Substack Won't Make You A Great Writer

Hot takes ahead, drive with caution

You should know at the outset that I’m not trying to be your friend here. Lots of people are on Substack to make friends and get subscribers under the guise of friendship and “niceness.”

Good for them. I hope you know I’m better than that.

There’s a seductive little unspoken lie making the rounds—especially in the dopamine-fueled swamp of Substack Notes—that being a writer is as simple as deciding you are one. Show up, string some words together, compliment a void full of thousands of faceless typers, and boom, you’re part of the club. No dues, no bloodletting, no years of grinding. Just vibes. And while I’m all for dismantling the ivory tower of literary gatekeeping (I’m here, aren’t I?), I also know that writing—the kind you pick up at the end of your driveway in a blue plastic bag or buy at the book store for $17.99—is a brutal, slow, ego-destroying process that doesn’t give a damn how many people tell you you’re brilliant in the comments. People don’t want it to be that way and, hell, it shouldn’t be that way, but it is.

I’ve been writing for twenty years. Plays, poetry, fiction, essays—you name it. I’ve done grad school, joined NYU’s creative writing program, had mentors at the top of the game, racked up bylines in big outlets, and have two novels on submission with traditional publishers. You’d think all of that would make me feel like I’ve arrived. It doesn’t. Because here’s the thing: I still get rejected. Constantly. The difference between me now and me twenty years ago is that I’ve learned to take the hits. I don’t need a standing ovation every time I put words on a page. Ego is easy and has no age requirements. Confidence takes time and experience.

Substack, like any platform, is a mixed bag. There are some phenomenal writers cranking out great work, and then there are the ones who would prefer to bypass the long, messy slog of becoming a real writer by reveling in praise. "Everyone here is so talented!" they gush, garnering hundreds of Notes likes because, hey, who doesn’t like being called talented? Sure, that’s nice. But if everyone is a brilliant writer, then what does brilliant even mean? Writing is a skill, not a participation trophy. It takes years. It takes critique. It takes eating rejection for breakfast and coming back for seconds. So, if you’re collecting subscribers like shot glasses and just writing Notes that you hope make people think you’re interesting, you’ve got to ask yourself, are you a writer? Or are you just really good at collecting praise from other aspiring writers?

If the echo chamber is your reason for writing online, that’s fine. But it won’t improve your writing quickly or meaningfully. So how do you actually become a better writer while enjoying and utilizing the community Substack provides? If you’re not doing the following, give it a try:

1. Read More Than You Write. If you’re not devouring great writing, your own writing will be garbage. Read widely, read deeply, and for the love of God, read outside your genre. And read outside of Substack.

2. Get Comfortable With Criticism. If you only surround yourself with people who tell you you’re amazing, you’re setting yourself up for failure. You have to be okay with people telling you if your writing is bad. Find people who will call out your weak spots and then use your time-honed skills of discernment to decide whether or not to take their critiques to heart. This is the most important part of being an improving writer.

3. Write Like No One is Watching. If your goal is to be liked, you’re already losing. Write the things that unsettle you. The things that feel too raw. The things that make you nervous to hit publish. Some people get confused with this advice and the preceding note to take critique seriously. I will direct you back to my point about discernment.

4. Be Patient. Writing takes time. So much time. There are no shortcuts, no hacks, no secret formulas. Just you, a blank page, and the daily grind of making something worth reading (I suggest it be daily—discernment comes easier when you have a big, fat body of work to examine).

5. Fail Boldly. You will fail. A lot. You should fail. And if you’re not failing, you’re probably not taking big enough risks.

6. Substance Over Self-Promotion. If you spend more time marketing yourself than actually writing, you’re doing it wrong. No one cares about your brand if you don’t have the work to back it up. Stop seeking an audience—earn one.

Writing is a craft, not a personality trait. It’s work, not a vibe. And if you’re serious about it, the best thing you can do is seek out people who will tell you the truth, even when it stings. Because at the end of the day, writing isn’t about being told you’re good. It’s about becoming good—and that takes time, effort, and a willingness to keep going long after the applause dies down.

In my weary moments of cringing at the Notes feed, watching people pander to one another in disingenuous bids for likes, I do try to pause and give grace as needed. I remind myself that maybe Substack is to Gen Alpha what Xanga and Tumblr were to millennials—a digital playground where we bared our souls, oblivious to how much we’d cringe at our own words years later. No shame in it. Every writer starts by writing crap. You’ve got to write a lot to know what you sound like.

The difference is who sticks around long enough to refine themselves, to carve something real out of all the messy drafts and self-indulgent drivel. And that’s the real divide—not between those who call themselves writers and those who don’t, but between those who stay and those who fade away when the dopamine hits stop coming. Those folks are here on Substack, too, quietly grinding out some of the best prose I’ve seen.

So if you’re new to writing and trying to make your mark, trust me, I get it. You’re on the road and you’re gonna get there. Do not be discouraged by frank criticism. It is worth more than gold. Enjoy the community but put your head down, too. Focus on your practice and keep your voice authentic.

Welcome to the work. Spoiler alert: it never gets easier and it never ends.

Me, on a beach, thinking about Bún bò Huế.