“And then came August, the black month.”1
My dear friend told me that it’s chic to take a summer hiatus. How European, she said, like when the city is drained of people, the buildings flutter and expand with the heat. Crispy linens yellow on the line. Everyone is gone away to the coasts, sliding in and out of the water and shaking sand out of their clothes. The roads could fry an egg, and no one would eat it. It’s too hot to write in July, so I haven’t been writing. I’ve dedicated myself to spongedom. Summer is for absorbing; a sea anemone with a mouth full of sand and little scotch tape fingers. Lying on the beach and listening to conversations drifting from nearby towels. “Pretending” not to see a seagull stealing a cube of cheese from a neglected platter. I have no sense of allegiance. I take my journal with me to the beach, but the only thing I manage to write is a screed against LA.
I hate LA. I hate the smog. I hate the streets clogged with cars, tonsil stones collecting in the folds of the throat. I hate the prettiest house I’ve ever seen; too far gone for repair, too alive to kill. I hate the golden light. I hate the fruits and nuts. California sobriety. Going to bed at 11 pm. I hate the writing. I hate the freaks taking Zoom calls at Canyon Coffee. I hate the skyline and the Pepsi tower and the fact that every time I see the Hollywood sign, I say “Look, the Hollywood sign!” because well, there it is. I hate that all the clothes are good, and all the outfits are bad. I hate that everything I’ll ever say has already been said, and if I’m lucky, no one will remember I was ever here.
Yikes. I think I’ve been wrongfully equating LA with the month of August. August consistently coincides with the lowest point of my year; the sun is relentless, the bugs come inside, everything is ending and it’s Your Fault! For four Augusts in a row now, I’ve had a Personal Crisis come to a grisly head. I’ve lost the ability to enjoy food, music, or write a single word. I’ve come to expect it at this point.
Last night I took a walk and realized I might actually love it here. A walk will do that to you. I went to a poetry night at a friend’s house, and one of my fellow attendees exclaimed: “Everything is okay! We’re in LA.” And two of us were so moved that we wrote it down in our notebooks. I reached inner peace. I’ve accepted that I am blissfully conventional. Sometimes I even enjoy a trip to Erowhon, just to browse. I’m just some guy “borrowing” an egg roll from the hot bar. Nothing to see here.
I suppose I have been writing, just not on Substack. I’m not really sure how to write for this platform anymore. Substack has been feeling so insular, so atomized, so full of essays that start and end with reference to the platform.2 The writing discourse has reached a tipping point. I’ve been really steaming, fixing to write an essay about how writing has gotten BAD, everything is oversaturated, and the world is ending, but luckily Emily Sundberg beat me to it.3 If you’ve been following the discourse, you’ll know that the responses to her essay have been mixed. A lot of people are frustrated with seeing themselves reflected in the critique, and many writers feel that they’re catching strays that would be better leveled at the Substack revenue model. There are a lot of “mean girl” accusations flying around in the comments, suggesting that the essay is a sendup of fledgling writers or a deterrent to their participation in the Substack praise economy. This critique seems to neglect a central part of Sundberg’s argument, which discusses popular newsletters and the content they put out behind a paywall. These aren’t “fledgling” writers, they’re creators with enough followers to charge for access to their work. I resonate with this part of the essay; it’s exhausting to see paywalled content that feels like it’s there to check a box. I also understand why some writers feel wrongfully blamed for an issue that goes all the way to the top. It seems that Sundberg’s main grievance isn’t with the writers themselves but with Substack’s business model and the kind of work it encourages. I have to admit, I share some of her frustration with the quality of writing and uniformity on this platform. Still, it’s hard to hold it against writers who paywall listicles or diary entries, when monetization is the hallmark of a successful newsletter. Money is time, and paywalled content provides writers with the financial security to invest time back into their work, generating more expansive or refined pieces. It’s frustrating that monetization has such a big impact on the content we produce, but that has less to do with the writers and more to do with the economy within which we write.
