An introduction to maximalism

Intro to the Maximalist Essays

An intro to the concept of this book, and how I got here

Since I’ve decided to be an online writer, I’ve been terrified of writing my words and sharing them publicly. It’s not for fear of ridicule or a lack of confidence. I’ve written enough bad words now to know when I’ve penned down some good ones and when to burn them to the ground.

No, what I’m deeply afraid of is plagiarism.

For years, if I had a good thought or nice string of words to share, I almost always would type them up, save them on a drive, and forget them. This didn’t go for sharing writing advice, which I did for over two years, but instead was anything related to my own creative projects.

I don’t really know when this fear began or where it stems from. Maybe 2016, when I wrote a draft of a novel and was told to mail to myself to copyright it. (I never did. It was bad, and nobody in their right mind would plagiarize it.)

Or when I began to read about self-publishing vs. in-house, and all the rumors I heard about how if you’ve published online or self-published, forget that deal with Penguin.

Or maybe I’m a pessimist and felt like publishing online (for free at that!) would likely lead to somebody stealing my work. (Unfortunately, I was proven correct on this one.)

Whatever the reason or intention was, it started out good and then eventually began to hurt me more than it protected me. After all, can you name any other creative out there who just keeps their work to themselves and then simultaneously hopes for a big break? Imagine someone with an Etsy storefront doing this, just talking about selling items but never putting pictures of their work up for display. It’s bonkers.

And yes, the difference is that in writing this, nobody is paying me and my words are laughably easy to steal (you could copy and paste this into your own blog right now and affirm all my fears about mean people online). But it’s likely that no one is really paying the Etsy worker either—not at first when you consider all the upfront costs and mistakes.

So, in the end, my aversion to risk fails no one but me and now I’m writing this long, unwieldy intro on Substack.

Yes, I could have published this on emwelsh.com. And maybe I will one day. But I still have that deep-rooted and unfounded fear of plagiarism within me nagging away, and so I’ve decided if I am going to publish a serial book online and get my name out there, it would be via this channel where I see so many authors doing the same. It’s not totally rational, but I’m a writer so that was never guaranteed anyway.

Of course now, there’s the nature of the book.

Below you’ll find the introduction to the concept, but in short, this weekly (bi-weekly? monthly?) series is my ode to all my favorite objects that surround me. It’s a study in beautiful objects, cluttering your life with them, and a full rejection of minimalism and all its white walls.

With each essay, I’ll explore the story of the items around me, their textures, histories, and more. I’ll admire them, tear them apart, and ask for more. It’s relatively simple, glorifies my consumerist sensibilities, and theoretically could go on forever, seeing as I never stop buying things.

But most importantly, it’s my first little corner of this virtual world where I hope to finally, publicly, share my words with my audience. I’ll be working on my first book in the background with the hopes that these essays appeal to a few of my future readers who enjoy life best when it’s overwhelmed with beauty.

INTRO

Books, novels, cookbooks, scripts, coffee table, poetry, essays, Dutch ovens, Korean serums, velvet headbands, zero-proof aperitifs, Pilot G-2 .7 mm pens, Mexican talavera, measuring spoons, sunscreen, coconut floss, matchboxes, fountain pens, American denim, thick blankets, balmy candles, musky essential oils, puzzles, and words, words, words. 

Most people have interesting lives. I have interesting things. 

Whenever I’ve had one of something, I’ve wanted it all. It never mattered if it was rare or worth collecting. There’s always been a euphoric energy when I could look at something, touch it, and call it “mine.” And if I could build out the family and genealogy of an object, trace the variants in a full collection of pottery, the thousands of words from a favorite author, or line up a collection of art house films so I could tilt my head and admire the spines, I would.

And I’d do it again, and again, and again for everything else. 

Mindfulness gurus, minimalists, and more would have me steering the other way. But I think there is something to be treasured in the everyday objects and abstractions we collect. The maximalists of life are littered with thousands of little stories, clinking together every time one touches them. Here we have a battered cookbook I’ve cooked every recipe in, a dress from a designer whose philosophy on femininity sparked a celebratory indulgence in pink, an essential oil that reeks of my anxiety flying across the ocean to Japan. 

The power of kinesis is not to be underestimated. Look around you, pick up a beautiful serum, a worn out sweater, your bedside vitamins. What do they tell you about who you are? Shake them up, rattle them in your ear, and listen to the stories they have to tell.

That’s what I’ll be doing, anyway.