Dear Substack

I had a plan.   

I worked on it for ages.

It was calculated. Methodical. Even cunning.

Above all else, it was simple – that’s what I liked about it. It required no heavy lifting. No imposition on my part. No time away from my normal habits. Nothing but my own personal glory… mwahahaha (that’s meant to be an evil laugh – kinda like Sideshow Bob’s from The Simpsons).

I was going to use your platform to overcome my fear of sharing my writing. I was going to use your services to post the pieces I had convinced myself were ‘okay-enough’ to be exposed to the searing blue light of the online world. I was going to house my writing in your little corner of the internet so that I could finally feel like a ‘real writer’ (whatever that means…).

And that was it. Nothing more.

Just post and ghost. Get in and get out. No fucking around.

Besides, I had more writing to do.

I made the arrangements. I came up with a name for my Substack page. I wrote what I like to think is a whimsical about page and an honest welcome email. Goddamnit, I even hand drew that little platypus logo (honestly, I did it all on my own). Not only that but I had prepared…

Ohhh how I had prepared…

In the weeks and months that led up to my sparkling debut I had slaved over a mildly warm laptop to prepare no less than seven and a half pieces to post on the virtual wall of your fine establishment. I figured if I posted one piece each fortnight, that’d bide me enough time to prepare more “curious musings”. That way I’d always have a few rounds of ammo left in reserves in case my productivity ever waned. Not that I thought it would. After all, I had a strict writing routine, which I never let anything encroach upon…

But alas, how foolish I was.

I played right into your hands.

I was so blinded by my own mission, I failed to anticipate your trap.

In my obsessive pursuit to put my writing on the best writing platform around, I overlooked one fatal flaw: the best writing platform around is bound to have some damn-good writing on it. The type of damn-good writing that lured me in like a stoner to a bag of Doritos. The type of damn-good writing that makes it impossible not to celebrate the incredible writers who craft these magnificent pieces. And the type of damn-good writing that is so riveting, thought-provoking, relatable, and laugh-out-loud hilarious that for the first time since they were constructed – the impenetrable walls of my strict writing routine had been breached.

And so, I blame you Substack. I blame you for bamboozling me into thinking I could join your organisation without getting distracted by the time-suck that ensues whenever I enter the swirling vortex of magnetic prose that rages within your digital walls. I blame you for luring me into engaging with this supportive community of talented writers, whose pieces I find basically impossible not to read. I blame you for setting up a surprisingly welcoming space on the internet (I never thought I’d say those words) where this shy writer could finally muster up the courage to start sharing his writing. But most of all – I blame you for fucking up my once solid writing routine.    

Yours always

Michael Edward  xoxo

P.S. Now, look, I know I just hurled a lot of blame your way, but I’m willing to forgive you…

If you want to make it up to me, just do me one favour…

Mess with that magical algorithm-thingy of yours, so that I get WAAAAAY more subscribers – and we’ll call it even.

Thanks.