give up on the sizzle
On Substack and writing against the tide.
Hey there, friends. Tethered Letter-adjacent post forthcoming, housekeeping and inside baseball and such. As always, what I write is AI-free and Midwestern organic.
In February of 2023, Substack posted their “economic engine for culture” vision. I’m pretty sure I read this when it first popped up and moved on with my life. But today I went back to it. It offered a few guiding principles:
“Great work is valuable and deserves to be rewarded with money. That means that publishers should have a way to make a living, or even a fortune, from doing the work they believe in. Money is the fuel that makes the entire engine work, and it’s a healthier, more honest metric than “eyeballs” or engagement.
The people have the power. That means that publishers own their content and relationship with their subscribers, that they have complete editorial control, and that they keep the lion’s share of the revenue generated on the platform. It also means that readers and consumers choose who they enter subscription relationships with.
A free press and free speech are fundamental to a trustworthy media system. That means we take a hands-off approach to content moderation and instead support community moderation, where publishers set their own terms of engagement for their community, and readers choose which communities suit them.
We help readers take back their minds. On Substack, you are the customer. We want to help you be intentional in determining your media diet. We don’t seek to trap you in an attention game that can never be won, and instead we want to help you find and spend time with work that you deeply value.”
What attracted me to Substack when I joined in 2020 was principles like this. Have full control over my own words (what I write). Have full control over my own mind (what I read). Maybe even get paid a little to do what I love. Substack offered the prospect of a simpler writing experience for me and a cleaner reading experience for readers. Five years later, it still has that going for it.
In retrospect, however, two things pop out to me from this “economic engine” announcement. First, the subtitle of the article was “What comes after social media as we know it,” suggesting that Substack was looking beyond the email newsletter and creator subscription service side to competing in the social media sphere, namely by distancing itself from it.
The second thing is the launch of Notes less than two months later.
Notes was billed as a networking opportunity for writers, a way to connect more readers with our writing. The idea was to convert readers to followers to subscribers to paid subscribers, i.e. convert the currency of attention into cold, hard cash. Now it seems clear that the Notes endeavor was never really about opting out of the “attention game that can never be won.” It was an attempt to win it.
For instance, we all have the option to turn off topics so they don't show up in our feed, or to see only writers we currently follow. Great! This is a big step up from the traditional ad-riddled "doomscrolling" available to us on other social media sites.
However, Substack doesn't give us the option of turning off Notes entirely. Even if you trim down to just who you follow, you still get an interminable scroll of posts promoting writers you might be interested in reading. I call it the “bloomscroll,” because at least it is riddled with nicer stuff than maledictions from trolls.
But even the niceness is starting to drive me bonkers — not because niceness isn’t important, but because it’s still designed to keep me on Substack, avoiding the real life I need to be living in the real world. Seems like being a person who has “the power” would include having the ability to opt out of Notes entirely.
This may sound cynical. But it’s news to no one that Substack wants to turn a profit, and the only way it does so (Substack Pro notwithstanding, I suppose) is through a 10% cut on paid subscriptions. So it has a vested interest in keeping people scrolling, for the purpose of converting readers to paid customers. When they announced Notes, Substack said this:
“The lifeblood of an ad-based social media feed is attention. In legacy social networks, people get rewarded for creating content that goes viral within the context of the feed, regardless of whether or not people value it, locking readers in a perpetual scroll. Almost all the attendant financial rewards then go to the owner of the platform.
By contrast, the lifeblood of a subscription network is the money paid to people who are doing worthy work within it. Here, people get rewarded for respecting the trust and attention of their audiences. The ultimate goal on this platform is to convert casual readers into paying subscribers. In this system, the vast majority of the financial rewards go to the creators of the content.” (emphasis mine)
This makes sense, right? Make the success of the overarching company dependent on the success of the creators, so the company is invested in our writing. It’s a model with some built-in accountability and great opportunity for aspiring writers (even if it’s now also got a lot of predatory writer gurus selling us seminars on how to make a living writing on Substack).
