There has been some talk recently round these parts, about who makes money on SubStack, and the legitimacy, integrity or otherwise of how they make it, to which, I should like to say:
Twaddle.
I have precisely no time for the romance of the starving artiste, less yet, for a future where the only people able to write or paint or act or create anything at all full time, are independently wealthy, and so: if you’ve found a way to cash in your art, whatever it is, and whatever that means, bravo!
If you haven't, I might be able to help. I’ve spent the last nearly-30 years - ever since I got my first job on a magazine - writing for money. This very Substack, launched a year ago last week, has ended up being a joy in more respects than I ever knew - and has also ended up being pretty lucrative. I’ve won awards with my writing. And I’ve also bought (almost) half a flat in central London with it’s reasonably gotten gains (with a mortgage, but still!), been able to take my dog to the finest veterinarians, and - if it’s got rocky at times, I do still make enough to get by with it.
Was I born good enough at writing that people would pay me for it? Obviously not. I was born a bit odd, honestly, an oddness I subsequently marshalled into a world view, one which, when expressed via the written word, seems to work for some people. But learning how to be any good at it, learning how to make money with it? That has been a three decade long odyssey; something I’m still on.
Here’s some of what I’ve worked out, about how to write at all, how to write better than you already do - and how to write for money
FFS, stop going one about how hard it is all the time! About the pain. About the “fear of the blank page”. Why anyone would want to write, if that’s genuinely how writing makes them feel, is quite beyond me. Though I suspect a lot of the time, people either talk themselves into feeling that way about writing because they think that’s what they’re supposed to do, or, they lie about how awful it is, because everyone else keeps saying it. But enough! To me, the blank page is a freaking uneaten cupcake! Nothing, but as-yet unexplored pleasure! Writing isn’t a test and it shouldn't be miserable. It’s wildness and freedom. It’s a bit of a laugh. It’s the chance to reorganise your thoughts so they make better sense, cause you less internal clutter. It’s the opportunity to repurpose and diffuse unpleasant real life experiences, so the make funny anecdotes. It’s release. Once you see writing like that, you’ll be far more inclined to do it, and do more or it, and more again - which is the only way you’ll ever get any good at it.
Cut your intros. This is one of the first things I learned on my first magazine job, it’s something I still do to my own work at least 50% of the time. Just whack
that opening para right off at the jugular: highlight and delete. Maybe the one after it. See if the rest of it works better without it. It probably does. Your original opener is probably unnecessary waffle and you need to hit the ground running if you want people to stick with you.
What is it you want to say with this post/piece/play/ book? In one, really simple sentence? Once you know that, never lose sight of it, and make sure every line serves it.