Why I write

Hint: No, I've never wanted to break out as the next Faulkner or Kardashian.

Between The World and Me cover, a must read book by Ta-Nehisi Coates

As I’ve mentioned previously, a few months ago, I found Substack by sheer luck. I wanted zine inspiration and ended up staying for so much more.

I didn’t join to build a brand or chase subscribers. I’m here because writing, for me, is one of the main ways I find clarity and joy. Writing here helps me make sense of the world, while I also find others who seem to want the same.

But then I read a Note that reminded me how differently some people view this space and who they imagine belongs in it. Here it is.

Many people have the idea that Substack is a magical place where unknown talent is *finally* going to break past “the gatekeepers” and their writing discovered by “the people.” Sure that could happen.

But this ecosystem rewards social media savvy, self-marketing and self-promotion.

It’s not the Faulkners and Joyces that will breakout on here.

It’s the Kardashians of the writing world.

Why did this Note irritate me, even anger me, aside from the fact that it was a sloppy mischaracterization of the writers I’ve found on Substack? I mulled it over. Then I asked myself whether I should think about it anymore.

I decided to respond:

Respectfully, [Substack dude’s name ], some many of us aren’t on substack [sic] to “break out” as a white male author. Only a few weeks ago, by chance, I was searching the internet for zine inspiration. Although I had created a Substack account a few years ago when twitter changed its name, I didn’t return. However, over the past month, I’ve found comfort in this space. Here, I feel free to write for myself and to connect with articulate thinkers. Best of luck to you! ✍️

Then he responded to me:

His initial response seemed thoughtful. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he projected his own ambitions onto the platform and hoped to break out as the next Faulkner or Joyce. But, when he then responded “no idea what this has to do with white men,” I felt sick to my stomach.

His obtuse question that failed to see why I brought up race hit me the way Coates describes his sadness in Between the World and Me, a book written as a letter to his son. In BTWM, he discusses how mainstream America believes and promotes what Coates calls the Dream, the fiction that our world is free from a white supremacist structure:

Hearing this, I felt an old and indistinct sadness well up in me. The answer to this question is the record of the believers themselves. The answer is American history.

In the aftermath of the Michael Brown verdict to set the killers free, Coates explains his sadness about this journalist’s query to his teenage son:

And I was sad for these people, much as I was sad for the host and sad for all the people out there watching and reveling in a specious hope. I realized then why I was sad. When the journalist asked me about my body, it was like she was asking me to awaken her from the most gorgeous dream. I have seen that dream all my life. It is perfect houses with nice lawns. It is Memorial Day cookouts, block associations, and driveways. The Dream is treehouses and the Cub Scouts. The Dream smells like peppermint but tastes like strawberry shortcake. And for so long I have wanted to escape into the Dream, to fold my country over my head like a blanket. But this has never been an option because the Dream rests on our backs, the bedding made from our bodies. And knowing this, knowing that the Dream persists by warring with the known world, I was sad for the host, I was sad for all those families, I was sad for my country, but above all, in that moment, I was sad for you.

[Italics added.]

So, when someone who aspires to write like Joyce or Faulkner asks "why bring up race," this question reveals so much. What a luxury, a hollow one, to believe race is irrelevant while holding up those two as the gold standard of literary success. If one sincerely believes we don't have to think about race, after holding up two white writers known for their often inaccessible prose, then I suspect they too only smell the sweet scent of peppermint from the strawberry shortcake. They are lost in the Dream.