So why does Substack now feel like every other social media experience I’ve had to date — the creeping overwhelm, the compulsion, the lack of focus, the FOMO, all of the things I left Facebook and Instagram to get away from?
Because the lifeblood of it is still attention, and we’re the ads.
Substack, like Facebook, is an example of aggregation theory, an idea coined by analyst Ben Thompson in 2015. I’ll let him tell you what it is:
“The value chain for any given consumer market is divided into three parts: suppliers, distributors, and consumers/users. The best way to make outsize profits in any of these markets is to either gain a horizontal monopoly in one of the three parts or to integrate two of the parts such that you have a competitive advantage in delivering a vertical solution. In the pre-Internet era the latter depended on controlling distribution.
... The fundamental disruption of the Internet has been to turn this dynamic on its head. First, the Internet has made distribution (of digital goods) free, neutralizing the advantage that pre-Internet distributors leveraged to integrate with suppliers. Secondly, the Internet has made transaction costs zero, making it viable for a distributor to integrate forward with end users/consumers at scale.
This has fundamentally changed the plane of competition: no longer do distributors compete based upon exclusive supplier relationships, with consumers/users an afterthought. Instead, suppliers can be commoditized leaving consumers/users as a first order priority.”
On a business level, Substack gathers up all the writers (the suppliers) into one place and funnels them (as the distributor) to the readers (consumers) based on what they want. We are the options on display in a marketplace of ideas, and we have willingly entered into a relationship with the aggregator that has the best benefits to us as suppliers. This willing compliance with the rules of the supplier also makes it difficult to regulate aggregators through antitrust action should they become powerful.
As a company, Substack says it has our best interests in mind as writers, that it’s an economic engine for the culture we create. That’s all well and good, and they’ve done much to earn our trust. But the reason Substack wants to keep us happy is because it wants our content, which it can then sell to the people it really needs to keep happy: the readers. In fact, the reason Substack doesn’t need advertisers is because we, the creators, are the product, advertiser, and consumer rolled up into one. We’re the whole package. Of course they want to keep us around!
Again, here comes the old claustrophobic vibe I got on Facebook and Instagram, as if all of us were being herded into one area for easier control as all the perks were slowly taken away.
But even grumps like me have to admit that this model has spawned something that is good for our cultural moment: what Ben refers to as the sovereign writer. This is the creator who recognizes the value of their work both artistically and monetarily, and prioritizes creative control over it. Sovereign writers have more direct access to readers than ever before, and more freedom to write what they want without outside influence from corporations, political movements, or publishers. This is good for freedom of speech. It’s good for writers and other creators who use similar formats to amplify their art. And thus far, the back door to the pen has remained open.
But we need to recognize the reality of the pen, i.e. the structure in which we are writing, as well as several other unfortunate realities at play that stem directly from this structure.
Substack will try to replace your community.
Substack purports to be exactly what social media claimed: equal to an in-place, in-person community. A recent update from Substack, “Now is the time for creators to build on their own land,” is pretty bald-faced about it. The subtitle is “Home is where your people are.”
“For years, creators have lived with the norm of renting space on big social media properties so they can amass a following and convert it into income through brand deals, affiliate links, sponsorships, entertainment deals, and so on. The problem is that this arrangement gives far too much power to the landlords. If you fall afoul of a platform’s opaque rules, or it decides an advertiser’s needs take priority over yours, or—God forbid—your government bans it, then you are out of luck.
You need to have your own corner of the internet, a place where you can build a home, on your own land, with assets you control.”
Definitely got prepper vibes reading this, almost as though they were about to announce a new line of high-end writer’s bunkers.
I read this as a massive push to project safety, security, and family to a bunch of writers and readers who are justifiably anxious about the state of the world. Substack wants us to think of their content aggregation business as a place we can call home, despite the fact that we’re still renting space from them at 10% per paid subscription. The goal is for all of us writers to stay here as long as possible. The option to escape is necessary for that to be feasible, but what is there to escape to when all your writer friends are increasingly on one platform? Adding a sheen of belonging to leverage loneliness doesn’t hurt either, it seems.
