when hobbies become performative
on the guilt of creating for profitability and losing intention
I’ve untangled yet another maladaptive pattern of mine. So congratulations on progress, I guess? On becoming a better person? On character development? (Okay, but for real, I do appreciate these enlightenments.)
There are probably about five too many accounts I’ve left because of my disproportionate passion. Something that burned too brightly, as the poets would say, which, for me, eventually led to creative burnout. The longest I’ve kept an account is three years—if I’m not mistaken—which is my editing account of Harry and Ariana, but aside from those, I look over my bookstagram account, which used to have 1,200 followers, and my YouTube channel with over 200 subscribers, and realize how easily I back down when I get burned out.
Well, I guess that’s a win for me, knowing when to stop. When to become combative when I sense that this hobby of mine is starting to feel like a goddamn job instead of something leisurely and fun. And while I do get that sentiment, I’ve been lingering over the thought of what could have happened to these accounts—to me—if I hadn’t stopped. Would I have started earning money from these accounts? Would I be officially labeled as a micro-influencer? (Which is beside the point, and may have been a question I would have asked myself years ago, but this has changed now)
But you get the picture, right?
If I hadn’t stopped completely. Only for a break. Where would these accounts be? Where would I be?
I sometimes wonder if I’m discontinuing these accounts because of being burnt out or something else.
Suddenly, I feel my character immensely mirrored by Julie in Julie and Julia. Never finishing anything. Only good at the beginning, a star runner.
I long for the accounts I used to handle. The fun of it all. Its laid-backness. The opportunity for creativity and community that it has given me. Perhaps my distorted version of competition and gaining popularity has ruined the experience for me.
I guess consumerism and the algorithm are both at fault here as well. We’ve been constantly fed through our tiny screens that we must make our hobbies profitable. Seeing or witnessing firsthand how people with just 100 followers on their Instagram account instantly profit from their videos poses an existential crisis for what we’re doing on these platforms. A form of resentment and envy resides in our hearts as we wonder, why can’t we become just like them? Why can’t we make money off of doing what we love?
Well—and this is just my humble opinion—maybe hobbies are just meant to be hobbies, you know? Can’t we just have fun doing what we love without making it feel like a job? Like some sort of miserable 9 to 5? I started Bookstagram around 4 years ago. Initially, it was intended to be a platform for sharing my thoughts on books with a small community. No harm. No harm. But when the influx of followers and likes started coming in, the addicting power of validation that came with it had made the experience far less authentic. Over time, I’ve realized I was posting to be viral. To gain validation. To earn likes. To garner comments.
Looking back, I feel like the account has become only a shell of the person who once handled it. I was driven more by what’s trending, what will gain likes, and what will “feed” the algorithm. Eventually, it got exhausting. I got burnt out. I realize now that this is also one of the main perpetrators of my discontinuity. Not just being burnt out. It’s because my original intention for starting the account has become tainted with social media tactics.
The thought of coming back, but with purer intentions and less emphasis on the social media aspect of it, feels like an apology to the version of myself who had other intentions aside from creating a creative platform and building a community. As I’ve grown older—maybe wiser?—I realize that life is too short to take these hobbies seriously. This reminds me of Emily Henry’s character from People We Meet on Vacation, Poppy, (go watch or read it if you haven’t. I recommend reading it first) who, like me, made her hobby of traveling and writing into her job, which eventually led her to burn out and lose that magical whimsy one gets from having hobbies.
As I scroll through my curated feed, I don’t resent myself fully. Perhaps this is one of the lessons I need to learn before I can truly return to posting and participating in the social media community. Perhaps I’ll post at my own pace, but also post enough to stay consistent. Not for the sake of likes, popularity, or going viral, but as a challenge.
To create consistency by showing up even when momentum lacks, and to create with intention and purpose.
Perhaps then I can even extinguish the big flames of creative burnout before they incinerate me.
That’s all for now.
"But if I must accept that I am performing a large part of my life—sometimes for an audience, sometimes just for myself—I can at least attempt to understand why.”