The Samsara Trap of Substack Analytics

Why I will ignore Substack's performance metrics and instead focus on what I love: just writing.

When I first started this

Substack

newsletter, it was with the goal of enticing myself to write regularly.

In pursuit of the pinnacle of success on Mount Substack. (Photo by Joshua Earle)

I figured that if I had a subscriber base, I’d hold myself accountable to writing, if not every day, then every other day.

As a marketer-in-recovery (copywriting is my forté!), I also wanted to make sure I was writing about what I actually wanted to write about. Not pieces I’d get paid to write, nor stuff I was tailoring to a specific audience. I wanted to write about things that would inspire and uplift me, that would help me make sense of the soul messages I get on the regular…and if other people actually found it interesting or uplifting, it would be a side perk (not to mention, amazing, ‘cause I’m kind of a weirdo!).

And you know what? It started out that way: I was delighted with this new forum, excited to write and make connections with other writers. I didn’t pay attention to number of subscribers or view stats because I WAS WRITING AND IT MADE ME HAPPY.

But then, the pressure started creeping in. Substack would send me what was meant as encouraging nods via email (“Hey, this post got 100 views in the first 24 hours! Keep up the good work!”), and while these were initially met with enthusiasm, I would then use them as a litmus test of my success. If a post didn’t receive a congratulatory follow-up from Substack, I started to feel like I was doing something wrong.

Then Substack introduced more analytics, and the marketer in me was hooked. Where I’d been blissfully ignorant of email open rates, page views and clicks, suddenly I started to see things through professional eyes, measuring every post option to see how alluring it might be to new subscribers. I scoured other writers’ Substacks for nuggets on how to add nuggets to my posts, “hooks” that would convert subscribers from free to paid. I read a ridiculous number of “How I got to 1000+ paid subscribers” posts, all giving advice on how to be popular just like them.

What I see when I look at Substack’s post analytics. (Photo by Fab Lentz)

And you know what? As soon as I turned on my marketing lens, where I had once seen potential, I saw lack. Where I had been growing my subscriber base effortlessly, suddenly every new subscriber started to feel like effort. I started to feel performance anxiety, then comparison envy. I found myself getting demoralized when I saw others succeed where I was failing: more post likes, more Notes comments, more Chat responders…and the most coveted gold: more Subscribers.

Indeed, the more subscribers a Substack had, the worse I’d feel, especially if those subscribers were happily commenting and liking and engaging.

I’m very sorry to say that Substack was starting to feel like a popularity contest.

Not too long ago, recent Substacker

Shalom Auslander

launched an excellent funny-because-it’s-true post about the impact of this forum on a writer’s psyche. It got a phenomenal response, especially for a Substack newcomer (who’s not, say, a mega-author like

George Saunders

).

I’d quote it, but alas, he has now put it behind a paywall.

The Dangers of Substack for the Chronically Low Self-Esteemed

The grand success of his post speaks volumes, for none of his other posts have come close to the number of likes and comments that one received. It seems this topic struck a chord with many Substackers, many of whom have felt the pangs of envy, jealousy or outright resentment of others’ success in this forum.

But! Even as I liked and commented (rather wittily, it must be said) on that post, I was still not ready to admit that I was feeling resentment of others’ success. I still felt myself above the fray.

It was not until I found myself illogically angry at two benign and wonderful female writers for being so damn popular (eg, Substack royalty

Alex Elle

and

Elizabeth Gilbert

) that I began to realize that I had fallen into the Samsara trap on Substack.

If you’re not familiar with the Buddhist term Samsara, it is the Sanskrit word used to refer to the cycle of birth, death and rebirth that happens until one becomes enlightened and exits the cycle.¹ While the term itself holds no judgement about the nature of this life-death-rebirth cycle, in popular parlance, it has come to mean the cycle of suffering. As fellow Substacker

Alex Olshonsky

writes:

Samsara is seen as a state of suffering and impermanence, and the goal of spiritual practice is to break free from this state and attain liberation (moksha or nirvana).

In other words, I had walked away from a state of writing grace — full of uninhibited creativity and motivation to write on this glorious free platform — into one of self-imposed suffering. All because I’d fallen into the seduction of comparison, by way of Substack Analytics.

