Bad Writing Advice #2: Content be daggumed
The spell of a quiet house, a cup of coffee (cheap, Maxwell House), and little incoherent prayers — and I’m thinking about words and how they give shape.
I read Karen Swallow Prior’s excellent posts about platform (you can read them here and here).
Why do we write?
Most days, I’m here for affirmation. My eagerness for checking stats, subscribers, likes, etc. betrays this. I get a little jolt of joy and pride when someone posts their subscriber count on Notes and I have more (that felt disgusting to write because it’s true).
Nuanced vanity, at least — some of that desire for affirmation is answering the question: “Can I do this? Should I do this?” When the pieces we make are getting “good” numbers it means we’re on to something.
But I wonder when this becomes the only meaning: growth, clicks, views — when the pressure disfigures me from a writer to a content creator.
I read every post about success on Substack. They’re mostly written by people who are successful on Substack because they’re selling other people on how to be successful on Substack.
Content is my current least favorite word in the English language. Something in me dies when I read a post or watch a reel/story/short about “Your content.” The word content implies something of substance and most “content” has an utter lack of it.
I’ve fallen for it. Check my instagram feed for times when I was posting every day. I had nothing to say yet I posted anyways because that’s how you get followers. I even wrote a post about my wife and daughter which I meant, but I realize I wrote it because I hadn’t posted that day. Wretched man that I am.
Words give shape. And in a digital world where nothing is real, content does what we make it to do: nothing. And it’s an insult to words and language to require nothing of them.
You might say “But what about going viral? That’s how you breakthrough.”
Do I really want to create something that can only be compared to a virus?
If that’s the price to gain a bigger platform, reach a larger audience, and realize my dream of becoming a full-time writer, then I wonder if it’s worth it.
I like what Karen said about the work:
Sometimes that something that makes one stand out from the crowd can be an experience, but most of the time it is, more simply, experience. And most experience comes from work. Platforms are built from work you have already done.
You have permission: ignore the pressure from algorithms, platforms, and “easy paths to quick success.” Do the work of making the work mean something. Give yourself the freedom to create as you seek to find what you have to say.
It’ll take a lot longer or “it” may never happen, whatever “it” is.
But writing can take on the feel of working on a car, weeding the garden, or getting breakfast with a good friend: something small that, done well over and over again, paints a picture of faithfulness and care, and becomes a gift to someone.
When I do that, when I stumble towards the calling of shaping something meaningful, I can feel … content.
Maybe I do like the word.
This is so beautifully put and said. I feel the same and often wonder this too. Writing should feel like a good cup of coffee conversation, which is sometimes too is meant only for a small intimate few. Words are sacred and that means it’s to be treated as such.
Your perspective captured what I’ve thought in such a unique way. Well done!
“Do I really want to create something that can only be compared to a virus?”
That is a brilliant comparison. This entire post is layered with incredible perspective. Thank you for sharing