A Question of Encouragement
Celebrating The Collective Wisdom
You have all discovered ‘8 Questions’, right?
It is the brainchild of novelist . The series truly is the epitome of her declared intent:
“This space is dedicated to championing the cause of independent writers working in the field of literary fiction by increasing visibility, challenging stigma, and proving quality. In tandem with the mainstream publishing industry, I help make available to the public the best of literary fiction.”
Why do we love ‘8 Questions’ so much?
The underlying sense of encouragement grabs us; also the generosity of people’s answers and the willingness of the interviewees to share their learning to help others. We thought it would be helpful to gather and share some of those answers, offering an encouragement to others whilst celebrating the folk who shared the knowledge and experience.
Thank you, Eleanor, for agreeing so open heartedly to us rippling out your hard work.
1. Why Substack
“Writers need readers, not just to buy our books but to talk to, to read them, to finish the work. We are nothing without them. Our work is nothing without them.”
Substack felt like coming home. Here were the slow folk; the online outcasts who wanted out from social media's anxious carousel. Slow writing and slow reading; the Internet at a human pace.
I need a break from the hysteria and callousness of other media platforms. I miss people. I miss debate. I miss grey areas. I miss vulnerability not having to be packaged within something performative and snappy. This platform feels raw, it feels sloppy, there is an anarchy to Substack, that threatens the perfectionism bred by other platforms.
2. How long did it take you to find your groove
Not long, because I had no real strategy. I just showed up to talk to a very small audience about Emily Dickinson’s gingerbread recipe. Then I began sharing poems I enjoy and never stopped.
I will never find my groove—and that’s okay. I can find rhythms when I write, but I never know how well something will be received or whether people will connect with it.
3. How has it changed you
“I’ve maybe spilled too much of my heart, at times? But that’s the writing I love to read, the crude, explicit self that we may otherwise hide. It helps you to make your mark and connect with readers. And it’s been healing. All of it. I’m now in my mid-forties and have changed beyond recognition since my thirties; still the same face, but inside, oh-so different. I’m humbled by my writing’s resonance with others, and by its brief life when I fearlessly burn it down and rebuild.”
“Before Substack, I wrote quietly by myself in the hours before work. It was a solitary endeavour. Now I write in community with the other writers I follow and the various commenters who get involved.”
It’s made me feel freer in writing very directly, in what I hope is an open voice. I have a very intimate relationship to an audience of friendly and devoted readers. Some join, some flee, but I have a group who are generally curious about what I do next. That is a great thing, when publishing feels so fragile.
4. What mistakes have you made
I probably haven't made enough mistakes. I could be a little more experimental, a little more bold about asking for subscriptions, a little more unhinged in my comment leaving or my feed starting.
“I serialized my first novel on Substack but locked the whole thing to paid subscribers so only about 200 people read it. Also, I should have serialized it over a summer rather than over a year! That was a long time to have to keep people interested! Also I shouldn't have tried to serialise my novel live because that was impossible for me to do (I'm now writing it secretly and will serialise it only when it’s complete).”
Like most other newcomers, I fretted over numbers too much. I’d like to think I’m over that now [furtively checks views on latest post].
5. To pay or not to pay
I had so many reservations about setting up the voluntary subscription system on my site in 2015, even though it was mostly just people chucking me a quid per month (aka 67 pence, once PayPal had taken their fees). It feels very unBritish to ask for money for your writing. But I have never felt like I shouldn't pay for writing or music I enjoy. I have spent over £100 on a record several times. One part of the problem is that the early internet made people feel they should be able to consume art for free: music, books, audiobooks, films. Which is an unsustainable system. While not perfect (what is?), Substack feels like quite a fair attempt to redress that - in fact, to redress, and repair, a lot of the "You should view the exposure as payment enough!" bullshit that was going around a decade or so ago. I am grateful for every one of my subscribers, paid or otherwise, and far, far more of my posts have been free than paid-subscriber only, but when I've worked hard on a piece of writing and feel drained from the thought and research I put into it, I feel less apprehensive about pressing the "paywall" button than I once did. I want to give my paid subscribers value for money.
“As a reader, I wish I could reward everyone whose words I love, admire and learn from. I consume so much brilliant content here; honestly, I would almost give up Haribo sweets and spend all my pocket money on writing, and probably quite a lot of the housekeeping too. But it’s not practical. We have boundless enthusiasm to invest in likes, comments, restacks, recommendations etc and we throw them around with largesse.”
6. What artistic and technical choices have you made
In many ways, I think I've found that elusive intersection between what I want to write and what my readers want to read: what I call the heartbeat of my publication. That is, words that make you feel less alone and think more deeply about our human experience. I want to dive into reasons behind why we do things or think certain ways. I want my readers to explore with me and think, "Yes, but what if there is another layer? What if there is another angle I haven't considered?"
Probably the most "consequential" ‘choice’ I've ever made — I'm not sure I could have done otherwise — is divorce my writing style from my social energies to some extent. Although the "I" that writes is not the "I" that speaks, it's nevertheless the case that I try to write as I speak, just with those restrictions: fewer digressions, less personality, more scepticism.
7. What’s been the effect on your writing
I think publishing weekly has made me a more thoughtful and observant writer. I notice little things a lot more. I pay attention to details. However, writing is hard work. It requires a lot of time, effort, and mental fortitude. For me, at least, it also requires a lot of coffee.
The self-imposed discipline of weekly essays has given me confidence; I know I can turn my inchoate thoughts or impressions into something half-readable. And reading how others do it and do it better—I said above that my reading on the platform is important for my writing—is a way that I can continue to see ways of improving.
8. In it for the long haul
“Yes! I’m staying. This has become my everyday playground, a place of fun where I can try out ideas, be a little out of my depth and grow as an artist. All of this I need.”
Gosh, seeing those snippets I'm so proud of the amazing collection of guests I've had. Thanks, Barrie. This has made me very happy xx
I didn't know about 8 questions and found the responses so interesting. I am very glad I started writing on Substack, it is such a refreshing alternative to other platforms, and am definitely in it for the long haul too.