I work hard to integrate marketing and branding into my identity as a writer. In the process, I’ve lost part of what made me a good writer to begin with: my uninhibited love of storytelling.
What is my brand? Who is my audience? What do I represent?
These questions cloud my mind and bind my creativity. I know, it’s trite. It’s laughably stereotypical for a millennial woman who went to art school and dreamed of being a published author since age six; it’s the epitome of a first world problem. But it’s still a problem — especially when there’s so much turmoil and sadness in the world. Writing used to be my outlet; I filled ten journals throughout high school and my first two years of college, I’d scribble poems on coffee shop napkins and restaurant receipts.