30 days of aggrandizing
thousands of things that should not have been thought
I vacillate constantly between writing about writing and writing about life. In terms of volume, it's probably 50/50 right now.
This marks 30 days since I began actively promoting my writing. I define promoting loosely, as in: I’ve been talking about my writing to people who otherwise wouldn’t have found it. I don’t like self promotion. I suppose I could call it advocating or championing, but those have their own icky connotations too. My first Notes post said this:
I’m gonna try trying.
Just a little tho, cause I really don’t want people to think that I’m trying.
I had posted a couple things before this (like 2 restacks), months and months ago when I started writing on Substack. At the time I wasn't really ready for people to read my stuff. I wanted people to find my writing organically, whatever that means. Really I wanted them to find it mystically. I somehow knew I couldn’t handle it if I actually made an effort to gain readers. This time, I didn’t try a little like I said I would. This time things got really out of hand.
I'm new to this promoting my writing game, and it seems like the people promoting their writing are experts in talking about how to write. I must have let their personality disorder infect me a little. By the way, if you are a writer who writes about writing, and that offended you, please know that I have my own personality disorders, and its ok to talk about it. Your sensitivity is welcome here.
Some days I wrote stuff that was kinda like: hey! I'm not promoting my writing! look over here! I'm not doing it! Those posts drove me crazy, but they were also true to how I felt that moment, so I let them fly. Other days I wrote jokes:
Embarrassing things I'm doing this month
writing
talking to strangers: hey there fella! i never say fella what is wrong with you get it together
breathing: why is it so loud i am so out of shape don't look at me
trying to be funny: laugh at me! wait, stop, no, it's not funny.
I did all my promoting on Substack, so all of this is gonna sound like a circlejerk, especially to Substack writers. Like this one:
Gonna mute you if you post pictures of typeset words on a simple background. This isn't Instagram. I can read difficult words in long paragraphs with less colors, and get more out of it. Stop fucking up my attention span.
I endeavor to finish. big period. finish my novel this month, which was supposed to be finished last month, but I stumbled on stumbling all over myself with Substack, so I kinda fumbled my goal. I might send out a poem or two, but I'm not gonna send out my normally scheduled newsletter so I can focus on finishing the novel. It lives in one of my tabs on the page labeled "fictions," if you're interested.
I bet nobody really cares if I send out a newsletter weekly, but it weighs on the writer who feels connected to their audience. I often feel like one thing is gonna make, or break my writing career. It’s like I’m fantasizing that I have a writing career and I might be missing that golden post, or possibly posting the one that will decay my efforts eternally. It’s not even a career, I’m goofing around with words in my free time and some people read them. The heaviness is that I spend so much of my life doing it. Really I’m just afraid. I don't need to feel like more of a failure, so this paragraph was for me, sorry.
Besides all the writing about writing and substacking and funnies I wrote practical wisdoms:
If you want the result, pay the price. If you know the price, and you don't like it, don’t pay it, walk away. You are allowing your feelings to win over a deeper desire, tainting the result. Even if you get the result, when you don’t like the price, and do it anyways, you won’t like it.
It is that simple. Don't complain that you had to pay a price that you knew of beforehand. You are not being tricked, you are sabatoging yourself.
I’m not saying you should do what I did, or that we know the price of getting more views. Some people stumble into more readership by journaling a couple paragraphs on their first post; in comparison to my cumulative efforts, which I could quantify, but it doesn’t really matter, most comparisons don’t. I’m not even mad, that’s pretty cool, it’s probably more fair than life. I have a pretty amazing life, that’s what allows me to spend so much time writing.
I didn’t plan this journey. I was blindly all in, like I was surprising myself with a new life. I didn’t set aside 30 days to change my newsletter’s trajectory, it just happened.
But, just so you can understand how much energy I put into these 30 days, I wrote 5,000 words in a file on my computer that never even got sent into the internet. That doesn’t sound like a lot, but I was also writing my newsletter, crafting new poems, and inching along with my novel; and working of course. The thoughts were constant. They were each written as a separate thought, so I'd estimate that's around 300 worthy thoughts, 10 per day that I didn't post. I also posted between 3 and 5 per day, as well as commenting on probably 5 posts per day. Not bullshit comments mind you, often I wrote considerate three paragraph responses to some questions. I didn't hate it, it felt nice connecting with people who had worthy questions, or sometimes just joking around with some folks I came to like by participating. I'm exhausted from playing this game. It is fun though, it was kinda like this:
Me: you don't owe them anything!
