that. I’m honest about how I feel, what I want, and what I need but don’t yet know how to give myself. I rarely explain myself. I don’t soften, filter, or hide what’s on my heart and mind. If I do, I almost immediately (and gently) call myself on it. I’ll literally write, “That’s not true.” Or, “Try again.” Or, “What’s really going on?” Then I write some more, more honestly. I name shame and fear. Ask stupid questions. Acknowledge my wildest dreams.

I do all this and more because I trust my journal to hold all the nuance of who I am—all those different parts of me—without judgment. 

I’m still learning to trust other people to do the same.

Still, my intention is always to be more me more often. As a result, most of my Substack essays are vulnerable, personal, and read a bit like journal entries. I like this about my writing.

But as this experience showed me, there’s a crucial difference between an essay that reads like a journal entry and an actual journal entry. To get the former, I have to have the latter—in private, without an audience (real or perceived) there to see my most honest mess spilling out in real time. I have to maintain a separate space where the most unfiltered parts of me can exist just as they are, no explanation necessary.

Then, I can choose which bits and pieces I want to share more widely.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever try handwriting my Substack essays again. I still think there are lots of benefits to it, and I’m intrigued by the writers who take this approach. But one thing’s for sure: If I do, it definitely won’t be in my private journal.

Turns out that’s just not where that goes.

And to the part of me that spoke up on the page: Thank you for showing me this boundary and protecting this space where I can be myself. I’m grateful for it and you.