Is Substack the New Twitter?

Writers have found community again; let's hope Substack doesn’t mess it up.

Image Source: Vanity Fair

Substack has taken old-school Twitter’s place as the online hub for writers. And thank god. Someone had to do it. Writers arguably need community more than anything. Sitting in front of your screen all day playing with words that may or may not ever be read is a lonely, crazy-making pursuit. Many of us have no desire to be physically perceived let alone leave the house, but a virtual space to exchange notes about how excruciating writing is, access to other writers who feel equally crazy but also can’t seem to stop, an space where we can show concrete support because we’re all so starved for validation that even one little heart can be the very thing that keeps us going. Yes.

When I started writing in 2014, Twitter was arguably at its peak—the place for writers on the internet. And with good reason. You didn’t need to be pretty or shiny or even happy on Twitter. Actually, it was much better if you were none of those things. It was a space for complaining, joking around, observations so dumb they were often interesting, and for a brief period of time, actual news.

Back then, popular feminism and diversity efforts were also wonderfully exploding. In the writing world, people wanted to hear from traditionally marginalized voices, there were regular calls for personal essays from varied perspectives, and, importantly, there were outlets to submit them to. It wasn’t easy to get a piece placed, media outlets were still consolidating, but it was possible. And when you did, Twitter was there for you to celebrate. We were all so openly grumpy on there (part of its charm) that when other writers published a thing, you were genuinely happy for them.

I remember complaining how annoying it was that you had to write a whole piece, then wade through countless rejections until you found a place to publish that piece, then write a witty caption to share the piece on Twitter. Looking back, I didn’t know how good I had it. At least there was a platform where writers swarmed, empathetic to the Sisyphus-esque challenges of publishing, ready to like and retweet away. It was a genuine community, where you went to see what “everyone” was talking about, then talk about the talking and make friends in the process. Yes there were trolls and it was far from perfect (it was tstill he internet, after all!), but there was a genuine sense of support and interest.

As I poured over drafts of my novel through the 2010s, tallying up agent rejections, and regularly searching #MSWL (iykyk), I fueled myself with fantasies of one day posting my Publishers Marketplace announcement on Twitter. Would I lean earnest and heartfelt with my caption (surely I’d earned sincerity if I sold a novel), or go with a cool and simple “!!!!!”? The fantasy of sharing my achievement with other writers who understood the import was a beacon of sorts in the long cold years of querying.

When Musk bought Twitter in 2022, I still hadn’t sold my novel. It would be another year until I’d see my name and my book title, all caps, in the typical deal format, a neat description following, the Publishers Weekly logo hovering above. Twitter was not yet dead in the ground, but it was on life support. My post (earnest af, of course) got more engagement than anything I’d ever shared but the bulk of people I admired had already fled the site. Meanwhile, it took me hours to figure out how to format it properly for Instagram, what color to put in the background, loathing that I felt I had to make my highest intellectual achievement look “pretty” in order for the algorithm to surface it. All the while knowing that very few people who followed me on Instagram, a small handful of old friends, would understand the significance, and even if they did, the concept of re-sharing on Instagram was pretty much nonexistent.

In the wake of its demise, Twitter competitors were quick to pop up, most notably Threads and BlueSky. But despite their copy-cat designs (and quite possibly because of them) neither came close to the witty, water-cooler vibes of old school Twitter.

Threads gave itself away the moment it asked—in its signup flow—if I wanted to follow everyone I follow on Instagram. Excuse me—WHAT? Did they not realize that people drawn to Instagram are very different people than those drawn to Twitter; dogs and cats (respectively). Instagram was all glossy performance and the illusion of happiness, while Twitter was messy experimentation, depressive missives, and bad attempts at self-deprecation. To this day, the main reason I don’t post on Threads is because it alerts my Instagram followers that I’ve done so. For the love of god. It’s since gotten better on there, but because of the shared Meta ownership, Threads was quickly flooded with IG super-users, resulting in boastful, poorly written personals—like LinkedIn on a party drug. I have less to say about BlueSky because, as far as I can tell, not much happens there. The algorithm doesn’t seem to prioritize discovery and momentum never seems to get going.

“Notes” launched in 2023. A direct replication of Twitter’s micro-blogging feed, which is now Substack’s primary signed-in homepage. In the past two years since, Notes seems to have become the place where writers find their people. It has the uniquely communal vibe of writers venting about shared challenges, celebrating other’s work, gossiping about the latest hit piece, and fundamentally getting one another. And it makes perfect sense. From day one

Substack

knew their core customer—writers—and built specifically for them. And that’s how you win a market.

