Spiraling on Substack

Reflecting on an unexpected 10 weeks away

A month or two ago, just as I was trying to get down my next round of earth-shattering thoughts for Substack, my husband read aloud to me this excerpt from the intro of The Shallows, by Nicholas Carr:

[In] the long run a medium’s content matters less than the medium itself in influencing how we think and act… Our focus on a medium’s content can blind us to these deep effects. We’re too busy being dazzled or disturbed by the programming to notice what’s going on inside our heads. In the end, we come to pretend that the technology itself doesn’t matter. It’s how we use it that matters, we tell ourselves. The implication, comforting in its hubris, is that we’re in control.

This spoke directly to a feeling that had been stirring in me — an awareness of my increasingly less-than-healthy (I won’t say toxic) relationship with Substack. It unsettled me and left me abandoning my post, closing my laptop, wanting to disengage from every last online platform that somehow, inevitably, brings out my darkest, most competitive, most self-deprecating nature.

Early this year, I committed to Substack as a healthy alternative to traditional social media: my safe haven to read, write, and engage with healthier minds than my own, nurturing me back to an improved ability to think for myself, to engage with strangers from a place of curiosity and kindness rather than from a perpetual sense of inferiority or resentment.

But quickly — too quickly! — I turned Substack inside out. I discovered so many talented writers, and instead of basking in this access and these gems, I saw only their subscriber counts, noticed only their typos or logical fallacies. Why should she have 5,000 subscribers while I have plateaued at a meager 180? I quickly found reasons why I was better than this person, why she didn’t deserve this success (i.e. subscribers), why the world was unjust and pitted against me. I’d then turn to Substack posts on how to grow my Substack — what tips and tricks and strict schedules I should adhere to. I spent my little spare time note-taking on growth strategies, rather than letting myself enjoy someone else’s creative expression. The joy of exploration and writing in this new space, getting to know this new version of myself and this room for my thoughts, evaporated and was replaced by overwhelming feelings of dread and inadequacy. Dread that I had to come up with something new to say next week, and inadequacy for reaching so few readers (and with such dull thoughts).

In the midst of this self-hatred and discontent, Nicholas Carr’s words were a slap in the face. I had the audacity to think I could escape the effects of technology? I thought I could hide from my darkest nature? That I could use this as a tool, rather than be used by it?

Moments like this make me fearful. Maybe too fearful — I don’t know — of my own brain’s programming and obvious lack of autonomy. Am I really so easily influenced, so predictable? Do I truly lack the little self-discipline I thought it would take to remain focused on what matters (writing, exploring, connecting with the joy of this all) and to remove myself from the ever-lurking forces of evil (hyper-connectivity that feels draining and invites my hyper-competitive self to every interaction)? My shame jumped at this opportunity to scold me, to put me back in my place and far away from Substack.

Wormsloe State Historic Site in Savannah, Georgia. One of the places my husband and I visited during this time far away from Substack :)

Over the last few weeks, though, I have missed this space and the original intention I brought here. I also notice that I’ve carried our separation with a heaviness — every day that I’ve avoided writing anything here has felt like a cloud growing a tiny bit heavier and darker each day, the weight of a storm always threatening my peace.

This energy has drifted into my book writing now, too. I thought I was keeping my book writing space safe and sacred by removing myself entirely from writing in online spaces, but I’ve carried the toxicity into my manuscript writing sessions.

My book that started as self-help title has transformed into an episodic memoir. This happened organically, because my writing led me that way — a wandering path of authentic curiosity and joy. But over the last few weeks, I’ve had more and more writing sessions that started off with dread: How can I possibly come up with content for a book anybody would care to read? Who cares at all what I have to write about? Questions not at all helpful or encouraging of a visit from The Muse.