I’ve also read a lot of resonant critiques4 of Sundberg’s essay from people who feel that the profusion of writing can only be a good thing. Generally, I disagree. I’m disturbed by the drastic increase in writing and “writers”5 for the same reason I’m disturbed by accelerating trend cycles in fashion, social media virality, mutated growth patterns, and our cultural tendency to equate “better” with “more.” It feels like an extension of the ethos of hypercapitalism, which prioritizes creating over reflecting, and encourages participation for the sake of participation alone. The explosion of writing is not so much a cultural indicator, but an economic one. More writing means more revenue for Substack. Another reason this argument bothers me is that a lot of great writing is neglected by the Substack algorithm: fiction, poetry, experimental formats, or work that generally does not follow prescribed methods of generating engagement often falls by the wayside. The deluge of clickbait-worthy pieces complicates visibility for writers taking a less conventional approach to the platform. If you Google how to grow your publication on Substack, most of the articles you’ll find suggest the same things: stay general, refrain from too much editing or filtering, give the people what they want! If you’re a writer looking for a place to share work that is niche or unusual, Substack might be a difficult place to gain a following, and that realization can be frustrating.
That being said, I understand and encourage disagreement. My guess is that opinions on this will vary depending on why people joined Substack in the first place. For some, Substack is a digital portfolio for a future, hypothetical MFA application. Or maybe it’s an opportunity to catalog and categorize your opinions on books, movies, etc, and share them with others. Maybe it’s a digital diary, an archive, or part of a broader journalistic pursuit. The diversity in reasons for writing on Substack might explain some of the variation in opinions regarding Sundberg’s essay. It’s understandable that someone using Substack for journalism would feel differently about the proliferation of listicles and digital diary entries than someone who has had success with that kind of writing. It also makes sense that we would compare ourselves, and even dismiss the success of writers who take a different approach, based on our own experiences. It can be difficult to see someone succeed on the same platform, especially when they’re using an approach that appears to expend less energy or require less research and reflection. Even if that’s not true, it’s hard not to feel resentment when it’s so obvious what kinds of work the algorithm favors. Differences in goals are significant, and it’s probably unrealistic to hold other writers to a standard they might not share. To this point, Sundberg writes:
Creating content with the goal of making money off of it is different than creating content with the goal of getting likes, is different than creating content with the goal of being creative and connecting with other people.
At the end of Sundberg’s article, she admits that a lot of her paywalled work centers around link roundups, which she is careful to specify requires both internal and external research. This clarification is interesting; it seems to indicate an awareness of the work that goes into the listicle approach to Substack, coupled with the desire to distance herself from the typical “writer” of that content form. But is there a difference? The essay critiques an approach to the platform that Sundberg herself is guilty of participating in; most of us are. If you scroll through her other pieces, they include some roundups, reports, and an AMA. After a while, writing on Substack involves some degree of drinking the Kool-Aid. Making lists, writing about writing, and writing about Substack performs well! If you want your work to be noticed — and let’s be honest, that’s a big part of why we’re here — you’ll write about what you must to get there. For instance: why can’t I leave this piece unpublished? Honestly, I’m not sure. Much like Sundberg, I’m critiquing the same sort of work that I’m complicit in creating: here’s an essay about how there are too many essays that try to engage with the algorithm, trying to engage with the algorithm. The value in this kind of piece might be incremental, providing little beyond a break in my August writer’s block.
I don’t want to be prescriptive. I’d rather there be a portion of writing that is uninteresting to me personally, than a sole emphasis on writing that fits into existing institutional standards of quality. It reminds me of this article about the diversity of perspectives in literary fiction, and the subsequent effects of homogenization.6 In general, the author observes a trend toward literary “purity”; an increase in uniformity driven by perceived norms and the fear of deviating too far away from an acceptable standard. In this case, that standard might be the Substack essay built around a Tweet, the listicle, the rumination on girlhood, or anything that has, to some effect, already been written. It’s safe to write one of these pieces, and it’s likely to receive a positive response, but it also compounds homogeneity. Paradoxically, I think this flood of sameness can be traced back to the cultural emphasis on individualism, and our obsession with demonstrating that individuality. Substack feeds the illusion that we are all the main character, holding some invaluable insight that is distinct and absolute. In reality, the platform reveals just how similar we all are; how simple, how conventional our aspirations tend to be, and the fiscal opportunity that lies in our desire to be central.
