Hi there.
Felt important to lead with a manipulatively cute photo of my dogs to win you over.
I wanted to start this Substack because I have so many things I would like talk to you about, and ask you, that I’m blocked from saying anywhere else. I’m either edited, controlled, shouted at or buried by social media algorithms. I’m tired of arbitrary word limits. I’ve had enough. I know this is probably all a terrible idea, but I am just yet to find the fun in making a wise decision.
As the ancient proverb goes: “Sense has been chasing me all my life, but I am faster.”
I have never found it especially interesting to be a part of this industry, to just sell you things, and show off a projection of a perfect human with a perfect life. I’ve always wanted to connect with other people. To be raw, to learn, to laugh, to cringe and shout with you. I really just want to chat.
You may not know, that in the decade before I became an actor, a podcaster, and a somewhat intense presence online, I was a journalist, and a columnist for women’s magazines. In fact, it is my beloved former editor
who has brought me here. I’ve been resistant to it for over a year, because I’m subjected to such overwhelming scrutiny, but she assures me you’re a kind bunch, so I’m dipping my toe back in. Writing was once a big part of me. This may explain to some of you why I am so relentlessly and at times, exhaustively opinionated, when most actors are mysterious, cool, careful and even vaguely media trained. Because I'm an impostor. I was never supposed to be an actor, it was a calamitous mistake I will tell you about another time. (A mistake I’m extremely grateful for, because it turns out I really enjoy it, but a mistake none the less.) I don’t really know how to behave in this situation. I’ve never really lost the feeling that I’ve snuck into Hollywood undercover, and am reporting back to everyone from the inside of this circus.I left my job at the magazine, when I started acting, and my social media started to take off. Back then, it felt liberating to be able to say what I wanted, when I wanted, without a filter and to a much bigger audience. (In hindsight, I realize that I was probably slightly too mentally unstable back then to handle that masterfully, and have some deep, deep regrets about how sloppy and divisive I was at times. We will also get into that another time.)
Cut to now. I’ve changed. Social media has changed, and what it once was, has sort of died. And so I must move with the times, away from the chokehold of its new algorithms. The platforms want to move away from “political and socio-political” commentary, and wish to focus almost exclusively on consumerism. Therefore I am often hidden from literally (correct use of literally) 99.5 percent of people who follow me, by an algorithm only interested in increasing my follower numbers. So my content is shown, not to the people who followed me because they feel a connection to me, but instead to a bunch of strangers who probably couldn’t give a rat’s rotting arse about what I think or feel. I don’t care for the ego stroke of watching my numbers increase. I MISS YOU.
The only way I now manage to briefly break through the shadow ban online, to talk to you, is by shaking my breasts at the camera. I’m not exaggerating. My tits have become a Trojan horse I use to convey messages to my followers. (I want to be clear, I support the right to be sexy online, it can also be fun, but it’s not how I want to draw your attention to serious subjects. Also to be honest, my big brother follows me online, and the jump scare of my boobs is just too much for him.)
So before it gets so severe, that the only way to break through the algorithm to tell you something important, is by showing you my actual arsehole… I’m coming to you from here instead.
Here I hope to bring you the things I love, hate and care about, unedited. I am interested in things like the human condition, the things that define us and our decisions, loneliness, and why I still can’t flirt, even in my thirties. I want to know why we’re so angry with each other. I want to unpack the magic born of humiliating moments, the power of failure, the joy of growing old. I would like to know how people are managing to do shower sex. I’d love to discuss the ups and downs of struggling with your health. Are ghosts watching us when we wank? I want to work out how we can bring women and men closer together. I want to talk about our bodies and who taught us to hate them so much, and how we can take those fucking people down and ruin their lives, and take all their money away… and… piss in their bedding… and…
You get it. I want to talk about it all.
For free, I'll be dropping in now and then to tell you what’s on my mind. For more consistent essays, extra content, to request subjects you want me to cover, for disgustingly sweet pictures of my dogs, and most importantly, to be able to shout at me in the group chat, we shall have to meet at dusk, behind a paywall.
Don’t worry. This platform is not supposed to be a soap box for me to preach from. It’s a safe space I’m creating, to open up conversations and to provoke thought. I’m not always going to say the right thing here, or the thing you personally want to hear in these essays. I am always going to say the thing I feel to be true about life, at this time. And I may even change my mind later, and write another piece challenging my old opinion, based on new information. A rather radical permission to give oneself in this day and age.
We shall see how it goes…!
Lastly, I want you to know I have named this blog after my beloved dog.
I have two young doodle-mutts, Barold, the dignified elder brother, and Winnie, the overachieving younger sister. Last year we sent them to a three week training course to bond. It was a huge success and they have been inseparable ever since, but both were sent home with wildly different report cards. The review of our angel, Winnie, was a long and gushing heap of praise for how easy she was to work with, how trainable and giving she was, and what a general delight of a dog she is.. Barold’s report card read simply: “Smart enough and kind, just has a Low desire to please.”
In that moment I knew he wasn’t my dog. He was my son. My blood relative. That’s my boy. That’s my baby. My firstborn. My progeny.
I loved that report. I have never felt so seen or summarized by a sentence, it encapsulates the joy of the philosophy I have grown with age that it is simply not my job to be palatable to everyone. So “A LOW DESIRE TO PLEASE” has become my personal life mantra and ultimately, the name of my Substack. It is my love letter to disobedience and uncomfortable questions.
I’ll leave you now, with one final picture of this little unbothered king, and hope to see you again soon.
Jam. x
Well this is a bit fucking glorious isn't it!? It really resonated with me. I started a business 8 years ago to be an ethical marketing consultant - a term I coined that meant I would only elevate the message of people and organisations doing something truly good in the world. Simple right? No! The fucking algorithms are a hellscape and, like you, the people we really should be hearing from are drowned out because there's no profit in peace. So good for you for creating a safe space here on Substack where we actually get visibility of your content. Good luck and lots of love. xXx
Left Twitter, left Instagram. Am here since 2023, reading along, and started writing on Substack two weeks ago.
It feels somehow slower than normal social media, right?
Have a good start here, Jameela. ❤️