Editor’s Note: See Jane Write publishes guest articles by writers who identify as women, non-binary folks, and our allies. Learn more here.
By Mary Chiney
The first thing they teach you in a newsroom is how to disappear.
As a journalist, your training is a masterclass in the art of the invisible. You are taught to stand in the back of the room, notebook pressed against a damp palm, recording the vibrations of someone else’s brilliance while your own voice stays tucked safely behind a press pass. For years, I have made a living in the third person. I have dissected the discographies of global icons for The Quietus, mapped the rising trajectories of African trailblazers for The Recording Academy (Grammy.com) and Afrocritik, and translated the raw, sonic vulnerability of artists like Kid Cudi and Amaarae into the polished, intellectual prose required by “reputable publications.”
In the high-stakes world of culture journalism, the “I” is a liability. To say “I felt” is to invite the ghost of “unprofessionalism” into the room. We are taught that the story is the subject, and we are merely the lens, transparent, unbiased, and essentially, silent.
But lately, I’ve been thinking about the cost of that transparency. When you spend all your time building legacies for others, what happens to the architecture of your own soul? I saw the call for submissions for See Jane Write, and it felt like a mirror being held up to a face I hadn’t looked at in years. It asked a question that journalists rarely ask themselves: Are you the author of your own life, or are you just the biographer of everyone else’s?
The Weight of the Invisible Ink
My journey into writing began in the lecture halls of the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. There, amidst the red dust and the rigorous academic air of one of the continent’s most prestigious institutions, I learned that words were heavy. They had the power to shift culture, to preserve history, and to hold power to account. I took that weight seriously.
When I entered the professional world, I carried that weight into every review and feature. I took pride in being a “reputable” writer. There is a specific kind of ego-boost that comes with seeing your byline under a masthead that people respect. It feels like a shield. If The Quietus says my work is good, then I must be good. If Beats Per Minute publishes my critique, then my voice has value.
But “value” and “voice” are not the same thing.
I remember sitting in a dimly lit studio in Lagos, interviewing a young woman artist who was redefining the alternative scene. She spoke with a raw, unedited ferocity about her struggles with identity and the crushing pressure to perform a version of herself that the “market” would buy. As she spoke, I felt a familiar pang in my chest, a resonance. I knew that pressure. I knew what it felt like to edit yourself until the original version was unrecognizable.
Yet, when I went home to write the feature, I scrubbed my resonance out of the draft. I turned her fire into a “compelling narrative” and her vulnerability into “thematic depth.” I did my job perfectly. The article was a success. But that night, looking at my reflection in the blue light of my laptop, I realized I was starving. I was surrounded by the feast of other people’s lives, yet I hadn’t written a sentence that belonged solely to Mary Chiney in months.
The Imposter in the Newsroom
We often talk about imposter syndrome as the fear of being “found out”—the fear that we aren’t as smart or as capable as people think. But for the woman writer, especially the woman of color in the global media landscape, imposter syndrome often takes a more insidious form. It’s the feeling that our personal experiences are “too niche,” “too emotional,” or “not universal enough” to be considered “serious” writing.
I have spent years pitching stories about how African creators are redefining the creative space, but I rarely pitched stories about how I was trying to redefine my own. I convinced myself that the world didn’t need another personal essay; it needed another deep dive into the socio-political implications of highlife music.
This is the lie that the professional world tells us: that our expertise is more valuable than our essence.
See Jane Write’s mission, to encourage women to be the “authors of their own lives”, hit me like a deadline I had missed. I realized that by staying in the shadows of my subjects, I was allowing someone else to hold the pen to my own story. I was a “Jane” who could see everyone’s truth but her own.
Learning to Speak Up (Even When the Mic is Off)
Reclaiming my voice didn’t happen with a sudden shout; it happened in the margins. It started with journaling—not the kind of journaling where you track your productivity or plan your next pitch, but the messy, “ugly” writing that no editor would ever see.
I began to write about the heat of the Nsukka sun, not as a setting for a novel review, but as the physical sensation of my own childhood. I wrote about the fear of the blinking cursor, not as a “writer’s block” tip for a “how-to” article, but as a confession of my own fragility.
