Are you there, Reader? It’s Me, Joy

Last week, I published my first Little Joy Letter.

And almost immediately after pressing publish, I had one thought:

What if no one reads it?

Not exactly the triumphant look at me, I did the scary thing! moment I imagined.

Instead, all of the questions & fears came rushing in.

Who am I to assume anyone wants to read what I have to say?

What if nobody cares? Also, why should someone care?

What if I'm just writing words into the giant void of the internet and occasionally my mom clicks the link? (And yes, my mom did click the link 🙂).

But my mind literally did go: Are you there, Reader? It's me, Joy.

And apparently, I am willing to admit, I would really like to know you're there.

I've been thinking about why that matters to me. I have never been someone who needed recognition.

Because if this were simply about writing for myself, I could keep a journal. I do have many diaries from my childhood.

If it were only about making art for myself, I could fill my house with it and never show another person.

But that's not really why humans make things.

Humans make things to communicate.

Writers need readers. Artists need someone on the other side of the canvas. Storytelling inherently assumes another person. Someone to receive it. Someone to recognize something in it.

Someone who might say: “Oh. Me too.”

And maybe that's what I'm actually looking for.

Which brings me to a word I have spent a lot of time insisting doesn't describe me:

Influencer.

I am not an influencer.

At least that's what I keep telling myself.

Because when I hear that word, I picture someone on TikTok or Instagram telling me about the life-changing product I absolutely need, the morning routine that will transform my existence, or the five things I've apparently been doing wrong for the past 43 years of my life.

That's not what I want.

I don't have the answers.

Honestly, half the time I'm still trying to figure out the question.

But maybe influence doesn't have to mean telling someone how to live.

Maybe influence can simply mean sharing how you live.

Sharing what you've experienced.

Sharing what hurt.

Sharing what made you laugh.

Sharing the thing you noticed on an ordinary Tuesday that made the world feel slightly more beautiful.

And maybe somebody else recognizes themselves in it.

And then maybe they feel a little less strange.

A little less lonely.

A little more understood.

If that's influence?

Okay.

Maybe I do want to be an influencer then.

Just a different kind.

Because I'm becoming increasingly convinced that most of us are walking around this giant, messy world believing our struggles are uniquely ours when, really, someone three houses down—or three states away—is quietly struggling with the exact same thing.

We're changing careers.

Losing friends.

Finding friends.

Getting sick.

Getting better.

Getting divorced.

Falling in love.

Raising children.

Deciding not to have children.

Taking care of parents.

Questioning who we've become.

Trying something new.

Feeling confident one day and like a complete fraud the next.

We're grieving things and celebrating things and are buying groceries and answering emails through all of it.

And somewhere in there are these tiny moments.

The cup of coffee that tasted particularly good.

The light coming through the window.

A stranger who held the door.

A piece of art that made you stop walking.

The friend who texted at exactly the right moment.

The ridiculous thing your dog did.

The five minutes when everything felt okay.

The little joys.

And I don't want to be the only one noticing them.

That's one of the reasons I'm writing these letters.

I want to share all of it.

And someday, I am hopeful some of you will want to share yours, too.

I want to hear your stories. I want to know about the things you are figuring out. The things you haven't figured out. The things that broke your heart and the things that put it back together.

I want The Little Joys of Art to become a place where we can collect those stories and remind each other: We're all in this big, scary thing called life together. We are all just human beings trying to cope.

And, to be honest, there's another reason I'm writing these letters weekly to share and that feels a little scarier to say out loud.

I'm working on a book. There. Now that's on the internet too.

And if I am serious about becoming a writer—and an artist -- and a storyteller and maybe someday a podcaster and whatever else this next rendition of Joy Walker & The Little Joys of Art eventually grows into—then I need to keep writing.

Not someday. Not when everything is perfectly figured out.

Now.

I need to find my voice.

I need to learn what works and what doesn't.

What connects and what falls completely flat.

What makes someone forward something to a friend and say, “You need to read this.”

What makes someone close the browser halfway through.

What feels unmistakably like me.

These letters are part of that experiment. They're a place for me to practice being the creator I keep saying I want to become. But I don't want to build it alone.

I want relationships.

I want conversations.

I want stories that aren't mine.

I want people showing up and saying, “Okay, Joy, here's what happened to me.”

I want people sharing their small moments with each other.

I want to build a community around what it means to be human.

Actually—

and this sounds completely ridiculous and wildly ambitious—

I THINK I WANT TO BUILD AN EMPIRE ABOUT WHAT IT MEANS TO BE HUMAN.

Not an empire with castles.

Although if this thing really takes off, I'm not ruling anything out.

I mean a big, sprawling, creative collection of stories and art and people and conversations about this strange experience we're all having at the same time.

And I've realized something about myself in the process:

I need people to create.

In the same way an extrovert can walk into a room full of people and suddenly feel more alive, connection gives energy to my creativity.

It isn't applause I need. It's exchange.

Knowing there might be someone on the other side of what I make gives me something to reach toward. It motivates me. It challenges me. It lights a spark I didn't even realize I needed when I first started all of this.

I want to know that something I write, paint, make, or share might someday matter to somebody else. Maybe it helps someone feel understood. Maybe it starts a conversation. Maybe it gives someone permission to tell their own story. Maybe it just makes someone smile on a particularly crappy Tuesday.

But the possibility that something I create could make even the smallest difference?

That makes me want to keep creating.

The beautiful parts.

The ugly parts.

The ridiculous parts.

The parts we don't usually say out loud.

The moments that almost break us.

And the tiny ones that somehow put us back together.

Which is why the fear underneath all of this isn't really that I won't become some huge internet success. It's much simpler than that.

I'm scared no one else is searching for the kind of connection I'm searching for.

I'm scared I'll call out into the world—

Are you there, Reader? —and hear nothing back.

But creating something means accepting that possibility.

You make the thing.

You send it out.

And then you hope there is someone on the other side.

So here I am.

Still making things. Still writing. Still figuring out what this could become. And still asking:

Are you there, Reader?

It's me, Joy.

If you're there, I'd really like to hear from you.

So if you have a few seconds, hit reply and let me know what you think.