Starting over as a writer on the internet
On resisting the hustle culture of online entrepreneurship, embracing ease, and releasing unrealistic expectations
Hi friends,
We’re here! After a year of deliberation I’m excited to welcome you to my *new* corner of the internet on Substack. (For a deeper dive on my decision, listen to this podcast episode.) Today’s newsletter is a bit longer than most, but shares the culmination of many thoughts I’ve wrestled with recently about my experience with online business, unraveling what I’ve expected of myself, and embracing ease in a new season of being a writer online. In the future, I’ll also be back to sharing good things like book recommendations, favorite podcast episodes, and articles. Thanks for being on this journey with me!
The first time I found a community online was through social media. In 2008 I started my first food blog, reluctantly created a Twitter account at the urging of a friend who thought it might be useful (it was at the beginning), and started following other bloggers. I made friends, found my people, and was utterly delighted by the whole thing.
The sheer pleasure of meeting others who thought about food as much as I did carried me through the slog of adjusting to my first full-time job, and I got to flex my writing and photography muscles in a very low-stakes but gratifying way.
But nothing online remains stagnant for long.
An ecosystem of monetization was eventually developed: side bar advertisements, sponsored posts, affiliate links, and the like. Then bloggers started getting book deals, and the blog-to-cookbook path—of which I personally benefited from and remain deeply grateful for—became within reach.
Much of this was still fairly casual, and some bloggers remained firmly in the hobby camp. (I once tried putting Amazon ads on my website but never cleared more than two dollars a month in revenue.) Others saw an opening, found the sweet spot between sponsored posts and SEO, and have developed thriving businesses that have stood the test of time.
All these changes were a slow burn, but my early experiences of blogging are beyond recognition today. Now we’re all “brands” and have “platforms” and no one really knows what any of this means yet it still seems important to publishers who turn writers away for not having a large enough “audience.” But I digress.
🎧 Prefer to listen? I recorded this post as a podcast episode too!
I’m the kind of writer that’s always had a day job, often in an unrelated field. In Wild Words, I devote several paragraphs to the mindset shift from seeing your position not as an obstacle to your creativity, but as a partner. With a reliable income coming from elsewhere, the stakes for your own work aren’t as high. For many, this feels good and calming and removes unnecessary pressure.
It can also have its challenges.
When I was pregnant in 2015, I worked in a toxic environment that I wanted to quit every single day, but I also needed the meager maternity benefits because we lived in an expensive city where childcare costs rivaled a monthly rent payment.
This was a period of internet history when becoming an online entrepreneur was heavily evangelized as the way out. Starting your own business meant you could control your schedule, work for yourself, and potentially make unlimited amounts of money. I won’t deny it’s appeal.
There were a few models: affiliate (promoting other people’s programs and receiving a commission), course creator (developing courses that many people could take) and 1:1 (offering a service like coaching either to individuals or through small group programs).
By the time my son started kindergarten—five years in the future—my goal was to have the flexibility to pick him up from school and take him to activities, so I invested a good amount of money to join one of the most reputable online business programs at the time. The videos were polished and professional. The enthusiasm drew you in and made you believe you could achieve anything. The private Facebook group was buzzing. The worksheets made the whole process seem like it should be a piece of cake. And although no one ever uttered the phrase hustle culture, that’s exactly what it promoted because in order to leave said job and work for myself, I first had to build something from scratch during the hours I wasn’t working. Or parenting. Or writing a book.
You might sense where this is going. (Cue burnout.)
I went in with eyes wide open, committed to succeeding and being able to quit my job, yet without realizing it I created yet another job for myself when I already had three: full-time employee, full-time parent, and writer in the margins that were left.
After months of hard work, I launched my first course and welcomed approximately twenty writers into the program. It felt like both a complete success (I made something out of nothing that people paid for!) and also a failure (this in no way covered my basic expenses for longer than a couple of weeks). I needed to replicate it, scale, come up with new ideas, and keep churning out content to grow my “brand.” A few months later I launched the course again and only two people bought it. There was nothing remotely sustainable about this.
Everything shifted in 2018. First, I made a cross-country move and the company I’d started working for (a different job that was aligned with my values and skills and not toxic) allowed me to work remotely. Then we all know what happened in 2020, and working from home became acceptable in ways my writer heart always dreamed about.
All in all, my original goal came true. I controlled my schedule and had the freedom I was after all those years ago. I didn’t even need to start my own business to do it. There was just one problem: I never adjusted my expectations. I kept creating content, adhering to an editorial calendar for blogging, social media, and my newsletter. I developed other niche courses to sell on my website. I took on occasional book coaching clients. I led workshops when I was invited to teach them. I even wrote a paid Substack for a year and a half.