Also me: clicks like, comments, clicks like, restack, restack, is this too much? clicks like, restack, clicks like, Notes post, Notes post, new comments to like, MUST RESPOND
I now have a healthy following and people consistently liking my posts, people that I actually like. That's really different from how I felt last month. Before I started playing promotional games, on average every fourth post would get a single like, lots of big ZEROS. Now each one gets 5 on average, even when I don't send out an email about it. It sounds small, but the delta is huge, like 2,000% huge. That's real math, I checked it and everything. I won’t be sharing my subscriber count cause I still think that’s a worthless metric.
I don’t need people to press a button on my post, but it is nice to know that someone cared enough to read the whole thing. There’s no measurement for that, which kinda bugs me. I don’t even know what statistic to look at. They are all worthless in terms of actionable data, which might actually be good for me, ‘cause if I did have some data point to care about, it would probably poison my creativity. Numbers are fun, however, and there's no way I can sustain this growth even if that’s what I wanted, but it is cool to look at things that way. I also used my Notes log as a journal while I was working. That's more important to me, how I felt during the experience. The following is a chronicle of those feelings.
I just clicked that magnifying glass tab, the one called search. It has the structure of: you might like this. But it's closer to a feeling of: you! like this! There was a lot of stuff called culture which was just politics. Eek, whoever made that label missed the mark. I didn't last long there. I don't think I'll ever belong in that kind of space. It was scary. I guess people use it. I'm sure people like it when their thingy ends up there, kinda like how people post that oversized FEATURED PUBLICATION BADGE, and I roll my eyes and prepare to read some garbage. I don't mean to trample on people's success, but man, could everyone tone it down? I'm just not that interested. Celebrate with your friends or something, I don't even know you. Why are we so obsessed with internet validation. It makes me sick. Sometimes I post something and wonder if I am one of those people. I probably am. I wrote a bunch of notes to post, then I didn't post them. That's probably good. One of them said:
most of us should just shut the fuck up. shut. the. fuck. up!
damnit! i was so so close!
There was another one too:
aaggGGhhrrrRRghh I’m a hYpoCrite SAVE ME!
I wonder if that awareness is eating away at my resolve to keep doing this. Of the mind fuck that is writing, this is a proper fuck inside the fuck. I'm being fuckceptioned, by myself. You guys are complicit of course, but it's probably nicer not to think about that—watching me Russian stacking doll myself into insanity. Inside of the the writing about writing fuckery, there's the craving to write about writers writing on Stubstack. Most of us fall for it, including me.
Ya subscriber count is trendy n all, but I want that good shit, that obsessive shit, that stalker shit. I want people who read every line and wonder what I thought, who wish they could interview me, that wonder when I'll post something next. That's the next level shit, the type of person who, when asked: hey what are you reading? They talk about me, and they have to hold back because that's how immersed in it they are. Ya, you're cool, you got a few more numbers today. But I don't need those little blips, I'm writing for the good shit. And also I like those little conversations that bubble up when someone reads. That's fun too.
I couldn't post it cause it was too self serving, and I really don't like promoting that, even if it's comedic. So I wrote some other stuff instead.
Perfectionism is extra shit because after you’ve spent all that extra time fixing things, people almost never notice, and then it feels even shittier that you tried. And also it never gets perfect. That's the basic shit part.
I think that’s why I didn’t really post some stuff, it didn’t seem ready. But also, that meant it wasn’t worth writing.
just rushed myself into extra work. nice job, self
So I thought, damn I should have made a plan.
There seem to be visionaries of this world that can see an entire layout of an idea, a way it all connects, a line of action to be taken. Mine is more like outlines of clouds, with a dark grey in the middle. All I can see is little figments of an idea, hints where I may float. In all that obscurity is my future. A greyprint that I can't see. I look in that darkness and wonder... what's next for me, what land might I be carried to, what shape will I arrive in, what parts will I soon lose. In those whispy filaments, I trust in slivered linings.
I think a lot of what I pondered is true, but also there aren't much people to read what I have to say.
just came to the conclusion that I have something worth saying, but also there aren't many people who can hear it. so that's cool
pretty surprised when people like reading my stuff
I get positive sometimes too, and I write that stuff down.
Notes is cool, if you don’t have the energy or ability to get an idea formatted into an essay, you can come here to test your ideas. Most of the time, we have to relieve the brain of oppressive thought, read it in a forum, have people hate or love it, then we can really decide if it part of our comprehensive voice.
Ironically that’s kinda what’s happening right now. I don’t know where all these thoughts should go, or if they should be going anywhere.