In a landscape where algorithms dictate everything, and certain kinds of writing clearly conform to those algorithms, it’s hard not to feel that the increase in “content” writing is its own kind of censorship. To quote from the Decentralized Fiction piece above: “we don’t have a publishing system so much as we have a nominally decentralized, functionally centralized conformity system.” By boosting the visibility of certain kinds of writing, the Substack algorithm ensures that more of that writing is produced. From an economic standpoint, it’s clear why this is happening. More essays, more individuals, more traffic to the site, and more revenue. Consequently, there’s a lot of appeal in writing a “safe” piece; something tried and true, with little risk of social fallout and a good chance of payoff. I’ve felt this pressure in my own work; there is a distinct drop in views/likes for my non-essay pieces, or work that doesn’t attempt to engage the algorithm. It makes me feel a whole lot less motivated to write those kinds of pieces, and way more inclined to write pieces like this one, that engage with an existing discourse or conversation that centers Substack itself. This begs the question: if we’re only writing something because it performs well, then why are we writing at all? If you’ve read this far, you’ve probably already determined that I’m the wrong person to ask.
Here’s a good spot for a hefty grain of salt. As discussed above, my perspective is complicated by my reasons for using Substack. My perception of “successful” work is influenced by a lot of subjective factors: my Substack network and peers, my Notes feed, my attitudes and frustrations about writing. I think there is a ton of genuinely great work on Substack, not to mention a diversity of work from voices/perspectives you likely wouldn’t get from traditional publications. One of my favorite things about this piece by Alex Brown is how they rebuff Sundberg’s argument by including links to a ton of popular (and diverse) pieces on the Substack leaderboard. To me, this reveals just how subjective our relationship with the platform is. I think a big part of why people bristled at Sundberg’s piece was her use of the term “literate walled garden” to describe the app. Not only does that response make sense, but the use of this phrase feels ill-fitting. The appeal of Substack lies in its accessibility and rejection of the exclusivity surrounding traditional publishing. There are no walls here. If you (like me) are feeling dissatisfied with the work you’re seeing, the solution might require a little legwork; going out of your way to read smaller newsletters, seeking out unlikely perspectives, and scrolling past the work you don’t resonate with in search of what does. It also might involve a bit of introspection about writing as a whole, and a reconsideration of the effort and intention we invest in that work. I believe that reflection, revision, and experimentation are techniques that will not only strengthen the literary atmosphere but also cultivate writing that resists the pull of the algorithm.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you need me, I’ll be sweating a chalk outline of my body onto my bed, and waiting for August to be over. ☞
From Last Summer in the City, Gianfranco Calligarich
Irony not lost here.
I don’t actually think writing has “gotten bad” per se, it’s definitely more complicated than that. I just like catastrophizing <3
References/Related Essays:
The Machine in the Garden, Emily Sundberg
I couldn’t help but wonder, who gets to be a writer?, Postcards by Elle
Who’s Even a Writer Anyway, Alex Brown
Substack User and Revenue Statistics — Backlinko
Quotes included because, as Sundberg explores in her essay, the meaning of the term “writer” has become a lot more elusive, more akin to content creator or brand manager, etc.
Sent to me by Clara, brilliant friend and author of Blind Spot, one of my favorite Substacks
excellent as always
This was a great piece. I love your descriptive prose--how fresh it feels; like literary fiction yet conversational. But I also appreciate your perspective and how deftly you oscillated between the personal and the topical. Fantastic piece.