The Battle for Fiction Relevance on Substack

A brief essay (and spark of encouragement) on the creative culture of Substack fiction writers.

I meant this to be a blurb within my “Stomp Campfire Stew” roundup, and then I found myself saying, “Alright, I’ve got too much to say. Let’s take my words out on the internet like a pair of bongos and busk in the Substack subway, and see if anyone stops to listen.”

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The battle for fiction relevance on Substack.

Fiction is long, it’s hyper-niche, it’s hard to brand, and a lot of fiction writers (like this one) write a blend of fiction and nonfiction. Fiction writers can notoriously be the most introverted, self-critical, eccentric, marketing-shy creatures in all the land. I know this - I have lived inside of one.

I expressed my perceived imbalance of the fiction/nonfiction promotional ratios on Substack here:

I see growing daily discussion in Notes about the role of fiction on Substack.

Brian Reindel 👾⚔️

expressed an important idea that we can be supportive of each other rather than denounce one another here:

Do I have a stance in a manufactured or real fiction “debate”? I suppose I do.

I’ve imagined a scenario where I am an author with a large following, and I know that my sensitive self would still feel hurt to look in the comments section and see someone tear me down for being “too popular.”

Valid constructive criticism feels like something a writer wants to capture in their hands, sketch it in a crude firefly notebook, then release it back to the night. Shit-talk comments are like the curse of the water buffalo. One must toss fitfully in the dust to rid themselves of the flies.

Sure, there’s a talented segment of professional shit-talkers. Mark Twain: the OG professional shit-talker. On Substack,

Allison Epstein

is a historical shit-talker. But if a shit-talker’s shit-talk comes from a place of insecurity rather than observational satire or cultural criticism or a woven rant, then the saltiness will show out to people as petty and sad. And the shit-talker will have expended themself. And they will have lost their shit.  

As for the platform that enables the fiction?

Substack doesn’t currently promote fiction in its

Substack

newsletters. If you click on “Fiction” in the explore tab, you’ll get a stack of newsletters that write about fiction, a stack of newsletters that write nothing to do with fiction, and a trickling handful of fiction newsletters that are like that kid in the gym class hoping not to get pegged in the face by a nonfiction dodgeball.

So, in one line of thought, I think, there’s too much talent on the platform working too hard to go unseen. As

Brian Reindel 👾⚔️

said, (paraphrasing) it’s not Substack’s job to make you famous - it gives you the tools. But I want to shout at Substack to be a more powerful piece of equipment for fiction authors: an amplifier instead of a hand awl.

In the second line of thought, I go, “How do I accomplish my goals on the micro level as one creator in a sea of them?” And in that vein, it looks like the sentiment of focusing my finite energy on what I can do day-to-day for myself:

Wake up, drink coffee, eat a banana and a muffin. Sometimes I do a true old-man routine and put on my flannel and sit in a diner and listen to the farmers talk about the state of the union as I eat my French toast (Homestead Roasters in Upper Black Eddy is a prime spot).

Then I may go for a drive on back roads or read for 30 minutes or sit still with coffee. Then I do my freelance writing assignments, then I work at the library, then I come home and (hopefully) feed myself. I try to give myself one full day off to do whatever I want, usually Sunday. In there, I try to consistently write for one hour each day, network for five hours in a week, and command my hand to scribble in Procreate five hours a week. I have not yet reached the 15-hour weekly creative goal, but that’s not where the sense of forward momentum comes from. The discipline is to show up every day and be nice to myself about it.

The foundation of how to treat your fellow creators comes back to that same thread, with a Note by

Aaron Rickel Jones

:

I understand the frustrations of a creative journey. For a long time, my frustrations existed with the other shit emotions in a quiet welling melancholy. I had experienced significant loss and did not know how to heal, and did not recognize the depth of its effect. I loathed myself. I was exhausted and could not will myself to create consistently. When I look back at that period, I still wrote things for myself, fumbling about in a closed-in wood trying to find a way. In the dark, I was still moving.

Your stories are your own (unless you’re out here rippin’ and raidin’ newsletters with boarding hooks like a story pirate). Your voice is your own. You are, at a baseline, enough.

Much of this journey does exist in a night black wilderness. Even if you have a partner in the next room, you are opening vulnerably, sharing pieces of your insides. You’re rowing in the dark to the forest sounds. But there are sparked-up camps out here. These fellow creators are also finding their way, and now they share their stories.

Here you have already reached the periphery, where the black melts to gray. Sit by this fire. Tell your stories. Share soup with travelers like yourself.

There is plenty of room by the firelight glow.  

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