Essay: Woman behind a paywall

Why trying to go viral makes us weaker writers and sadder humans

Last week, I wrote an essay about dating, the current crisis affecting men, and my own fears surrounding marriage. My essay was pretty widely shared. Maybe too widely shared. By the third day, it had expanded outside its target audience. Now, my piece was being circulated by the alt-right, red pill “alpha males” of the manosphere attacking not only my views on dating, but also my appearance. 

I’m no stranger to the occasional internet hate, especially as my platform has grown and I’ve had poems take off on Instagram. Over the years, I’ve had to develop a thick skin. I realize fortitude is vital and that, in many ways, I need to toughen up. Yet, that kind of neutrality is tricky to balance against my primary task as a poet—to remain open and bruisable to this world.  

I can’t deny that going viral and growing a platform has had its true benefits. It helped me get a book deal and start my own writing community. The truth is I like social media—I’m good at it—but I’ve slowly come to realize that too much visibility will be the death of my creative endurance. 

As a woman online, it can feel at times that your every action is being scrutinized, filtered through the lens of acceptability. If you have a large platform, suddenly you’re expected to adhere to a level of perfectionism that is neither reasonable nor achievable. 

I’ve recently been criticized for the following online: 

• posting a pic of me riding a horse (cruelty to animals!)

• including a statistic about suicide rates in an essay (should have added a trigger warning!)

• eating oysters (it’s not vegan!)

Please don’t yell at me for riding this horse. Pic credit: @wanderfulcamille

I recently shared a picture of me in a sundress and got scores of dms asking where the dress was from. Not one for gatekeeping hot fits, I shared the brand only to immediately panic because I hadn't yet done my research. Was the brand sustainable, eco-friendly, slow-fashion? I didn’t know, but I prepared to be punished for it. A recent uncomfortable realization is that people aren’t just following me as a poet, they now treat me as an influencer—whose every post is an endorsement and every action demands judgment. It’s a job I never wanted. 

The problem with being an author online is that our brains aren’t equipped to handle so much visibility. We’re not meant to metabolize everyone’s opinion all at once. Psychologically, we aren’t prepared for an onslaught of feedback accessible at all hours. And, unlike the days where authors were only read in books, and then occasionally met at events, readers can now flood an author’s inbox with criticism, adoration, and constant questions. 

Once you go viral, the temptation is to decipher the formula for how to do it again. Unfortunately, what’s interesting is not always popular. Furthermore, trying to manufacture virality is a surefire way to create saccharine writing and, eventually, cull your own creative vision. Too often, I think we sacrifice slow, chewy art for attention. 

About four years ago, I left my job as a copy director at a branding agency because I was tired of writing for other people. I wanted my words back. Now, I worry I left my corporate gig only to make the internet my new “client.” And it is, without question, a more ruthless one. 

Courtney Maum

recently shared on Substack: You can’t be “extremely online” and deeply creative simultaneously. I agree with her. I don't think that you can build a platform on social media and hold on to the peace of mind it requires to truly push your craft. I don’t think you can write what needs to get written when you have The Internet as a voice constantly in your head. You can’t play music if you’re waiting for your hand to get slapped. 

In a workshop, Ellen Bass once said: You can’t write good poems if you’re always the hero of them. And sadly, social media convinces us that we must all be heroes. Online readers insist that writers tell their whole truth, perform vulnerability, and give them realness. But those same readers punish us for any perceived transgressions or moments of actual authenticity. Immediate access to an author’s inbox and comment section ensures that a lot of writing published online is blameless, but boring. Truly good writing requires something darker, more complicit and complicated—more human. 

Recently, I posted a poem about mercy-killing a praying mantis after it flew into a grill. One reader commented: I’m glad to know how scary you are now. And I thought: Really, you think that’s scary? If you only knew—I’m actually much scarier. 

The irony is that I abandoned the purity culture of my childhood only to find myself now in the left’s own version of it. A culture where we demand “purity” by attacking artists, often women, for not aligning with our specific views, preferences, and standards. Where we champion moral superiority and weaponize ethics. Where we make our moral compass a club. 

Last week, my friend

Leslie Stephens

gave me some great advice: Getting more offline will make you a better writer. And she’s right. It’s impossible to take risks in your writing if you’re always flinching. You won’t be funny or interesting or honest. You’ll just be anxious.

All this is to say, I’m moving to a paywall structure here on Substack because I want to keep writing my best. I want to take risks without worrying so much about trolls, misogynists, and sanctimoniousness. I want words with teeth and a pulse. I want to make slow, chewy art. And I’ve come to the conclusion that some things, including my heart, are best gatekept.

I also want my Substack membership to be a place where you can safely share your writing, questions, and your heart. On the paid model, I’ll write chewy, honest essays and I’ll send you prompts and community threads where you can write and share your own. I hope you’ll join me. 

Paid subscribers will receive: 

• All future monthly Woman-in-the-World essays

• Access to comment sections and dms

• Audio recordings

• Monthly thread conversations with me, Q+A’s, writing prompts, and on-assignment, out-in-the-world writing challenges

Free subscribers will have access to:

• Updates on upcoming workshops, retreats, and classes

• Occasional monthly essays