I have no niche, therefor I am not.

#indecisiveaf #onbrand

A food blog that could grow into cookbooks. No, a DIY-crafting blog (do I still remember how to use a table saw? Can you rent a table saw?). Scratch that, a guide to fat girl fashion. Or maybe a guide to fat girls making their own clothes (need to relearn to sew first). Oh, or beauty tips and best practices, how to decipher lingo and actually improve your skin. Change of plans, on demand poetry. Better yet, a periodical approach to long-form fiction. Wait, what about advice from a professional millennial making it (see also, barely surviving) in corporate America.

A Jacqueline of all trades, a master of none. Aimless.

I have a masters degree in corporate communications; I know I should have a niche. I know I should be specific in my messaging to better target and reach my key publics. But that has always been the the problem. You can’t know who to write to if you can’t decide what you’re writing. When only focusing on success rather than craft, it’s easy to shoot yourself in the foot before you’ve even started.

Why this? Why now? What is this?

I’ve spent the last few years listening, learning, and absorbing. As much as I can, I’ve focused on growth. The social distancing and mandated isolation of the early days of the pandemic kicked off what would become a years-long self improvement project. What did that mean? Couldn’t tell you. It looked different most days and was unpredictable at best, but from improved skin care routines to increased homecooked meals to reading more books by people who look nothing like me, for the first time in a long time I was on a specific-ish path.

Part of that path was intended to bring creativity to a bigger part of my life. Commit to a hobby and write about it. It was time to find our niche; but the harder I tried to be specific, the more the words slipped through my fingers.

My writer’s block takes the form of an imposter syndrome phantom. Amorphous and ephemeral, ever changing and evolving like the toxic goo from Fern Gully, it screams that because I cannot decide where to focus my words that none of them will be worth reading (my imposter syndrome phantom is as enticing as Tim Curry in fishnets; I’ve given in most of my life). The failed thesis statements of projects past stick to its flowing sap, swallowing what looked like good ideas at first.

I have always had a flare for the dramatics. At 18 I chose a theater degree over English and without realizing laid the foundation for my own limitations. Theater would be my artform, nothing else. As Amy March in Greta Gerwig’s 2019 Little Women said, “I want to be great or nothing.” I trapped myself in a box of my own creation and when I gave up on that dream, I sealed it shut and turned away.

From then on I’d somehow convinced myself that creative careers would require the hustle of manufacturing an actual product. A creation. I’d consider being a makeup artist, a calligrapher, drop-shipping t-shirts, custom weeding decor, and so on.

Why? I’ve always been a writer, a storyteller. I’m sitting next to a shelf of potential-filled notebooks (see also, blank pages) as I write this. My childhood bedroom is littered with the unfinished novels of a nine year old as well as the somewhat superficial scripts and plays of my overly emotional teen years. When I look back at the different eras of my life, writing has always been a part of the peaks. Studying abroad in college, I joined the Writer’s Society and found a community of writers for the first time. I’ve met some of my closest friends through writing. Even when in arguments, I always preferred to be able to pen my thoughts rather than speak them. Putting pen to paper (or fingertips to keys) has always been a part of who I am.

And yet, I had forgotten. Or maybe, I’d forced myself to forget. I had convinced myself I had nothing to say worth listening to. For too long I’ve listened to my phantom.

So that’s why we’re here. In the spirit of the new year, we’re kicking down the cardboard walls of our own imprisonment and stretching our muscles. Regardless of the hobby, the drive has always been to share the creations, to write about them. Maybe that, in and of itself, is the niche.

I am a writer, but I’m a lot of other things too. I plan to share that through my love of writing here. From successful recipes to researched rants about fast fashion to the story of receiving my certificate of bravery, I’m excited to share my myriad trades with you.

Afterall, as the full saying goes, a jack of all trades is a master of none, but oftentimes better than a master of one.

Anyway, just a thought.