Please understand, I’m not interested in putting up barriers to connection with other humans. I’m interested in acknowledging the barriers that already exist.
Substack is not a home, nor can it ever be a community. Borrowing the language of belonging to describe it doesn’t make it so. The pursuit of achieving internet belonging only reduces our actual communities and makes us more lonely.
However, when we 1) understand Substack as the helpful tool it is and 2) recognize the dangers of using it to fix that which it is not suited to fix, we are equipped to use it with integrity and self-control.
Attention is still at the top of the funnel, and outrage and fear still sell.
Everywhere attention is uplifted and affixed to economic gain or survival, writers who are interested in truth need to be wary. In this context, we may find ourselves writing for itching ears on Substack instead of acting as prophetic voices to a broader world.
For example (and not surprisingly), the current itch seems to be political catastrophism, in the vein of what-ifs and did-you-hears. Given a week or even a day, each problem crystallizes more fully, enough for us to see whether it was overblown, under-reported, or something that legitimately requires action on our part. But initially, outrage and anxiety run wild, and with the current administration’s philosophy of executive power, the next day will certainly bring something new to be upset about. Who has time to follow-up on old problems with all these new ones coming at us?
I don’t say this to downplay the damage that has been done by sweeping and thoughtless executive actions, the sort that recent administrations (across party lines) have leaned too heavily on because a bifurcated Congress struggles to pass any laws that the American public actually wants or needs. However, like most political maneuvering rooted in culture wars, the bluster tends to outweigh substantive change in either direction.
Checks and balances still exist in our government, and many of the issues brought up by executive over-reach now will have to be resolved over time through mechanisms like the courts. And yes, people are suffering because of these actions, but even the purported impact tends toward extrapolation, exaggeration, and dramatization. I don’t find this kind of hyperbole to be helpful to the people who are actually suffering, let alone to the valuation of truth in our society.
But I’m also not advocating willful ignorance. I place high value on the honest, informed, placid voices in this particular field (the H.I.P. folks) who have given up sizzle reels in favor of researching facts, limiting bias, and providing thoughtful analysis. You probably know a few yourself, so share them in the comments! We could all use more of them in our arsenal.1
The thread I’m pulling on with this little rabbit trail is that the real or perceived sovereignty of our writerly situation on Substack means little if we are operating enslaved to fear, pride, wrath, or greed. As writers, we face a temptation to write from a reactionary posture instead of a deliberate one — as we have since the advent of the internet. We wonder how we could write about anything other than the biggest issues of our day, and many voices on the internet are happy to affirm that that’s the only thing worth writing about.
We can’t give in to that temptation if our writing is to be effective, as astringent or balm.
As a writer on Substack, I need to recognize:
That I might not have enough information to speak coherently on some subjects, and thus shouldn’t write about them at all.
That all the bad feelings I feel about things, while valid, might not be helpful to others when amplified in a public forum.
That rushing to respond leaves me open to mistaking my own virtue signaling for prophetic truth-telling.
That my online persona might be deflecting real-world pain or responsibility in my life that I’ve been avoiding.
Choosing not to read or write sizzling reactions in 2025 doesn’t make us complicit in some greater evil, it makes us responsible stewards of our words. And missing the tide of public opinion does not leave us marooned. If it does, what’s so bad about being marooned? Island life isn’t all that bad.
I’ve debated whether the value of the Substack tool is worth the trade-offs. For now, I think it is. But it’s going to require some thought and care to keep it in its place, and part of that is recognizing how it’s built and how that structure works for and against our best intentions.
With this in mind, here are three small thoughts on how to write deliberately in 2025. They are not profound, and they’ve been said many times. But I’ve found them to be helpful the past few years, so maybe they will be for you.
1. Focus on the here, not the now.
The glut of daily news and missives from the culture war fronts is impossible for any of us to intake, let alone address. But I have an immediate, in-place responsibility to, for instance, teach my kids common courtesy and tell them the truth, be a witness for Christ in my local community, and care for my friends and church family. I can free my mind from the impossible task of solving all the things, so I can capably solve a few small things.
