Substack Was Supposed to Be About Writing
I wasn’t expecting to measure myself every time I hit publish.
I’m looking at the stats for my latest post, feeling the disappointment like an anchor pulling me under. An all too familiar feeling for me.
I admit, posting day is exciting for me. If you’re posting on Substack maybe you feel that same rush…
I see my words on the screen and I get giddy by the formatting.
Strategically highlighting key points. Finding something to pull into a quote just because words look so regal between the ‘pull quote’ lines. And then…the final exhilarating moment.
I click that beautiful orange Publish button.
Every week my inner child is there before I hit the button. Impatient, practically buzzing with excitement. She can barely wait to share it. Then she tries hard not to check the phone every five minutes, but she does anyway.
By mid-day her patience stalls. She’s looking at me like something has gone wrong.
That’s when the shift happens. The one I know too well.
It becomes about me. What did I miss? What did I do wrong? That reflex is automatic, before I even notice it creeping up.
I hope your inner child is kinder than my slightly unhinged little she-devil. She frustrates me to no end and she is the love of my life.
I see myself in her manic eyes and instinctively take a step forward.
Her eyes fill, and what I feel underneath it is simple but tangled. Panic. Hurt. Confusion. In my mind, she asks, “Why doesn’t anyone see me? Am I so hard to understand?”
The split in my heart cracks a little more, every time she and I have this conversation, trying to comprehend the gap.
It doesn’t help either of us when I try to logic my way out of it. I can explain timing and engagement but she doesn’t settle for that. So, I stop trying to fix it and just stay with her instead.
My soul-full, kind-hearted darling. Her shoulders are slumping from all the times I’ve shoved my pain into the carry-all on her back.
I love her so much. And still, I ask her to carry what feels too heavy for me. Even inside me, love and harm share space.
But every week, we share our excitement.
And before I click that orange button, I ask two questions:
Does this story mean something to me?
Do I love this story, even if nobody responds to it (or sees it)?
I’m looking at her now as we ask them again. She’s nodding. I’m nodding. Yes, we love our writing.
But…some days it’s really hard to keep writing purely for the love of writing, when every time I open the app, I’m faced with numbers that my mind immediately turns into meaning.
A year ago, I was introduced to Substack.
The thrill I felt when I hit publish on my first post is the same thrill I feel now.
But now I’m aware of how quickly I start measuring myself against the number of hearts at the bottom.
And I don’t like how quickly I start asking what it says about me.
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I feel this. Substack is the only socialesque platform I enjoy and feel safe being seen on. Yet, no one is seeing, or so it seems. I’m not interested in all the tips to make my writing more marketable or going viral, but sometimes it seems I’ve missed the chance to use this place as it was originally intended.