Unincorporated

But worthy, nonetheless.

Photo by Steve Harvey on Unsplash

un·in·cor·po·rat·ed

adjective

1. not formed into a legal business corporation.

2. not included as part of a whole.

In 2003, blogging was like longform bathroom graffiti. Adrienne was here, under a clever alias, in this untrodden wilderness of pre-Google internet. We wrote vague poetry that strangers might stumble upon and appreciate, indicating their thanks with anonymous responses. It was cathartic. It was raw. It was Livejournal. 

In 2010, blogging was more relevant, but still accessible. Blogspot became an outlet for my twenty-something career angst and a place for me to talk back to myself, to reframe what was hard into something hopeful. Pink-tinged Perspective, I called it. It followed me as we moved to California, a time of life that needed even more creative re-envisioning as I left behind close friends and family, a job that lit me up, and a city I adored—all for a man who was never home, a school system that chewed me up and spit me out, and a ferocious desire to start a family and get on with the life I had dreamed of. I migrated to Wordpress, got my own domain, fancied myself a travel blogger. Anything to escape. 

2016 and one year into motherhood, it seemed we were no longer so frightened of internet boogiemen knowing our names, and so I used my own as a domain. I needed rose-colored glasses less and less as I settled into the life we’d chosen, and also, with the political landscape shifting under my feet, I felt it more essential to be clear-eyed. I began writing in earnest, applied to graduate school, and became pregnant with our second child. In the years that followed, I wrote about social justice, parenting, friendship, and faith. I linked to my writing where it had been published elsewhere on the internet. I called myself a writer, and I meant it.

In 2021, I started a newsletter. I became pregnant with our third child and retreated from the internet as the pandemic hit home for our family, my physician husband losing heart as Delta and Omicron ransacked his hospital. As life shifted into a new, post-pandemic normal the following year, we welcomed our third child and our beloved community back into our lives. I was reminded, after so much time without them, the value of our flesh-and-blood friendships. 

For a long time—for twenty years to be exact—I believed the internet could grow and stretch to accommodate who I was becoming. The most fitting definition I’ve read of millennials is to have come of age alongside the internet, to have formed our corporeal and digital identities simultaneously. Where would my life be without the after school flirtations across AOL Instant Messenger with my now-husband? Would I ever have found my footing as a writer if the barrier to publication weren’t as low as a free website? What about all the kindred spirits I’d never have met without the connective tissue of the internet? And what of my mental health without the communication masterpiece of apps like Voxer?

And yet.

Over time there seemed to be more rules for succeeding on the internet, and the rules for creatives were one and the same as rules for businesses. If I wanted to be a writer of any significance, I needed an audience. The bigger the better. I needed to think of myself as a brand. Color palettes, fonts, stock images, regular posting schedule. There were writers I admired doing this with a gracefulness I sought to replicate, but I could never shake the feeling that I was selling something. It felt deeply incongruent to my inmost self, even when I was actually selling something (like a workshop) because at the core of everything I do—every story I tell, every class I teach—is just the vulnerability of my beating heart, held in my outstretched hands as an offering to the world. 

And so, late last fall, I quietly archived my blog of ten+ years. I rerouted my domain name to a free Wix landing page. I quit the newsletter service that was made for a business trying to reach customers, not a quirky thirty-something mom trying to reach the heart of one reader who might need her talisman of story to get through their day. 

Now, when I have something new to share, I queue up a patently unchic Gmail message to tell people about it. I cannot stand behind the glimmer of formatting and pretend to be a one woman corporation. It was exhausting trying to look as professional and legitimate as a company with an entire marketing team behind it. When did we become these strange, flamboyant birds of the internet, dancing and waving bright feathers in order to attract more readers? It is not for me. 

We are told that, unless we build a platform, unless we can stand out in this crowded marketplace, we will never have a chance. 

I suppose that’s a risk I’m willing to take? To admit that I am only human—unincorporated, but worthy, nonetheless.