During this tender time, I read Dolly Alderton’s Everything I Know About Love (thank you, Claire!) — a beautifully constructed, very entertaining, episodic memoir — in the name of seeking inspiration. Instead, I had a surge of jealousy followed by a slew of judgment. How is it that Dolly managed to rise from the ashes of her chaotic self to her current standing as a successful writer? Why should she have published several books already, have such a wide readership? Her writing isn’t all that.

First of all, her writing is all that! I love her writing. It feels fresh and honest — two qualities I admire. I’m ashamed at myself for ever trying to put her down, to pretend like I’m far above her, to engage in such deluded and grotesque thinking. Second, even if you feel her writing is not all that (we all have our own tastes), she has had the audacity to do what I have not: to show up. To put herself out there. Something I so deeply envy, I can hardly bear when others do it.

I told my friend that I’m writing an episodic memoir and how embarrassed I am to say that out loud. She (again, Claire. Thank you Claire!) kindly and generously encouraged me with these words: It’s not like you’re forcing your book down anybody’s throat.

True! In my head, me writing anything at all is the equivalent of me shouting to any and all of my friends and family: read this, OR ELSE. And that is of course a mortifying notion. That I have to force my loved ones to read anything at all, and that it’s my own work, meaning now it must dazzle them or else I lose all respect. What a horrible, suffocating way to explore writing (or anything at all). I don’t know where this way of thinking originated, but it’s so freeing to remember that we are all free to write, read, speak, think, create as we please. And nobody at all has to care. And, for the most part, nobody at all will care! That’s so liberating.

This is a lesson I keep having to learn and relearn in life. Another time someone taught me this was at my first job. I’ve struggled with chronic eczema my whole life, and get particularly bad flare-ups every few weeks or months — on my face, my neck, my arms, my legs, sometimes all over, sometimes concentrated in one spot. I woke to angry red blotches and cracked lips one morning, and dreaded showing up in our well-lit office. I tried to hide my face all day and would cringe when I noticed anybody walking over to our desk pod. Finally, my co-analyst said, from a place of genuine love, Miriam, nobody cares about you.

Nobody cares. Nobody cares! Sure, there are plenty of people who care about my well-being, who wish well for me. But nobody cares if I have red blotches on my face. Nobody cares if I publish a few embarrassing Substack posts or write a mediocre book. People may take note, may comment to themselves, may even go so far as to comment to one another, and then… they will return to their own lives and their only consistent care: themselves and their own worlds. As we all do. No one has ever gone home and written in their journal: Miriam’s eczema looked so gross today! Cracked lips, red rash around her mouth, and a suspiciously swollen patch of skin behind her right earlobe. Yuck! (And if someone has, I think we can safely assume that is a more accurate reflection of their state of unhappiness in life than of my potential, or my success, or my deservedness of joy, etc.)

I still don’t feel like I have a clear understanding / grasp on how to engage in spaces like Substack such that they are truly complementary to and enriching of my real-life, analog experience in the world. But I’d like to try again, and to give myself enough space and grace to experiment with engaging here in a way that feels like it supports my health, my growth, my relationships. And not to get so dazzled or disturbed by the programming that I return to the hubris of believing I’m in control at the very same time that I spiral into the abyss of judgment or envy.

So thank you for your patience through my silence (if you did notice, or even happen to care a bit 😂) and thank you for joining this space of creative exploration and engagement that is not structured, marketed, or clearly defined for me or for you.

My intention, for now, is to return to this online space as often as feels energizing. I think that will be with a semi-regular frequency again, but I can’t be sure! I’m told it will help to promote my book (the same goes for re-activating an Instagram presence… which I may dare to be bold enough to do as an author account (gasp! but i haven’t even published anything! embarrassing! but nobody cares!)), and I believe that would be true. But that lures me back into that devastating numbers game again, and I’m committed to neglecting that game and all its dirty rules for as long as I possibly can!

So maybe, one day, my book will find its publisher. And then, one day, one of you will buy it and even read it. Or maybe not.

In any case, in the meantime, I will continue to enjoy the process of exploring my edges — analog and digital both — as I write it.

☺️