So dear writers and readers, what have I learned from this descent into the messiness of being a creative human?

Substack’s analytics are at best an interesting distraction; at worst, a creative killjoy.

My transformational writing teacher

Amber Rae

advises writers to not allow their own mental editor in the proverbial room when writing their first draft. Much like inviting a lawyer to a brainstorming session (it is a buzzkill!), writing your first draft with an editor in your mind will limit your capacity to dream big, take creative risks and write authentically — if write at all!

Writing with a marketer in your mind is even worse, as you are constantly gauging what others would like to read instead of what you’d like to write. Rather than measuring your words (as you would with an editor in your head), you’re measuring the worthiness of the entire topic, tailoring your subject to what will generate the most likes, comments and new subscribers. Without even realizing it, you start monitoring open and click rates, googling tips on how to write the perfect subject line to increase those opens, obsessing over stats as you choose your topic — and your words — with an eye for what will convert subscribers from free to paid.

The trickiest thing about marketing is that it is so seductive, it converts you gradually, slowly bringing you around to its way of thinking. It’s so convincing (“The numbers never lie!”), you don’t even realize you’re no longer writing authentically. You think you’re being quite clever, in fact, in being able to predict (if not shape!) what readers will love. And when the stats prove you’re right, it strengthens your belief that this is the right direction.

As someone who has worked in a marketing capacity for 20+ years, let me say that writing for yourself from a marketing mindset not only a creative killjoy, it’s a soul-eater. It is the Dementor’s kiss of your creative spirit, sucking the lifeforce out of your work, leaving your writing a hollow facsimile, a nod to creativity…but not the real deal.

This is what happens when a marketing mindset takes over your writing process.

And while it may work for a while, the truth is, your readership will eventually be onto you, because — as

Alex Dobrenko`

says:²

In improv we were taught to play to the top of your intelligence. This meant to improvise under the conditions that your audience is smart as hell and can figure stuff out, go on big leaps with you, and get your weird references – or, if they don't, be totally cool with it. Trust them and they will trust you back. Because they are geniuses. Actually. And they'll know if you think otherwise.

Because in writing what you think others want to read, not only are you underestimating your readership, you’ve also lost your authentic voice and robbed yourself of the opportunity to create something no one else has made before, something truly original. Rather than offering your unique perspective, you’ve conformed to what is already being done. You’re hiding from the world, withholding your true creative self from public view.

“Ah!” says my higher self (who is always a champion of me finding my authentic voice), “I believe we have finally come to the higher learning.”

“What’s that?” I ask as I study what I’ve just written, my eyes lingering on the last line.

“Replace the second person with the first,” suggests my higher self. “Then read it again.”

"Crap,” I sigh. “Okay.”

I’m hiding from the world, withholding my true creative self from public view.

My higher self doesn’t have to say anything else, as the message has hit home.

Obsessing about analytics is a way to play it safe, because it can feel very scary to speak as the true self in one’s authentic voice.

And that’s exactly why I’ve been doing it.

Is the world ready for my authentic voice? I don’t actually know. It’s something all together unknowable, taken on faith — which is anathema to my marketing mind.

But per my own advice, if I don’t take the risk of writing from that true voice, at best I’d rob myself of the opportunity to create something totally new…

…and at worst, I’d lose my creative spark to soul-sucking Dementors (I think we can all agree that would be too high a price).

So I am now disinviting my marketing mind from the writing table!

Marketing mind, go have a drink and relax at the bar.

And:

I hereby declare that I will not look at Substack analytics for ONE WHOLE WEEK!

Readers, please hold me to it!

Phew! That felt great! We needed a good old-fashioned marketing exorcism. Now onto creating something NEW!

XO CB

PS.

Substack

: can you add a “hide tab” option for analytics? That would make it much easier for recovering marketing addicts like myself. Please and thank you!

1. Definition from LearnReligions.com, which I have never read anything from before but it seemed to handily define Samsara for the purposes of this post, so there you go.

2. From his post 6666 Tips on how I reached 6666 subscribers, which I read when I was obsessing about marketing stats. Because of Alex’s hilarious, wacky and chaotic delivery of his “advice”, I did not resent the fact that he has 6566 more subscribers than I do.