The Desire to Be Read

In the age of the Internet, there seems to be a divide when it comes to writing. A scroll down Substack reveals many kinds of popular essay forms. Though long-form essays with bibliographies remain popular, there’s also a rise in list-type articles. They’re often peppered with GIFs and other forms of digital media.

I have always tended toward classic forms of writing. However, just because it’s what I’m more comfortable writing doesn’t mean that the others are wrong. Long-form essays and quick lists serve different purposes. Some are meant to be lingered over, while others fill the idle moments of a trip or a commercial break.

To insist that there’s only one way to tell a story would be false. The history of the world has been captured not only in multi-volume essays, but also in comic strips and hieroglyphs. The truth is that our fundamental stories were first passed down orally—first around campfires, then before sleep as bedtime stories.

It is not surprising to me that, as humanity and society evolved, new ways of preserving stories developed. Yet the internet has a habit of confusing popularity with permanence. A listicle that reaches thousands of readers may disappear from memory within days. An essay that a few hundred people read may continue to influence them for years.

Metrics tell us how widely a piece of writing traveled, but not how deeply it was felt. How, then, do we decide which sort of article should sway us more? Most importantly, when writing essays, how do we respect our personal audience while aiming to reach a wide pool of readers?

My preference is to write longer essays. In the case of a personal essay, my thoughts tend to lean in the direction of more words and reflection. But I have never “outgrown” the desire to be a writer with people to share my words with.

Some people like to say I don’t need an audience. It’s true: I don’t need an audience to make the writing process worthwhile, whether the product is short or long. But I do want an audience. The dream since I began writing, with my long-winded fantasy novels, was always to be published one day and share my words with others.

If we want to carve a path—on Substack or elsewhere on the Internet—we will need to adapt some of our habits. Many choose not to, but in an age where countless voices compete for attention, some things are more effective. Many agree that, on the Internet, blocky paragraphs are at a disadvantage. Online articles usually do better if the style is crisp and snappy. “Trendy” words often snatch an audience faster.

The conclusion seems inevitable: articles that did well on paper might not perform the same way online. It’s important that we are open to modifying our styles so that potential audiences can discover our work while navigating an endless scroll. Of course, we always have the choice not to—but this might mean that our work will not be found as quickly.

What is the balance between writing to attract an audience and being faithful to our personal styles?

The Internet offers us opportunities to be discovered all over the globe, but we still need to learn to navigate it.

When our work depends on hashtags and algorithms to be discovered, hitting Publish doesn’t guarantee a thing. An article can be pushed into the ocean of cyberspace, but without a ship and a map for travel, it can take many, many years to strike the treasure.

I can’t say that I have learned all the bells and whistles myself. SEO is still a concept that I struggle with, and there is a part of me that will always reject trendy memes, even if the right one at the right time can result in going viral.

The Internet that I know now is very different from what it was when I started my first blog. Even as I typed this sentence, it made me feel remarkably old: though I’m not quite at the point where technology is beyond me, the prevalence of AI makes me wonder when the time will come that a false picture causes me confusion.

Not long ago, there was a voice in my head that said the writing process was more important than promotion. When I decided to take the indie route with some of my novels, I realized it was not enough even to go viral once. If I want to retain the maximum amount of creativity in my work, I should also understand how to get it to readers (usually in the form of their phone or Kindle screens).

I’ve not fully succeeded: my novels still lurk, unpromoted, on Amazon. Eventually, I’ll return to novel-writing, but lately I find that my attention span has changed along with those of my readers. It’s easier for me to complete an article like this.

I haven’t solved the larger problem of promotion. At least I’ve started on the path. This is not only the case for self-published authors: I’ve met more and more traditionally published authors who are expected to network and build an online presence.

Storytelling has changed. Publishing has changed. My desire to be read has not changed.

I don’t necessarily like that I’ve needed to research new methods in order to be read. I’ve had to be willing to adapt, to figure out ways of networking without forsaking my old vision.

Storytelling adapts. When, like me, the storytelling medium is writing, so must writing adapt. And that means that I, as a writer, must adapt. Fair enough. I would not be the first writer to have adapted to changing demands.

Some of our most beloved authors became famous for doing just that.

Charles Dickens was not the only author to master the serialized novel, but there is reason to believe he’s the most famous. Not only did he understand how to tell stories in snatches that gripped readers’ attention, but he became the first literary celebrity because of it. He crafted the image by which he wanted to be remembered.

Not only that, but his famous novella A Christmas Carol was published at his own expense. He was personally involved in the design of its first edition, and when it sold out the first time, he learned that it was a worthwhile investment. He did not only write the story, but he took responsibility for its promotion.

The world is different now than it was in Dickens’ time. Very few of us could achieve a fraction of Dickens’ success, even if we threw all of our savings at editing and publication.

His case is unique, though. Not only was he involved in the novel’s story, but he also made a personal effort to get it into the world.

Substack is not the greater literary world. The Internet isn’t a Victorian bookshop. The process of gathering an audience and earning their trust is the same.

These days, success hinges on the mercy of algorithms. All the same, readers have always been the driving force behind success.

For all the changes that have shaped storytelling—from oral traditions around the fire to serialized novels—the purpose has remained remarkably similar.

A story is not complete when the writer finishes the final sentence. It becomes complete when it reaches another person.

The relationship between writer and reader has always been a conversation. Tools may change, but the desire behind them remains the same. Ancient storytellers relied on memory and community. Novelists relied on publishers, booksellers, and readers writing letters. Today, writers rely on newsletters, social media, and digital platforms. Each generation finds new ways to carry stories further.

The danger of the Internet is that it can make readers feel like numbers. Subscriber counts become soulless metrics, and lucky shares are the difference between crickets and wild success. The best writers understand that every number represents a person who chose to stop scrolling and spend time with a writer’s thoughts.

Clever and strategic writers learn where to find these readers, but the best writers also learn how to keep them—so that those readers begin returning the favor and looking for their work.

The challenge is finding balance.

One does not need to sacrifice originality to adapt to online writing, and the adjustments can be minor, but they make all the difference. Dickens understood that it was not enough to simply get a publisher; he was willing to place high stakes on all of his stories, building his image around them, and his audience appreciated that.

It’s worth taking a few minutes each day to understand social media. It’s worth making a few friends who are committed to helping one another grow. One of their shares could lead to a post becoming viral, and from then on it will be an uphill climb.

Our audience can tell when we love our stories. It’ll be evident in how we talk about our work—and the effort that we make to present it to more people who might love it. I have not achieved the success of a bestseller here yet, but maybe a few months from today, I’ll see definite results from the efforts I’m making to adapt.

Story is eternal. Communication changes. This is not a bad thing.

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