the curse of a viral substack post

why am i doing this

An amazing thing happened: I stumbled across a meaningful Substack Note.

It was written by Michael Rance of Three Chairs. I’m going to post the screenshot real big so hopefully you can read it, but if not, the link is here:

I was stunned by (grateful for) the honesty and insight with which this was written—it was so honest that I considered it brave. I also read it with a deep sense of relief. Like, yes, thank God, someone else feels this too.

Looking through Michael’s Substack, I have to wonder if his feelings developed after August 31, 2024. That’s when he wrote a post that got about 2,500 likes. Then February 4, a post with 444 likes. I recognize this pattern. On December 14, 2024, I wrote a post that got about 2,500 likes. On September 2, one with 599.

I felt excited to have newsletters that “hit,” like my work was actually getting seen and strangers were resonating with it. I still feel gratitude for that, because I know I’m lucky for somehow hitting the algorithmic jackpot (and that’s what I think it is, as I’ve read many, many incredible Substack posts with 2 likes). I’m grateful that I have ever written anything that other people read and think, “Yes, thank you, I’ve felt that too.”

But I didn’t know that those posts were also the beginning of a curse.

pictures of myself are solely taken for the purpose of this fckin app now

The curse is exactly as Michael described it. I find myself thinking about something I want to write—for example, this week, a post on surrender—quickly followed by another thought, estimating how well it would “perform.” This week I looked at my dashboard and for the first time in months, saw the number go down. I’m sure it’s going to happen this week too! I feel weirdly embarrassed admitting this!

With dear diary, I created a world for myself to write whatever I want and see if anything stuck with anyone out there. At the beginning, I wasn’t thinking about numbers. I was just thinking about what I had to say and how I wanted to say it. It was an exercise in self-expression. It still is, but now it is layered with something more complicated: it has become a sneaky measure of success or failure based on how it is received.

I’m not sure my writing needs any more barometers of failure. Like, we’re good there. I’m already hard on myself when my word count slows down, when I’m not revising fast enough. There are short fiction rejections, workshop rejections, and soon there will be agent rejections. Does my subscriber count have to be another one? Does a low like count have to feel like a weird public shame?

And the truth is, a low like count or loss of subscribers often feels like it is not just a marker of my writing as a failure, but myself, too. Low engagement with the work can feel like my thoughts, my feelings, my life just aren’t interesting enough. I feel like I annoyed someone when they unsubscribe, like they checked their inbox and were like, wait sorry, who is this bitch? Like they’ve had enough of me and they don’t care to keep up anymore, like I’m not worthy of their attention.

I, like Michael, am nauseated by this experience. I know it is rarely that personal or serious. Sometimes I feel genuinely disgusted by myself for caring so much, for putting metrics over the work itself. At the same time, I know it’s not really my fault. Social media has trained me to care. The little dopamine hits have taught me to value likes and subscribers over the thing that I actually care about, the thing that fulfills my sense of purpose, which goes so much deeper than cheap dopamine hits: the writing itself.

Now, over a year into using Substack, is it possible to return to valuing writing over metrics?

This post is perhaps hitting your inbox at the worst possible time. This Wednesday, I have an essay coming out with Sub Club about how to maintain a weekly Substack while working on a novel. I realize this may seem like it contradicts that essay. Do I want to encourage people to write a weekly Substack after realizing how mine has changed my brain chemistry?

I still think the net gains I’ve made on Substack are greater than the losses. I have never written so consistently, so honestly as I have on this platform. I feel more confident in my writing and its worthiness of being seen. I love your comments, not because they provide dopamine hits or validation but because you guys always have the smartest, most interesting elaborations on my posts and I just genuinely feel lucky to read them. I think Substack can be a beautiful platform for self-expression and community-building.

I just have got to relate to it differently. I care too much about dear diary and about my writing to let metrics and engagement make me feel bad about it. It’s occurring to me this very second that I should toggle off email notifications. I should never again see another email about who liked a post. It’s so funny that, even after writing all this, I feel resistant. I like those emails, I like those dopamine hits. But I think they’re stealing my joy. I have to make my joy the most important thing. If I want to preserve the sanctity of the writing, the work itself, I think I have to remove every possible joy disruptor. I know how my brain works. It likes the dopamine too much. I want to keep writing, and to keep writing, I need to lean into what I like more than the dopamine. The pleasure and satisfaction of expression.

Something about just reading Michael’s note healed me a little bit. I guess that’s the power of seeing you’re not alone. I’ve barely looked at my dashboard this week—I’ve actually barely been on this app. And I’ve started to realize that, what I really care about more than a high subscriber count, is the way that readers feel when they read my posts. dear diary is my own little corner of the internet. I want it to be warm and cozy, a place that’s there for you if you need it. You can pop in and out, stay a while, leave for a bit. I just want to write honestly and hopefully make you feel understood or curious or inspired along the way. The rest is just numbers. The rest is a distraction from joy.

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