The rise of platforms like Substack make it easy for anyone to publish their work, but does it come at the cost of the art of writing?
By ABHINAYA KASAGANI — akasagani@ucdavis.edu
I first made my way onto Substack — an online publishing platform for writers and creatives — in the fall of 2022, deliberating for months before posting a disorganized listicle that should’ve never seen the light of day. I occasionally wish I had been too young at the time to have free rein over the Internet, because some parental controls might’ve saved me the embarrassment of splaying my personhood recklessly for the masses to see. If you manage to find my Substack after this, I ask that you not let it color your perception of me.
The rise of Substack, which launched in 2017, is remarkable. The publishing platform is designed to allow its users to produce long-form essays or multimedia content without the hassle of situating it in the cultural dialogue by adhering to journalistic style rules. Ironically, a post on Medium claimed that Substack “[empowers] creators and journalists to build a better internet […] growing exponentially while other platforms [are] declining.”
In recent years, the digital gates of publishing have opened themselves to anyone and everyone willing to enter, democraticising literature and journalism. Without having to jump through the hoops of traditional publishing, people are more compelled to share their ideas with the world — feeling less intense judgment from their peers makes it an effective mode of communication. The marketing pitch goes something like this: If it’s accessible to everyone, why not try your hand at it? Even if it’s a shot in the dark, take a stab at it via pencil or keyboard, and maybe you’ll eventually find something valuable to say by its end.
The Internet, however, has conscripted the population into the role of passive consumers, which the people have made no attempts to disprove. Posting now has become a means of performing identity; of translating the private to the public. While it is an accessible form of communication (one that rarely requires payment), the rise of self-publishing reads as a widespread encouragement of personal branding.
Take Charli XCX, for instance — her move to Substack essentially extends her curated identity into the journalist sphere. Readers fall under the illusion that they know her, as if she is “relatable,” despite fundamental differences in lifestyle. She spends a large part of her Substack post attempting to convince her audience that being a “pop star” isn’t all it’s made out to be — that it’s occasionally embarrassing.
More broadly, other celebrities — for example, Rosalia, Pamela Anderson and Lena Dunham — have made their way to Substack, compiling their thoughts into an almost public diary; mimicking a time when celebrities like Halsey and Lana Del Rey were releasing poetry books despite having no prior literary training or experience. Their unwarranted peddling of content feels as if it sidelines the actual craft of writing in favor of gaining attention or profit. Despite how the ease of publishing allows the influx of content to grow, not all of it is immediately worthwhile — so, choose wisely.
While it is interesting to consider the earlier connotations of self-published works being disregarded for their informality, such platforms now make it easier by removing any need for micromanagement. When one isn’t preoccupied with the other aspects of literary production, they become more available for the task at hand. Substack tracks your metrics and increases your visibility so there are none of the usual unnecessary channels to go through: One does not need to find editors and publishers or vie for approval.
But the craft of journalistic writing is a craft nonetheless. Now that your work is spoonfed to an audience and can bypass the often-embarrassing “like-share-subscribe” model, what do you have to lose? The question that arises here is: Is publishing something online all it takes to be a writer, or is there more to it?
While platforms like Substack might encourage people to peddle their personas through their work, they forget that “branding” isn’t why we write. This curation-focused drafting and rewriting of public personas in order to perform as a “writer” is simply a facade without the skills that require sustained thinking about topics of interest.
Nowadays, you can be anything when self-proclaimed; even with purely regurgitated gibberish masked in the form of hot takes, life advice, self-mythologizing and self-depracating accounts of one’s recent weeks (which do no one any good), you can call yourself a “writer.” The argument becomes less about skill and more about artistic intent — sure, writing can be just as cathartic as it is revelatory, but there is a thin line between the private and public where one can just as easily offer their diary up to the next buyer for the price of an average subscription fee.
I hate to be the one to break it to you, but” writing does not a writer make.” If the act of writing is simultaneously meant to be an interrogation, a revision and a production, one would have to consider more than just the traction a piece of writing gains. It brings with it certain responsibilities: openness to suggestions, criticisms and other sustained ways of considering the world.
I have a professor who loves to say that the act of writing is difficult, because if it were easy, everyone would do it. Sometimes, it is disillusioning to learn that anyone can be a published writer at the click of a button. While I think it is wonderful that publishing platforms like these have made published writing accessible, I disapprove of the idea that getting words on the page automatically confers the status of “writer.”
While recognizing that having a voice is not synonymous with having an audience, one must consider not only the accessibility of the communication mode but also their individual ability to be impactful. Those who can’t do, no longer teach — instead, they’ve taken to their digital soapbox, writing about their experience “doing” in hopes that they eventually get closer to any semblance of a point.
Written by: Abhinaya Kasagani— akasagani@ucdavis.edu
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