I won't work harder.

I'll stop working for an inadequate return.

Dear readers,

If you’ve read “EIC: The origin story” (composed when this publication was called Everything Is Compostable), you know that a year ago I was trying to build a coaching business I didn’t truly care about—and feeling, whenever I wrote marketing copy, like I was throwing my voice.

This past April, I joined Sarah Fay’s Substack Growth Cohort.

Since then, I’ve learned that on the “About” page I’m actually supposed to write about my readers, not myself. I’m supposed to explain what you’ll get if you subscribe. What’s in it for you. How my writing will help you improve yourself and your life.

I’ve learned that paywalls “don’t work,” because readers don’t understand why they have pay for these words but not those.

I’ve learned strategies for connecting with fellow writers, and potential readers, via comments, recommendation requests, and Notes (Substack’s answer to Twitter).

I’ve learned (in theory, if not in practice) how to write a post that goes viral.

In other words, I’ve been learning how to craft messages meant to get you and others like you to do shit I want you to do.

This is not necessarily a problem. I understand that the sacred role of the seller is to make it safe for the buyer to do what they want to do anyway.

Still. I’m starting to hate it. I’m feeling, once again, like I’m throwing my voice. From the desire to write and share stories to the intricacies of turning humans into “engaged readers” and, eventually, paying subscribers.

Even though, ever since I ripped the paywalls down, six weeks ago, you’ve had nothing to pay for.

I tried to write a call to action emphasizing support for interdependent writing. But even I didn’t buy it. So, in an imagined dialogue on yet another version of my “About” page, I included the following exchange:

You: Wait—what? The cost of a subscription? Why should I pay you, when I can read everything you write for free?

Me: You shouldn’t. It makes no fucking sense. However, if you do, you’ll probably feel good. For at least five minutes. Because of your selfless generosity, everybody else gets to keep enjoying their free-lunching lollipops. And you’ll be right—if no one pays to subscribe to SINS, it folds. If, say, 10% of readers pay, it thrives. Who wouldn’t want to belong to that righteous 10%?

Congratulations if you guessed that, in the past six weeks, SINS has attracted exactly zero new paying subscribers.

Right now, seventeen of you are paying (out of 217 total). This means that, after Substack and Stripe take their cuts, I am generating about $150 a month.

I know. Substack is a long game. That’s what Sarah Fay says. As do many others. I’m supposed to give it a year. Two years. More. Give, give, give, regardless of what I receive.

But guess what? As a writer, etheric composter, and shit-I’m-not-supposed-to-sayer, I’ve been give, give, giving for more than twenty years.

---

I’m not saying I’d be well on my way to making a living on Substack if I’d left the paywalls up.

During the paywall era, I was indeed attracting new paying subscribers—but at a glacial pace. I tried a new thing because the old thing wasn’t working.

I thought if I removed the paywalls I’d reach more readers. Generate more comments. More “engagement.” More response. Entice the algorithm into giving my posts more love.

Have I? I have not.

Rather, I’ve bought into the story that I should work for free, so long as I’m doing something I direct myself, and care about.

Do I want a world in which money dodges soul-work?

I do not.

So why create that, in the speck of that world that I (kind of) control?

This Friday, I will reinstate the paywalls.

---

People unsubscribe from newsletters, Sarah Fay says. They don’t unsubscribe from communities.

This means that, as a writer on Substack, I must not only write but also build a “community.” Via Notes. Chats. Threads. Voiceovers. A podcast. Zoom calls. The comments. Maybe I resort to leading online workshops, to justify the cost of a paid subscription. To skirt subscribers’ supposed aversion to paying, simply, for stories. For words.

You know what this means, though? Lots more marketing, thick with feigned optimism. Lots of online hostessing. Lots of extra work.

It also means formulating a value proposition: If you “join” my “community,” you’ll get this reward. You’ll improve yourself, your life, in such and such a way.

But what if I’m not offering self-improvement? What if I don’t believe you—or anyone—needs to be improved?

What if all I have to offer are my stories? And my devotion to telling them well?

---

I know I’m not supposed to say this shit.

I’m supposed to keep publishing, each Wednesday, at 4:44 A.M. I’m supposed to draft clever calls to action, and evince relentless positivity. I’m supposed to effuse gratitude for the privilege of getting to do what I love, whether or not I’m making a living.

But I didn’t come here—to this platform, to this life—to pretend.

I start (metaphorically) snoring when people behave as I expect them to, when they say and do as they’re supposed to.

I don’t want to persevere for the sake of persevering.

I do want to turn and face the feedback I’m receiving, six months into my Substack adventure, regarding product-market fit. I want to release my death grip on the story that this, at last, is how I’m going to support myself as a writer. Open to other inklings. Reassess.

So I’m going to take a break. Step away from Substack. Turn off notifications. Withdraw from Notes. Crawl into a cave where I can catch—not throw—my voice.

You won’t hear from me for a few weeks.

I’ll write again on my half-birthday—Thursday, June 27.

May you listen to your own whispers, between now and then.

---

One last thing: the thing I’m most definitely not supposed to say.

Because you might think I’m whining. Complaining. Insisting on something I haven’t earned.

That’s what my brain says, anyway.

Hi, brain! Thanks for trying to keep me safe.

I’m going to say the thing anyway.

Here goes:

Lately, writing SINS, I’ve felt super fucking lonely.

I keep sending the words out, out, out—and getting very little back.

I know “very little” is a thought, not a fact. I could choose to appreciate the hell out of what I have received. And I do appreciate it: thank you, so much, to everyone who’s responded, commented, liked, restacked, recommended, paid.

However, I can’t—won’t—keep going on this degree of return.

I’m not a void-screamer.

I want conversation. Interaction. Nourishment. Support.

If I can’t create a robust web, here, of feeding and being fed, then I will bless that. Own my role in not creating it. And walk the fuck away.