Letters to Viv: 100 Letters Later

Two pieces a week, one borrowed kitchen at a time, and one greedy little gobshite who just kept going.

Letters to Viv
Open, soul-packed letters to the kind of human I write for: the curious, creative, exhausted by the hustle, and craving something more. I’m writing to you (and me).

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Dear Viv,

I hit publish on my 100th article today.

I wish I could tell you I marked the occasion with something glamorous. Champagne, maybe. A dramatic rooftop moment. A slow clap from strangers who somehow knew.

Instead, I am sitting with my laptop, slightly hunched, wondering if I should fix one more sentence.

Writer behaviour. Deeply unwell.

But here we are. One hundred.

I’m Jumping for Joy | Photo: Tanya Fraser

I started this thing at the end of May last year (2025). Two pieces a week, every week. No grand strategy or perfectly mapped plan. More like, “Right, let’s see if I can keep showing up without having a full existential crisis.”

Some weeks, I nearly lost that bet.

There were days I wrote through jet lag, heartbreak, questionable WiFi and one very dramatic internal monologue that deserved its own Netflix deal. I’ve written in cafés, airports, borrowed kitchens, and at least one bed that felt like it had a personal vendetta against my spine.

And still, the words showed up.

Or I dragged them in by the ankles. Either works.

Somewhere along the way, this became the thing I could count on. The place I came back to when everything else felt a bit overwhelming. The one thread that kept pulling me forward when life decided to throw in a few plot twists for sport.

Also rude, but fine.

And here’s the part that still catches me off guard.

You.

The comments. The emails. The messages where you quote something I wrote back to me, like I’m not the one who sat there in a hoodie, wondering if any of it made sense.

I read those and think, well, that’s suspiciously kind. Are we sure you meant me?

And then I read them again.

And again.

Like a greedy little gobshite.

It’s wild, Viv. Truly. I spent years feeling like my voice lived in the background. Supporting someone else’s art, clapping from the sidelines, keeping the whole thing running smoothly like a well-dressed stage manager.

Now I’m the one on the page.

Just me, the page, and the slightly terrifying freedom of choosing every word myself. With the occasional bout of “who do you think you are?” thrown in for good measure.

Answer: still figuring that out.

There are moments, even now, where someone asks what I do and I say, “I’m a writer,” and my body reacts like I’ve committed a small crime. Immediate heat to the face. Mild panic. A strong urge to follow it up with, “but like, casually,” as if that softens the blow.

We’re working on it.

Slowly, though, something is settling. A steady voice that says, “Keep going, you’re onto something.”

So I do.

One article at a time. One story at a time. One slightly concerning thought turned into a sentence that somehow lands.

And now there are a hundred of them.

A hundred pieces of proof that I showed up and kept the promise I made to myself when everything else felt like it was slipping through my fingers.

And you were there for it.

Feeling it with me.

You turned this from me talking into the void into something that feels shared. Alive. Like a conversation we’re all in together, passing notes back and forth.

It means more than I can neatly wrap up in a sentence, so I won’t try.

I’ll save the big reflective wisdom for the one-year mark. That version of me will probably have a few more insights and a better posture.

For now, I’m sitting in the middle of it. Slightly in awe, slightly emotional.

I think a pastry is in order.

Thank you for being here. Truly. For sending your words back to mine, for reminding me that this little corner of the internet is full of real people with real hearts who feel things deeply and aren’t afraid to say it.

That’s rare. And very sound.

We’re only getting started.

XO,

Tanya

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