And even though I enjoyed all of these things (which is one reason it was harder to step back), I still had too many jobs. Everything I just listed was extra, and made it more difficult to prioritize my actual writing—poems, essays, books, etc. It took me until 2023 to finally come to terms with this, which has led me to rethink almost everything about my presence online.
I’m a slow processor, so in order to determine how to move forward, I did a lot of thinking and waiting and journaling. During this long-term thought experiment, I uncovered four things going against me: 1) capitalism; 2) my enneagram type; 3) my professional background and; 4) expectations placed on writers in general.
Capitalism treats human beings like machines and drills into our minds that productivity equals worth. This message can come from a variety of places including the organizations where we work, our families of origin, the media, etc. It’s engrained into us so young that rather than questioning the system itself, I always felt there was something wrong with me.
I’m an Enneagram 5, which means I characteristically love to share information with others and harbor a deep fear of being perceived as incompetent. This is one of the reasons it’s been challenging to stop doing things I’m naturally good at and trust that I’m simply enough by doing less.
My professional background in roles as event planner/fundraiser/program manager/content marketer/community manager/copywriter means I’m efficient, hyper-organized, love a template, and know my way around a spreadsheet. This is really helpful in certain scenarios, but less helpful when you’re trying to develop a sustainable writing practice and go with the flow. It’s also meant that I’ve fallen into the habit of occasionally referring to my work as content (see above), which it’s not. My writing is not content. It’s heart, soul, sweat, and tears. It’s an offering. And it takes time.
When I was in high school, I thought writers sat at their desks all day to write. I had no idea most of them worked for other people and got up early to write, or wrote when they got home at the end of the day. When social media took off, it was all about the more followers the better. The rumor was you needed 10,000 subscribers for a publisher to consider your book proposal. When I started publishing books, I thought it meant I had to teach other people what I knew and say yes to every opportunity because it might never appear again.
I’m just as confused as anyone about what it means to be a writer online now, which is why I decided to go back to the basics, asking the questions of what I would do if I was just starting out.
And while I realize that I don’t owe anyone an explanation about my choices, I’ve made it a habit to be as transparent as I can about what it looks like to write and parent and live, because a lot of people don’t talk about it.
I asked myself: If I didn’t have a readership of any kind, and if I didn’t have any books published, where would I be, and what would I do?
This line of questioning helped a bit, and pointed here, to Substack.
[Note: I can’t deny the fact that I do have a readership. It remains modest, but it exists as the result of more than a decade of cultivation. I take this relationship incredibly seriously, which is one of the reasons I’m slow to implement change. I also can’t deny the fact that I’m in a privileged position of being able to make some of these choices at all, like working part-time instead of full-time because I have a partner with a more traditional career and excellent health insurance.]
As for what I would do, I would not listen to people who tell me the only way to “succeed” is to send emails every week. The advice I received during my early online business days was that consistency was king. King! Weekly emails were recommended in part because you were always warming people up for an eventual “funnel” where you would start selling them something. This still happens, and it still works, and frankly I don’t see anything inherently wrong with it. It’s just not my model.
In fact, I no longer have a model right now.
This is an enormous departure for me and feels a bit uncomfortable. Part of where I’ve gotten in my own way is watching other authors do the very things I think I should be doing.
Some writers are adjunct professors. Some writers teach middle school. Some writers receive enough money from book advances to make a living (if not permanently than at least temporarily). Some writers run beautiful, heartfelt businesses and offer services like book coaching and manuscript evaluations, or something unrelated to writing entirely. (Often, this is their main JOB/source of income, not a side thing like I was doing.) Some writers get sponsors for their podcast, or have a Patreon community. Some writers have jobs in unrelated fields, like healthcare or accounting or retail. Some writers cobble together a mix of all of the above.
Author
shared this in a recent newsletter about the challenges of writing while raising young children:“Right now, it’s definitely feeling like my writing is a hobby that must be paid for—rather than a career that pays for life. Writing a book takes a long time, and unless I sell it before I finish it (I won’t), I’m doing it on spec, for free. And even if/when I do sell it, I’m not expecting to make the kind of money I used to. It’ll make just enough to pay the babysitter.”
And in an Instagram post demystifying publishing, @burgeondesignandeditorial shares:
“Most authors are not able to quit their day job and write full-time due to financial instability and lack of benefits (like health insurance!). Authors often turn to alternative income streams like speaking engagements, writing workshops, freelance writing, etc.”
The point is, there’s isn’t a one-size-fits-all approach to making a living as a writer, and the path is never linear.