And then I can carefully write what overflows from a life lived in location, not online. Inevitably, this will intersect with cultural and political conversations — because living as an exile of a better Nation and a citizen who seeks the good of this one is more impactful politically than hot-taking the national news.
I believe the work that happens in and of small places is the work that will last. Don’t believe the hype, or worry that you’ll miss the zeitgeist. The subject you need to write about is not out there. It’s right in front of you.
2. Let it rest before you post.
Fresh writing is bound to be like new mead: more alcohol burn than complexity, sweetness, and flavor. Letting it set a bit and returning to it takes patience, but it will allow what I want to communicate to breathe, soften, and increase in flavor and potency. This also helps me tighten my focus up before publishing something.
I have a holding zone in my Google Notes app for posts, and I’ve committed to letting my writing rest in this holding zone for at least three to five days, ideally a week or more (this post is not an exception, and believe me, it needed a lot of rest).
I also intend to continue my habit of running my work by my wife, who sees through my hubris while still encouraging me. She’s a great “foil” editor — someone who will readily call me out on my bullshit.2 Find yourself a foil editor and ask them for brutal honesty. You will not regret it.
3. Cheerfully refuse to care.3
Not caring about people’s opinions of your writing doesn't mean you don’t care about them personally.
But if I find that my writing is being deflected from its course by the assumed objections or desires of my readers or other writers, or by some dire need to ride the sizzle, I need to push back on that. If I’m going to write what only I can write, the critics and the catastrophizers need to go back in the jar and up on the shelf.4
In a letter to Dom Bede Griffiths from December of 1946, C. S. Lewis said this:
“It is one of the evils of rapid diffusion of news that the sorrows of all the world come to us every morning. I think each village was meant to feel pity for its own sick and poor whom it can help and I doubt if it is the duty of any private person to fix his mind on ills which he cannot help. (This may even become an escape from the works of charity we really can do to those we know.)
A great many people (not you) do now seem to think that the mere state of being worried is in itself meritorious. I don’t think it is. We must, if it so happens, give our lives for others: but even while we’re doing it, I think we’re meant to enjoy Our Lord and, in Him, our friends, our food, our sleep, our jokes, and the birds’ song, and the frosty sunrise.
About the distant, so about the future. It is very dark: but there’s usually light enough for the next step or so. Pray for me always.”
I don’t know much better practical advice for writing on Substack in 2025: refuse to worry, take the next right step, and don’t stop praying.
Here’s to being marooned together this year.
C
Just for fun.
This was my favorite set of Super Bowl commercials.
Here’s a few I use. The Pour Over’s format might feel a little hokey, but it slows the news down and gives just the facts, and it sets them into a Scriptural context. It helps me to choose which stories I need to dig deeper into. CT’s Bulletin podcast is weekly, and it comes from folks I have grown to trust. They are doing their darnedest to amplify reasonable perspectives on both sides of thorny topics. The recent interviews with folks like Elisabeth Neumann, Mindy Belz and Yuval Levin, and Roger Berkowitz have been amazing. The coverage over at Sharon McMahon’s The Preamble is super helpful, because she doesn’t just offer surface takes. The WSJ’s video explainers offer a lot of clear-headed background in a neat package.
Linnea did not sanction the use of this word.
With thanks to Leif Enger.
With thanks to Anne Lamott.
I deleted the Notes app from my phone last month because of the very same reasons you point out. It was becoming too habit-forming. Writing is the actual habit I want to cultivate. Seeing and being seen is not the goal here. Thank you for presenting a well-percolated perspective on the whole thing. And that C. S. Lewis quote has been a favorite of mine for years, one that I teach my kids as they become more aware of global, national, and regional things to worry about. I want them to see needs they can touch and respond to them with mercy.
Really grateful for these words as I consider how I want to show up here and in this time. Thanks, Chris.