There I was, in another menopause induced, anxiety riddled bout with insomnia when my email pinged. The Kate Chronicles had one more subscriber! Ooh, I was excited. I’d been working on expanding my readership beyond all the contacts I’d made since converting my AOL to Gmail.
READ BY THE AUTHOR ABOVE
Last February, I decided I was sick of waiting to be ignored or rejected by a frustrated editor for a piece I loved, poured my heart into and believed people would appreciate. There are so few literary magazines and so many, many writers. It’s not like acceptance is a guarantee of readership either. The only time I open them is to figure out where to submit to next. When was the last time you read one?
My goal is to take you on a wave of my unique rhythm, gathering small pieces that build on each other and leave the reader with a thoughtful smile. The ideas spin out like a whirlpool in my mind, my thoughts riding the edges, gathering speed until they're pulled under, returning the calm waters of a completed post. So began the Kate Chronicles.
That’s the official story, but it’s not the whole truth. I don’t want to die having my kids think of me as a coward. Which is what I have been about my work, partially focussed on caretaking and editing but also dejected by the inevitable, relentless, “no thank you.”
Some time ago, I began admitting I was a writer, but I haven’t been willing to chase it, or to find a safe enough spot inside myself to hide when the, “not quite right for us,” comes.
And I really want to know. Am I any good beyond my small band of merry writing friends? Do my chops really measure up?
I kept hearing of writers I admire bucking the system, taking their readership with them. I found Substack and jumped into the void, not knowing where it would lead, steeling myself against the big bad critics, self generated and actual. I had cards printed up and posted them on bulletin boards around town, committing to a regular once weekly schedule. I got over my fearful humility and “encouraged” people who fell into my path to sign up. I was building my brand.
It began to work. Some readers have told me it’s a part of their Friday they look forward to. That the posts themselves remind them of home, or a feeling they hadn’t had in some time. Each encouragement is enough to leave me wanting more.
Which brings me back to my up all night game playing, doom-news-listening, self. Another ping. I smiled again. Maybe someone had told two friends, or both the guys at the feed store signed on! Pings piled up as the morning wore on. I optimistically thought maybe I had a virus, but a good one—one that boosts my stats! If Substack was having an issue, I was going to ignore it. Which is an apt metaphor for how I run things if ever I’ve found one.
At 11am I got the email from our delightful, Hannah! Substack had chosen me to feature on “Discover.” I was floored. I had no idea what it meant but the pings kept coming with the relentless regularity of a leaky faucet.
I think it had more to do with the steady schedule of my Friday post along with my interacting with readers, than anything else. I read the email again. Like a teenage girl, or a fallen president, I parsed the words. I called other people to consult. “Handpicked,” it said, “to feature on Discover...” The pings brought a smile to my face that was starting to become permanent.
By the end of Thursday, my subscribers had doubled. Holy shit, I thought. Now I have to write something that someone who doesn’t love me will like. Of course I stopped dead. Taking success and turning it into an attack on my very soul, is my jam.
Last Friday’s story came to me early. I should have coasted in, but by that morning, my readership had nearly tripled. I sat in front of a story I’d worked so hard on and hated everything about it. As Thursday night drew to a close and Friday 4:15 stared at me across another sleepless night, I wasn’t done. I thought I’d never be.
I’d turn to one of the committees I use to help me formulate these posts. Each with a different purpose. A great group of writers I hang out with on Thursday nights are my beta testers, then a few of my friends. Not everyone is necessary for each post, but they include:
The censor I live with, in case I’ve said something too embarrassing even for my long suffering husband. So far, so good. Doesn’t he have any shame?
I have a friend I call if it’s a New York thing, but not so much if it’s literary or my parents are involved, because she thinks I should get over it. Sometimes she yells at me and I yell back, a thing that borders on therapeutic. I only call her when I’m really not sure and need the truth. Either way, she’s still happy to hear from me.
Another one only gives me support. She loves everything I do, unless I ask directly. Sometimes, a girl needs a boost.
And yet another is kind enough to go through the grammar with me to get to a presentable, if not entirely acceptable, state. She has been helping me with this for over 20 years.
I surrendered to my process of culling through the haystack of ideas to start searching for the needle. It’s there. It always is. Or, historically has been. Then I try to compartmentalize the part of my brain that says, “it shall never be again.”
The pinging was a direct challenge to the familiar notes of self-hatred. I wasn’t going to do anything differently. Just keep plugging away. This weekly required output is evidence that while the screaming insecurity is always the loudest thing I hear, when I sit down to write, it appears my brain has been clacking away despite the noise.
My readership increased another two fold as I went through the process. I pushed through my nausea and came up with a piece I was proud of and a readership I’m so excited to have come on board.
I’m not a person who has ever admitted to enjoying the spotlight, though this project has offered me this other side of myself. When I read my work aloud, when I get the feedback I’ve long convinced myself I didn’t need, well, I actually kind of love it.
To Hannah and the Substack fairies, thank you so much for “handpicking” me to showcase on Discover those few days. As I closed out my feature, I’d gone from 198 readers to 694. Welcome aboard. I hope you enjoy the experience.
Please share the love. Every ping is a doubt erased.
Well done, Katush! FINALLY! 🥰🥰
“...because she thinks I should get over it.” Oh, what a lovely and loving distinction! But the reveal of this whole piece is just....well, thank you again!!!