Sometimes I like to imagine that there’s a secret society of people who read my stuff, but intentionally don’t interact with it, so they can make sure I’m creating for the right reasons.
And then I’d get all gushy and pathetic poetic about it.
I wrote for one to notice, thought many could replace, but as the numbers grew and grew, it was empty like that place you left, that space I kept, I guess you gave me an eternal gift, the pain to make a page feel stained with what others think is me, but it is that thing you couldn’t take
a memory of us dancing
a dim light that we call emptiness
how many years will it take for me to stop writing for you
But then I question myself with the next thing.
pretty much oscillate between: vomit everything I've ever felt, and: I really should stop writing altogether.
I never really get the response I want from Notes.
sometimes I feel owed something. The world seems to know. It always replies appropriately
My favorite posts get zero interaction.
kinda want my words back
It's so elegant and simple, but I suspect most people don't see that. So I enjoy even more some of my favorite ones from other people getting nothing too.
Really enjoying those zero liked notes, the ones that say something like... I am a happy sunburnt. What do fishes breathe?
But I'm mostly happy when my stuff doesn't get viewed.
Pretty happy I’m invisible sometimes. I be sayin stupid shit too damn much
Often I get more response from a really basic post that I comment on. Usually I'm not even trying. The other person who gets a ton of likes seems not to be trying either, cause the most popular posts are barely worth reading. Then I have these thoughts.
you're stupid, and average and meh. wait... I'm stupid, and average and meh. DAMNIT! we are FUCKED.
The more I complexify my efforts, and my words, the more I notice simplicity effortlessly succeeding
I don't really like coming up with ideas for notes, but they happen anyways, so I write them down. I might compile them one day, and put them in a post. Then you might be reading it and it would be funny, I think. But then I'd probably have to include a: this is how I made a blah blah blah
GOD, I don't care.
A lot of it became too much, I was aware of my self importance. I decided to write instead of posting my graph of success.
Waiting for the perfect moment to snap a pic of my little growth graph so I can show people I’m worth listening to.
I refused to post a picture of my subscriber count in faux celebration. I guess some people are actually excited about it, but the response that those posts receive feels so gross to me. Sometimes I wonder if I was just born rebellious, the self defeating kind, and all my outbursts are towards that end, the end of me, an antithesis of success, for the sake of saying fuck you to it.
Pretty sure I did this substack thing all wrong. I didn't make a plan. I didn't keep a style or a format. I didn't choose a topic. I certainly didn't take anyone's advice. I just recently started using Notes. My best newsletters have been read by like one person, my Mom. And those ones just scare her to death. Jesus, I don't even know if I want to get paid anymore. What the fuck am I doing here.
I sometimes, very rarely, read a newsletter with hundreds of likes. It's well written, it spells things out. There is a rhyme and a reason to the production. It is a production. There is evidence time has been spent crafting this thing. It's validated. It's earned. It's also often, almost always, unbelievably boring. I can't help but hate being spoon fed information. I can't help it. I wish I could. I'd probably be well educated by now if I did. But these people, these word crunchers, they don't fascinate me.
Cause then I’d get all negative.
You're taking up space that could be art, or dogs. And no, I don't care about the justifications. Fuck advertising.
This—just me—trend is making me gag. Hey! AM I THE ONLY ONE (insert obvious and relatable detail about life). IS IT JUST ME??? VALIDATE ME!!
All while I was advertising and trying to be trendy.
The "cultrual" trends you are viewing are almost certainly a microcosm that is curated from your likes, reads, and replies. The world is much bigger than you can see. Any feed is even more restrictive than your worldly vision. Don't forget, it's almost never as it seems.
And I came to the conclusion:
i spend altogether too much time trying to "figure out" Substack. that bothers me. i hope it's worth it.
This went on and on, I still have over 4,000 words in that Notes file of stuff I never posted. I wrote this one like halfway through:
I've got 2,000 words drafted for the sole intent to post to Notes. Is this normal? Am I ok? help.
I might compile them later like I did here, they do seem to follow some fractured thought pattern. Though I did this lazily so I’m not even sure if it’s readable, or if you read any of this. But if you did, and you liked it, you can steal anything next to those pink bars, only two of them got posted to Notes; those two got zero likes so prooobably nobody saw them. I’ll even restack and like your stuff into infinity for your benefit. They are all thoughts I didn’t want anyways.
I’ll leave you with this, the only reason I hit publish on the mess that was this post.
i think the most imporatnt part of this experience is that I think my writing is cool, and I want to share it. Wanting to share is special.