| On Prompts, Pressure and Letting Go |
| Some readers will remember A Guy Called Bloke. It ran for six years and, for a time, it was lively, communal and full of movement. In its first year, I enjoyed it immensely. There was genuine energy in creating prompts that others interpreted in their own way. Conversations gathered beneath posts, writers returned regularly, and the space felt animated and companionable. It seemed, on the surface, like creative momentum. What I did not recognise at the beginning was how easily momentum becomes maintenance. By the second year, something subtle had shifted. The prompts still worked. Engagement remained steady. Traffic rose when I fed it. Yet behind that visible activity, there was an increasing weight. Between years two and five, I found myself — quietly and almost daily — wanting to delete the entire blog. Not because I disliked writing or resented the people who participated, but because I felt caught in a structure that no longer matched my internal rhythm. The impulse to delete was not dramatic; it was regulatory. It was a sign that something had become unsustainable. Running prompts is not simply writing. It is orchestration. One designs the theme, publishes the call, explains the framework, encourages participation, visits contributors, responds to comments, keeps tone buoyant and ensures nobody feels overlooked. Then the process repeats. In the first year, orchestration felt creative and generous. Over time, it began to resemble administration. If you build a stage, you must keep the lights on. The wheel cannot pause without someone asking why. Blogging culture often presents growth as organic — the natural outcome of good writing. In reality, growth usually follows strategy. Prompts, reciprocal commenting, and regular participation across multiple blogs — these are tools that generate visibility. If readership and continued traffic are your primary aims, such tools are effective. They work. But they are not effortless, and they require energy that must be drawn from somewhere. In monetised spaces, the expenditure has a clear purpose. Increased traffic can translate into income, sponsorship opportunities, or other opportunities. In non-monetised blogs, the reward is different. It is recognition, belonging, the reassurance of being seen. There is nothing shameful about wanting acknowledgement; it is human. What deserves consideration is proportion. If sustaining traffic consumes more energy than the act of writing itself, then the balance has shifted. For me, that imbalance was compounded by something I did not initially articulate. Maintaining a socially active blog requires constant social processing. Tone must be interpreted without body language. Responses must be calibrated carefully. Delays can be misread. Silence can feel loaded. Participation patterns must be tracked. None of this is dramatic in isolation, but it accumulates. As an autistic person, that accumulation is not neutral. In person, I am sociable and comfortable. As a gardener, part of my role is to be personable. I meet clients, converse with neighbours, and smile when speaking. These interactions have structure: they begin, they unfold, they conclude. There are physical cues and shared context. Online interactions rarely end the same way. It lingers in notifications and expectations. It exists in a state of ambient obligation. By year three of running A Guy Called Bloke, I was no longer simply writing; I was maintaining an environment. The daily impulse to delete the blog was less about frustration and more about overload. The structure demanded continuity when what I required was space. A small moment recently illustrated how easily expectation attaches itself to visible behaviour. Someone asked why I wasn’t smiling more while walking through town. They did not accuse me of being unfriendly; they described me as determined. It amused me. I smile when speaking to people. When I am walking between jobs, I am often thinking. Concentration does not require visible cheerfulness. Yet the comment reflected a broader assumption: that warmth must be permanently displayed. Blogging culture carries a similar expectation. One must engage continuously, reciprocate visibly and maintain a tone of availability. For a time, I accepted that as normal. Now I see it as optional. I can be personable in conversation and focused in solitude. I can engage online when interested and remain silent when I need downtime. These are not contradictions; they are boundaries. The Earthly Comforts blog represents a different phase. It is not the socially animated version of me that ran prompts and sustained participation loops. It is the quieter version that does not lay down expectation — on myself or on readers. I write at my own pace. I refine carefully. I publish work that I would wish to read. If someone reads it, that is welcome. If they do not, it remains worthwhile. This detachment from outcome is not indifference. It is alignment. I still value clarity and craft. In fact, I produce more content now than during the busiest years of prompt-running. With the assistance of tools that reduce mechanical friction — editing support, structural refinement — I can focus more fully on shaping ideas rather than wrestling with formatting. The difference is that I am no longer sustaining a wheel. Stepping back has revealed several things. First, maintaining an engagement culture requires more social energy than most people admit. It is not simply about producing material; it is about being continually present. If one already expends social energy professionally, adding perpetual online maintenance can tip the balance into fatigue. Second, validation has diminishing returns. Early waves of comments feel affirming and exciting; later waves feel expected. Appetite can grow faster than satisfaction. Third, when expectation is removed, the writing itself often improves. Without the need to provoke a response or maintain tempo, prose settles into a calmer register. These observations are personal rather than prescriptive, yet I suspect they resonate more widely than we admit. Many writers begin blogging for one reason and continue for another. The original motive might be curiosity or expression; the sustaining motive becomes visibility or momentum. When those two drift apart, strain follows. If someone new to blogging asked whether they should introduce prompts to grow their audience, I would not dismiss the idea outright. I would ask what they are after and why they began. If traffic is the goal, prompts are an effective instrument. If reflection or practice is the goal, the cost may outweigh the benefit. Growth for its own sake can become a treadmill, and treadmills require constant motion. There is a persistent assumption that scale equals value. Yet some writing is not designed for scale. Some is meant to accumulate quietly, to serve as a reference rather than a spectacle. Not every piece needs to travel widely. Some need to exist in their own proportion. Writing functions partly as structured regulation. It organises thought and provides a container for ideas that would otherwise circulate restlessly. A blog offers a public archive of that shaping. But it is not the only canvas. Each garden I work in is also a composition — pattern, restraint, correction, growth over time. Gardens respond to care rather than applause. They change with the season, whether anyone comments or not. Perhaps that is why I no longer feel urgency about readership. The instinct to shape exists independently of the audience. The blog is supplementary, not foundational. If platforms disappeared tomorrow, I suspect I would not feel bereft. The practice would remain, redirected elsewhere if necessary. Looking back, the years of wanting to delete A Guy Called Bloke were signals rather than failures. They indicated a misalignment between the structure and the need. The shift to Earthly Comforts has restored proportion. I write because I enjoy shaping thought. I publish because it completes the act. I do not chase traffic, orchestrate participation or measure worth in comment counts. There is now space for downtime without guilt, silence without anxiety and focus without performance. In a culture that equates visibility with value, that feels quietly radical. In reality, it is simply sustainable. |
| About our writing & imagery Most articles reflect our real gardening experience and reflection. Some use AI in drafting or research, but never for voice or authority. Featured images may show our photos, original AI-generated visuals, or, where stated, credited images shared by others. All content is shaped and edited by Earthly Comforts, expressing our own views. |
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So many years have passed and we’re still here. We’ve adapted our blog to our needs, we’ve made it sustainable, and we’re still here, and that is something ☺️
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