Why I do this
My first Substack post was published June 2021—about five years ago. I guess that makes me somewhat of an early adopter. As I continue writing consistently many years later, I ask myself: Why?
It’s a fair question.
When I first started here, it wasn’t out of some grand plan. It was because my old blog had encountered some technical difficulties and much of my work had vanished overnight. Substack was, at least initially, just a place to recover what I could and start again.
Back then, I wrote random little essays about fairly uncontroversial things. Almost no one read them. And I do mean almost no one. Maybe ten people, if I’m being generous. I really was, for all intents and purposes, writing for myself.
And yet, somehow, within that tiny audience, I ended up with at least one famous reader. I still don’t know how he came across it, but there was something a bit thrilling about seeing someone whose work I admired quoting my own words back to me. It taught me how you never know who’s reading, and how your words might resonate with them.
When I moved over here to Substack, frankly, I didn’t think I’d last as long as I did. But here I am. My readership grew, slowly, modestly. I’ve got a bit over 6,000 subscribers now. Not a huge number, perhaps, but more than ten.
But what is it that has kept me going?
It’s certainly not the money. I’m genuinely grateful to those who support my work with paid subscriptions, but the reality is that it doesn’t come close to paying the rent. There was a time I thought it might—that this could become a kind of independent footing. A way to write freely, without editors, without gatekeepers, without having to shape ideas to fit someone else’s constraints or worry about losing out on work because of the things I want to say. In other words: True independence.
It also would have given me something even more valuable: time. Time to research properly, to think, to write and rewrite, to go deeper into the kinds of stories I want to tell. I always say that good writing takes time. And time, more than anything, is what’s hardest to come by.
That version of things never fully materialized.
And yet, I kept writing. Why?
Part of it is simple: writing is how I think. Ideas that feel vague or half-formed in my head don’t really become clear until I’ve tried to put them into words. The act of writing forces a kind of discipline.
But there’s something else, too.
Publishing those thoughts changes them. Once something is shared, you have to decide not only what you believe, but what you’re willing to stand behind. There’s a difference between thinking privately and thinking in public.
And then there’s the response from readers. Whether they agree or disagree, they often pose questions I might have not considered, add their own context, prod, and push. A thoughtful audience can sharpen your own understanding in ways you cannot do alone.
But thinking out loud, publicly, also has a cost attached—especially when it’s about more complicated and contentious things. My writing has opened some doors, but has closed others. Almost every time I write something, I feel a wave of anxiety descend on me, especially when I know it’s something many readers will disagree with. Or when I’m being especially vulnerable. And then there’s always the chance of being misunderstood. Or getting something wrong. Or changing your mind. After committing something to writing, of course. This has happened more than once.
If you say nothing, life is certainly more peaceful.
But that’s the trade.
Over time, this Substack has become less about building an audience or chasing some version of independence (though I’m still trying to find it in other ways).
Ultimately, I think I continue writing because it has allowed me to maintain a practice: A place to work through ideas, to test them, to refine them. It has become a sort of time capsule. An archive of my thoughts during different phrases of my life. A record of how my thinking has evolved over time.
So perhaps the answer to that question is rather simple: I write because it helps me understand what I think.
Whether professional, on your own Substack, or in the comment section: Why do you write?
Want to support my work? Here’s how you can help:
Consider becoming a free or paid subscriber (and enjoy a week of premium for free!)
Share my posts and Substack with people who might enjoy it
Make a one-off donation via Buy Me a Coffee
Pick up a copy of my book, No Apologies: How to Find and Free your Voice in the Age of Outrage
I can't subscribe (again) and I already buy you coffee Between my sub, coffee and sub on that other evil social it would buy you a single cup of Ramen (in the U.S) every day, pretty paultry. BUT keep writing and while you know I will disagree many times with you, I beg you don't stop and DON'T EVER ( yea I raised my voice😉) let anyone anywhere tell you what to write or what not to write. Write without fear because Karma is real Katherine, you will get what you deserve be patient. In the mean time,
"Do not go gentle into that good night....
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
It's what I do 😁
Yeah, I get that. I honestly don't know what I think about anything until I write about it. It's as if I think through my typing fingers. If nobody ever read anything I wrote, I would still have to do it.
When I was an undergraduate in journalism school, I read Rilke's "Letters To A Young Poet". In it, Rilke advised the young poet to ask himself if there was anything else he could do with his life other than write. If there is, then do that, he said. But if not, then maybe you have what it takes to be a writer. There's almost never any money in it, and it can be painful. But if you were born to write, then that's what you have to do. I didn't understand that then. Forty years later, I do.