I discovered that the tools I had sharpened as a journalist, observation, empathy, and structural rhythm, were not just for others. They were the very tools I needed to excavate my own life.
There is a unique power in the Southern writing tradition (one that resonates deeply with the storytelling cultures of West Africa) that values the “personal” as the “political.” Whether you are writing from Birmingham, Alabama, or Lagos, Nigeria, the act of a woman saying “This is how I see the world” is a radical act of reclamation. It is an assertion that our perspective is not just a “lens”—it is the story itself.
Why Every Woman Journalist Needs a “Jane” Space
If you are a writer for reputable publications, you might feel that places like See Jane Write are “just for bloggers” or “hobbyists.” You might think your professional credentials mean you’ve already “found your voice.”
But I want to challenge that.
The most reputable publication in the world is the one that exists between your heart and the page. If you are not writing the things that make your hands shake, if you are not exploring the questions that keep you up at 3:00 AM, then you are not writing; you are just documenting.
Journalism taught me how to listen to the world, but See Jane Write reminded me how to listen to myself. It reminded me that:
- Vulnerability is not a lack of professionalism; it is a higher form of truth. When I reviewed Marloma’s music and spoke about how she “turns vulnerability into strength,” I was subconsciously writing a permission slip for myself. We don’t have to choose between being “smart” and being “soft.”
- Legacy isn’t just about what you leave behind in the archives; it’s about how you live in the present. As I wrote about the “10 Young African Personalities Redefining the Creative Space,” I had to ask: Am I redefining mine? Am I taking risks with my own narrative, or am I playing it safe in the land of the third person?
- Community is the antidote to the “Lone Genius” myth. The newsroom is often a competitive, solitary place. But writing is a communal act. We need “Janes”—women who will look at our rough drafts and see the gold we’re too afraid to claim.
The New Assignment
So, here is my “perfectly fitting story” for the See Jane Write community. It isn’t a review of a chart-topping album or a profile of a literary giant. It is the story of a woman who spent a decade mastering the art of the invisible, only to realize that the most important story she ever had to tell was the one she was living.
To my fellow journalists, writers, and “reputable” professionals: Put down the press pass for a moment. Step out from behind the subject. The world doesn’t just need your expertise; it needs your existence.
We spend so much time worrying about the “hook” of our articles, the “SEO” of our headlines, and the “prestige” of our outlets. But the most compelling hook is honesty. The best SEO is authenticity. And the highest prestige is the freedom to say “I” and mean it.
My name is Mary Chiney. I am a journalist, a critic, and a daughter of Nsukka. But today, more than anything else, I am the author of this moment. I am no longer just seeing Jane write; I am Jane. And I am finally writing for me.
3 Lessons for the “Professional” Writer Looking to Find Her Human Voice
If you find yourself stuck in the “expert” trap, here are three ways to start reclaiming your personal narrative:
1. The “Delete the Subject” Exercise
Take a piece of writing you’ve done recently, a report, a review, or a blog post. Remove every mention of the subject and see what’s left of you. If there’s nothing left but dry facts, go back and insert one sentence that only you could have written. Mention a smell, a memory, or a specific fear that the topic triggered in you. That is where your real voice lives.
2. Write Your “Shadow Pitch”
Every time you pitch a “professional” story to an editor, write a “shadow pitch” for yourself. If the professional pitch is “The Evolution of Women in Reggaeton,” the shadow pitch might be “Why I finally felt brave enough to dance in public.” You don’t have to publish the shadow pitch (yet), but you must write it. It keeps the channel between your heart and your hands open.
3. Find Your Altar
In West African culture, we understand the importance of sacred spaces. Your writing needs an altar—a space where “reputation” doesn’t matter. Whether it’s a physical desk, a specific notebook, or a community like See Jane Write, you need a place where you can be “unreputable.” A place where you can be messy, uncertain, and profoundly human.
The world has enough critics. It has enough reporters. What it needs are more women who are brave enough to be the authors of their own lives. So, pick up your pen. The deadline is now. And the subject? The subject is you.
Mary Chiney is a culture journalist and critic who explores the intersections of music, identity, and heritage for publications such as The Quietus, Afrocritik, and Beats Per Minute. An alumna with an extensive background in cultural analysis and entertainment.