Releasing myself from the shoulds of showing up in more places than I’m currently able, paying for a service I don’t need at the moment, and trying to future proof something that may never happen might sound like a small shift, but it’s letting my nervous system know I no longer need to live in survival mode. And that’s huge. I already feel lighter and more restored because of this choice.
Circumstances and seasons change, and when they do, it’s important to ask questions, reevaluate if what we’re currently doing is serving us, and what we might consider doing differently.
This interrogation is simple yet radical. Simple because it doesn’t require a fancy intervention or any special equipment (just critical thought and maybe a notebook), and radical because it pushes up against external forces that want to keep us tired, depleted, and jogging on the perpetual hamster wheel.
With this in mind, I’ll be here on Substack moving forward with my usual mix of writing life musings and encouragement. I’ll be working part-time, parenting full-time, and focusing on my own work.
I still care deeply about supporting fellow writers, and don’t foresee that changing.
I’m just changing my delivery system.
I’m staying curious, and am excited to see what might come of it. (This essay, by the way, was a complete surprise. One minute I was wilting kale into a sea of olive oil and garlic and the next minute I was writing sentences in my head.)
I want more of that. More openness, less constriction.
More what if’s and fewer shoulds.
This isn’t to say I will never teach a workshop again, or promote a book, or have something to sell (I most likely will!). I might even turn on paid subscriptions down the line. One day, starting a business might actually make sense for me! I don’t really know, to be honest.
I don’t expect long essays like these to come pouring out of me at a regular cadence. (That’s just now how my creativity functions.)
I don’t expect that Substack will be perfect, because no platform is.
I do expect to spend more time writing what feels true, and less time worrying about whether an algorithm will bury it.
I do expect to hold firmer boundaries around what I say yes to right now.
I expect to continue trusting that I’m making the right choice for my current needs and creative season.
I also expect to reconnect with many of you in the comments with a warm and comforting energy like the early days of blogging. Substack’s
put it this way:What we’re seeing now feels a lot like that early blogging boom. There was an intimacy we felt reading our favorite blogs, a personal connection to the writers and the communities that grew around them. We stacked our Google Reader with their RSS feeds and turned to them for restaurant recommendations, recipes, home decor trends, crafting inspiration, gossip, political analysis, and life advice. Writers on Substack are providing that same intimacy and connection with the communities they create. No media conglomerates edit their words and ideas. We have access to our favorite writers, just as we did in those fast blogging days. We see ourselves in the personal stories they share; we trust them.
In starting over, I’ve decided to embrace ease. Substack didn’t exist when I sent out my first newsletter over a decade ago. There wasn’t a platform created for writers specifically to share their work and maybe get paid for it. There were only email service providers aimed at businesses, organizations, and online entrepreneurs.
Sometimes we think that things need to be difficult in order to “count” or be worth anything, as though we have something to prove to ourselves and everyone else.
But what if it could be easy?
What if I simply used a tool that didn’t exist before?
What if I had fun trying something new?
What if the simplicity of using this platform wasn’t an indication that something was wrong, but very, very right?
When I was being trained to start an online business, something was missing from the conversation: humanity.
Now more than ever, we understand that people are human. That sometimes they want or need to take time off. That just because they don’t email us every Tuesday at 6 am EST doesn’t mean they’re flaky. That they’ll delete Instagram for months at a time. That inconsistency might be the new consistency, allowing us more room to be writers who sometimes have something to say and sometimes do not. Who are often living life and caring for themselves and others while also trying to draft a poem or a novel or an essay. This is normal.
After all, what we owe to our readers more than anything is craft. Is stitching something together in the way only we can. Is dedicating ourselves to finding the kernels of truth in our work. And you can’t project manage or pre-schedule any of that in advance. Sometimes you have to go into your writing cave and stay inside until the words are ready to see the light.
The ebb and flow is like a wave, asking us to listen more to nature and our bodies, and less to algorithms and experts.
This tuning in and taking care is what seasonal creative living is all about, and I’m excited to continue the conversation here with you.
Until next time,
Nicole
Nicole, I deeply appreciate your perspective and willingness to share how the current paradigm does not work for you, how you are forging a new way forward. I feel similar in many ways and this helps me to feel that I’m not alone while my writing journey snails its way through the other parts of my messy life. I recently committed to completing something- anything- that I’ve started writing. I want to eventually publish, but a part of me is resistant to getting to that finish line because the thought of all the social platform presence and marketing that is told writers should be doing puts my nervous system in a freeze just thinking about it. Thank you for sharing your very real experience and offering a new way.
Yes to everything above!