Why I Keep Writing Even When No One’s Reading (Yet)

“Sometimes it feels like I’m writing into a void — but I keep showing up anyway.”

I’ll admit it… there are days when hitting “publish” feels like shouting into the void. I stare at the screen, re-reading a piece I poured my soul into, only for it to get… three views (at most) and a polite thumbs-up from my best friend (sometimes). And while I tell myself it’s not about the numbers (because it’s not), that little voice still pipes up: Is anyone even out there?

But here’s the thing. I keep writing anyway. Even when the comment section is crickets. Even when the algorithm couldn’t care less. Because at some point, I realised that writing isn’t just something I do for validation or applause. It’s how I process the world. It’s how I untangle my thoughts. And honestly? Sometimes I write things just to prove to myself that I can. That I’m still showing up. That my voice matters, even when it’s echoing back only to me.

This piece is for the writers out there who keep typing, posting, and dreaming, even when it feels like no one’s reading. Because just maybe, that silence isn’t the end of the story. Maybe it’s just the beginning.

🫥 The Silence Is Loud

Let’s just say it, posting something you’ve worked hard on and hearing absolutely nothing back? Brutal. You check your stats a little too often, hoping maybe someone stumbled across it while scrolling. Maybe they didn’t comment, but surely they felt something, right? Right…? Crickets.

I remember this one post I was really proud of… one of those pieces where you feel like you finally managed to get the words to say what your heart’s been holding onto for weeks. I hit publish, I waited, and… nothing. Not even my usual pity-like from that one writer friend who always shows up. It was like the internet collectively decided to take a nap that day.

At first, I told myself it was fine. I didn’t write it for attention. But deep down, yeah, it stung. And worse? That silence started to morph into something heavier. I started thinking maybe the piece wasn’t good. Maybe I’m not good. Maybe I’m wasting my time.

It’s wild how quickly silence turns into self-doubt. It sneaks up on you, whispering that the quiet means you’ve failed. But here’s what I’m learning: the absence of a reaction doesn’t mean the absence of impact. Sometimes people read and don’t respond. Sometimes the timing is off. And sometimes, yes, the algorithm just ghosts you for no reason.

But I’ve also realized that if I measure the worth of my writing by the noise it makes online, I’ll lose the heart of why I write in the first place. I don’t want my creativity to be dependent on likes. I want it to be rooted in something steadier — like truth, curiosity, and maybe a little bit of stubbornness.

🧱 Writing Is a Practice, Not a Performance

Writing when no one’s watching has taught me more about who I am than any feedback form or social media metric ever could. It’s in the quiet, unglamorous moments, when I’m tapping away at a half-baked scene at 11 p.m., or scribbling in my notebook during lunch, that I feel most connected to my voice. There’s something oddly freeing about writing without an audience. No expectations, no performance. Just me, the words, and the weird thoughts I’m trying to wrangle into something meaningful.

I’ve got journal entries that will never see the light of day but helped me process heartbreak, burnout, and wild bursts of inspiration. There are half-finished short stories in my drafts folder that taught me how to write better dialogue or how to build a moment that actually feels like something. One of my old blog posts, which got maybe six views, was the first time I wrote honestly about fear. And that tiny piece cracked something open in my writing that I’ve been building on ever since.

It’s easy to equate invisibility with failure, but that’s a trap. Just because no one’s clapping doesn’t mean you’re off-key. Some of the most important growth happens when no one’s watching. When it’s just you deciding to keep going anyway.

Tip: Keep a record of your progress, trust me, it’s gold. Reread your old work, not to cringe (okay, maybe just a little), but to notice the growth. The improvement. The voice you didn’t even know was blooming back then. That’s not nothing. That’s a whole journey.

🌱 The Quiet Season Is Necessary

There’s something oddly magical about the quiet seasons, the ones where no one’s asking what you’re working on, no one’s reading your drafts, and no one’s patting you on the back for getting words on the page. It’s just you and the work. And even though those stretches can feel lonely (and a little thankless, let’s be real), I’ve come to believe they’re where the real growth happens.

Some of my best ideas didn’t come in the middle of applause, they came in those quiet moments, like when I was journaling after a rough week or revising a scene for the tenth time even though no one had asked me to. One of the most pivotal plot twists in my current book popped into my head while I was washing dishes in complete silence. No drama, no deadlines, no audience, just stillness and space.

Writing in obscurity sometimes feels like gardening. You show up, you water the soil, and for a long time… nothing happens. No likes, no shares, no blooming. But underneath the surface, the roots are stretching. The story is deepening. You’re growing. Even when it doesn’t look like it.

So now, when I’m in a quiet stretch, and yes, I still have plenty of those, I try to remind myself that this is a season, not a setback. I’m tending something that hasn’t sprouted yet. But it will. It always does.

“What you water in the dark will one day bloom in the light.”

💬 Why I Keep Showing Up

There are days when I sit down to write not because I have a brilliant idea or a shiny plan, but because I need to. Not in a cute, quirky way, but in the deeply human, borderline-scrappy sense of needing to get something out of my head and onto a page just to make sense of it. Writing has always been that for me — curiosity, therapy, art, and, yes, a little chaos.

It’s the process that pulls me back in every time. That moment when I find the exact right word to describe a feeling I didn’t even know I had? Pure magic. It doesn’t matter if no one reads it — because I felt it. Because something clicked inside me that hadn’t been in alignment before. There’s joy in that. Quiet, stubborn, resilient joy.

I remember a particularly rough season in my life where I was drowning in overwhelm and self-doubt. I felt invisible — personally, professionally, creatively. So I wrote this strange, dreamy short story about a girl who lives in a lighthouse and sends messages out into the sea, never knowing if they’ll reach anyone. I never published it. I didn’t even show it to my closest friends. But writing it made me feel less alone. Like I’d found a way to tell myself, I see you.

That’s the thing. Even if no one else reads a piece, I read it. I witness it. I carry it. And I think that matters.

So tell me. Are you in a quiet season too? Tell me why you still show up for your work.

And as always, if you have made it to here. Thank you! If you liked this piece, please remember to give me a follow.

Thanks for reading!