Against Wide-Reaching Work (plus a 'zine announcement)

or "Why Your Writing Matters"

This essay is a response to the 2017 book of essays Scratch: Writers, Money, And The Art of Making A Living. Written especially for Rachel S., Caitlin E., Allison H., and Ketzia B.

Over this year’s venture into the writing world, I’ve grown skeptical of “wide-reaching” work. My essays for wide-reaching magazines have probably accrued thousands of times more views than my essays here on Substack. They are probably better quality, too, thanks to the efforts of professional editors. But I like it better here.

My conclusion, after one year of freelancing, is that Internet publications are the media equivalent of fast fashion: trend-chasing factories that crank out shoddily constructed and easily forgotten work at lightning speed while underpaying their workers. Really, all writers who hope to make a living should be radical Luddites, setting fire to server farms in the hopes of reviving print magazines through acts of terrorism.

Is there a living to be made with the written word in 2024? Unless you’re in ads and PR, or are lucky with social media, probably not. But surely it’s worth it for the influence you’ll have? (Unless you’re in ads and PR, or are lucky with social media, probably not.)

Recently, one of my friends shared her cooking woes over text (paraphrased): “Why should I put all this time into creating a meal that will just be consumed in a matter of minutes?” That’s how I think of writing. People skim six hours of work in a couple minutes. Two days later, they might say, “Oh yeah, I was reading somewhere about women in society—I don’t remember where—and [here they insert their opinion, and the conversation moves on].” Just like last night’s dinner, writing is largely forgotten.

Seeing this state of things, now that I have my little portfolio of bylines, I’m not inclined to continue freelancing if freelancing means aiming for bylines in the NYT and getting $1 a word. There are better ways to get honor and cash. Writing, like cooking, (like mothering, like thinking, like virtuous action) is generally uncompensated on both fronts.

But all of these uncompensated activities are a kind of education. They all give us something that, unlike money and honor, can’t be taken away. They give us ourselves.

Creative effort is a courageous stand against the anonymity of mass-production. The choices of a distinct personality in what she cooks, how she decorates, which rules she imposes, is what makes “a house” into “her home.” The choices of a distinct personality in what she writes about, how she approaches it, and what rules she follows, is what turns “content” into “communication.” We make something; and by making, we ourselves become formed in uncategorizable ways.

It is this “becoming” that interests me, both in my own writing, and in the writing of others.

I skim a lot on the internet. Pretty much all of it is destined for amnesia. But if someone I know writes an essay, I make room in my memory. I read slowly and carefully with delight. Their words impact my relationship with them and how I live and behave, precisely because I know their words have an impact on how they live their own lives.¹

So, if you are a writer too, please know that whether it’s through your physical presence or the cadence of your writerly voice that I know you, I treasure your writing not primarily for itself but for the person behind the pen. I enjoy knowing that your writing is forming not only (or even primarily) your readership, but you yourself. It is an honor to be a part of your journey.

Friends and virtual acquaintances, your stuff might not be the best or the trendiest out there, but your voice has become familiar to me. There’s no particular reason I should listen to you ramble about immigrating to America, or dating British men, or applying to law school. Logically, I should probably stop wasting my time. But like Titanic’s Jack says to Rose when she tells him to leave her alone: “I can’t. I’m involved now.”

Your writing may not matter to millions. But it matters to me.

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Oh, what a sentimental ending! I’m gagging a little here. But it’s totally true. I’ve gotten very involved in the work of some of my neighbors here in Ithaca lately (see: “Burning Incense with New Friends”). I’m so excited about the work we’ve collaborated on that I made a ‘zine: Ithaca Luminaria. We’re planning to get 100 copies professionally printed and distribute them locally for free. No digital version. I count the most involved of y’all as local community. If you want a copy, you can email ithacaluminaria@gmail.com, and if we have enough copies, you’ll get one. I’ll probably ask you to Venmo me $5 for shipping because although I’m definitely naive, I’m still slightly practical ;)

1.

Some of you here on Substack, despite the virtual nature of our interactions, fall into the fringes of this category. We’ve exchanged ideas in comment sections, shared reading recs, caught glimpses of each other’s lives.