The Substack Bug is Contagious!

And it comes with a tribe.

Photo by Jill Heyer on Unsplash

The Honeymoon Phase

It started innocently enough. A casual flirtation with Substack, a couple of tentative posts about my obsession with positive psychology and the existential dread of grocery shopping.

A smattering of encouraging comments – "Loved your take on the self-checkout apocalypse!" and "You're hilarious!" – popped up, and suddenly, I was hooked. The writing bug had bitten me, and bitten me hard.

I was like a lovestruck teenager, scribbling angsty poetry in my notebook (rhyming "despair" with "wifi care" – pure genius!) and daydreaming about becoming the next Hemingway (with better hair, obviously).

Every spare moment was consumed by writing, editing, and obsessively refreshing my Substack stats page, watching those subscriber numbers tick up with the thrill of a slot machine addict hitting the jackpot.

"Look, Sis, I'm a writer!" I declared, brandishing my laptop like a trophy. My sister, bless her heart, peered over her bifocals and responded with a slightly bewildered, "That's nice, dear. Now, have you done our groceries?"

Ah, the blissful ignorance of the uninitiated. They didn't understand the fire that burned within me, the insatiable urge to craft witty prose and share my soul with the world (or at least the handful of subscribers I'd managed to amass with my musings on the horrors of lukewarm coffee).

But like all honeymoons, this phase couldn't last forever. The honeymoon suite was about to be invaded by a swarm of self-doubt locusts.

The Existential Crisis (aka, "Why Am I Doing This Again?")

The initial euphoria began to fade, replaced by a nagging sense of doubt. The muse had gone AWOL. Instead of words flowing effortlessly, I found myself staring at a blank screen, my mind as blank as a freshly erased whiteboard. I tried everything – rearranging my desk, switching to a different font, even attempting to channel my inner Hemingway by drinking lukewarm coffee (it didn't work). Nothing. My creativity had the consistency of a stale cracker.

"Why am I doing this again?" I groaned, my forehead meeting the keyboard with a resounding thud.

The Substack stats page, once a source of giddy excitement, now mocked me with its stagnant subscriber count and dismal open rates. Was anyone actually reading my carefully crafted words about the perils of mismatched socks? Did my witty observations and profound insights simply vanish into the internet ether, unread and unappreciated?

The existential crisis had arrived, and it brought with it a whole entourage of unwelcome guests: self-doubt, imposter syndrome, and the dreaded comparisonitis. I scrolled through other Substacks, marveling at their polished prose, their massive followings, and their seemingly effortless ability to churn out viral content about topics like "How to Achieve Inbox Zero" and "The Ultimate Guide to Fermenting Your Own Kombucha."

"I'll never be that good," I lamented, ready to throw my laptop out the window and take up knitting instead. (At least with knitting, I'd have a tangible outcome, even if it was just a wonky scarf that resembled a sock puppet.)

The Redemption (aka, "Finding My Groove")

Just when I was about to succumb to despair and dedicate my life to creating avant-garde sock puppets, a wise old owl (okay, it was actually a YouTube video by some writing guru with a suspiciously perfect beard) reminded me of a fundamental truth: it takes courage to write and to create.

It's about the process, the joy of creation, the connection with readers, however few they may be. It's about finding your voice, honing my craft, and sharing my unique perspective with the world, even if that perspective involves an unhealthy obsession with neuroplasticity, cognitive laods and midset.

Armed with this wisdom, I dusted off my keyboard, banished the self-doubt demons (with the help of a metaphorical can of bug spray), and decided to embrace the chaos. I experimented with different writing styles, explored new topics (like "The Unexpected Joys of Lower Cognitive Load"), and connected with other writers who were navigating the same choppy waters in the vast ocean of online content creation.

And slowly but surely, something magical happened. I started to find my groove. The words flowed more freely, the ideas sparked with renewed energy, and the joy of writing returned. I even started to get comments from people who shared my passion for properly mindset while loading a dishwasher!

I realized that Substack wasn't just a platform for achieving fame and fortune (though, let's be honest, a little bit of that wouldn't hurt). It was a space for me to grow, to learn, to connect, and to share my passion with the world, one quirky observation at a time.

The Unexpected Twist (aka, "The Troll Awakens")

Just as I was settling into my groove, comfortably nestled in my little corner of the internet, a wild troll appeared! It started with a seemingly innocuous comment on my latest post about the philosophical implications of the right amount of cognitive load. "This is the dumbest thing I've ever read," it proclaimed.

At first, I laughed it off. Everyone's a critic, right? But then the troll doubled down, leaving increasingly nasty comments on every post, questioning my intelligence, my writing ability, and even my passion for positive psychology (apparently, positivity is "so last century").

My initial reaction was to engage, to defend myself, to prove the troll wrong. But the more I responded, the more emboldened they became. It was like feeding a Gremlin after midnight—a very angry, grammar-challenged Gremlin.

I felt my hard-won confidence start to crumble. Was the troll right? Was I deluding myself about my writing? Maybe I should just give up, delete my Substack, and go back to knitting those wonky sock puppets.

The Community Rallies (aka, "Not Today, Troll!")

But then something amazing happened. My little community of readers, the ones who had been quietly enjoying my musings on positive psychology etiquette and the existential angst of midlifers, rose up in my defense. They countered the troll's negativity with positive comments, shared my posts with their friends, and even started their own witty counter-attacks against the troll (apparently, "your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries" is still a devastating insult in the digital age).

I was overwhelmed by their support. It was like a warm blanket of validation on a cold, troll-infested night. I realized that I wasn't alone. I had found my people, my tribe, and my fellow warriors against the forces of online negativity.

Epilogue: The Writer Evolves (aka, "This is Just the Beginning")

Now, the real adventure begins. It's time to embrace the chaos, experiment, grow, and keep writing, even when the going gets tough. The world needs our stories, our vovoices, andur unique perspectives. And who knows, maybe one day, I'll even get my mother to subscribe (though I'm not holding my breath).

Want to conquer your own writing demons and find your groove? Here are a few things that helped me:

• Find your tribe: Connect with other writers online or in person. Share your struggles, celebrate your wins, and learn from each other.

• Embrace the experiment: Don't be afraid to try different writing styles and explore new topics. You might surprise yourself!

• Set realistic goals: Don't expect to become an overnight sensation. Focus on small, achievable goals, like publishing one post a week or connecting with a few new readers.

So, you caught the writing bug on Substack. Now what?

Keep writing, keep connecting, and keep embracing the chaos. Because even with the trolls and the self-doubt and the occasional existential meltdown, this adventure is too damn fun to give up.

The curtain falls, but the story continues..