Long before Notes, it was clear that Substack was positioning itself to be the next Twitter. The tell for me was the announcement of their orange checkmark in 2022, which came mere days after Musk shifted Twitter’s checkmark strategy from an earned badge to a pay-to-play model, singlehandedly destroying Twitters greatest asset. Some may not remember, but the Twitter checkmark was once a highly coveted symbol. There was no paying to get this, you got if you were recognized and notable in your field. When Musk introduced the ability to pay for a badge, suddenly the mark was not something every writer longed to acquire, it was an embarrassment, something no one wanted to be associated with.

Enter

Substack

. You cannot pay for a Substack badge. You have to earn it by being a notable voice (they improved it further by having clear metrics for each tier; whereas Twitter’s process for badging was notably opaque). Anyone who builds products for writers should know that what we want more than anything, our core motivation is—well, often money since writing mostly pays nothing, but also—validation. It’s unbearably vulnerable to continuously mine your neurosis for art, and so we’re crazy for approval. Offering a verification, not one that you pay for but that you earn, gives writers the motivation they need to continuously engage with the platform. We all just want to feel special.

I found it odd that every competitor trying to replace Twitter was essentially copying and reskinning the Twitter UX. Substack smartly knew that creating a successful hub for writers now, in the 2020s, would look very different than it did over a decade ago when Twitter first took off. The cultural context looked different. Obviously, the solution would, too.

In the past few years, digital media outlets have closed at unprecedented rates. Far fewer publications are calling for #ownvoices, or paying new writers to share juicy experiences in the from of a brutally personal essay (an exploitive trend, but one that led many to their first byline). Writers these days are hard-pressed to find outlets willing to commission pieces or respond to pitches, especially if you’re just starting out. So instead, we have to create our own outlets.

The freedom to create your own little publication is intoxicating. It’s also a lot of f’ing work. And only certain people have the time and means to do that for free. You see the memes everywhere: a lone woman toiling away all week for a post that gets two likes. This was how Twitter was, too, posting into the void, hoping that over time all those 140-character stone-throws would add up to a following. Except writing a long-form essay is a lot more work than writing a quippy sentence. As the internet continues to democratize access, it’s also requiring more and more free labor. And the people who are able to put in the labor required to break through are usually the people who have the time and means to do so. Twitter was notoriously terrible at monetizing its popularity, and because of this, there was an innocence to it. We were all there trying to get noticed—throwing our souls into the void—but no one was getting paid, we were not necessarily, at least not directly, trying to get rich.

The earning potential on Substack right now is mind-boggling to writers, who were paid about $150 a pop for those exploitive essays mining their most personal experiences. This is a wonderful thing. Successful Substackers are making $200-500k a year in subscriptions (sometimes more). Some of their success comes from being early adopters to the platform, and having the time and means to consistently publish from day one. Some are excellent writers with clever angles who put in hard, sustained work. Often it’s a mix of both. And now everyone is flocking here—a sort of land grab—including celebrities, who can quickly cash in on their already existing platforms. I’m not about to start a Glennon Doyle fight; I think everyone should be welcome. But without thoughtful intervention it risks ending up like everything else left to brute capitalism—a popularity contest that makes the rich richer, and invariably leads to a deluge of click bait.

Substack’s pay-per-writer model, while excellent in many ways, has always felt unsustainable in the long term. Most writers cover specific ‘beats’ and we as consumers presumably want (even if we’re going further into our own echo chambers with each passing day) a variety of information; this is why publications were formed in the first place. As Substack grows, the average person cannot dish out $5-$8 a month for every writer they want to read. Quickly, you’re paying $50 / month, much higher than any publication or streaming service out there, for a few select voices.

Substack has always made it clear that they value writers, and want to be an alternative to the attention economy. We see ourselves as being in service to a new generation of publishers,” the CEO has said. But as we wade further into late-stage capitalism, the publishing industry increasingly faces these same risks: constant consolidation of outlets, betting on select blockbusters while the mid-list starves, increasing disparity across the board.

As they grow, the

Substack Team

should consider how to evolve its model such that writers can—literally and metaphorically—share the wealth. Roxanne Gay, for example, does an excellent job of highlighting new writers, treating her Substack like a publication in itself. It would be exciting to see a boom in features facilitating community, bundling, and elevating the work of lesser-known writers (and paying them for it). Not only would this increase motivation and engagement for writers, this kind of curation would improve the quality of posts getting showcased. Great pieces take time. There are incredible writers who can’t possibly churn out the two-posts-a-week needed to gain traction on this platform. Let’s find ways for them to shine, too.

I’m so impressed with what

Substack

has built. Finally, writers have a digital home again! And some excellent writers are finally making the very good living they’ve long deserved. But as Substack’s growth moves to the next level, let’s hope the way they think about their community—not just the big ticket writers but the rest of us—jumps to that next level, too.

New York City! Vote tomorrow.

And please remember: Do NOT rank Cuomo anywhere on your ballot ❤️