Is Substack even worth it?
Plus my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day at The Ryder Cup
I have to confess, Dear Readers, I don’t really know what my newsletter is about anymore. I’m feeling stuck and uninspired and a bit morose that new writers to Substack are gaining thousands of subscribers. I started this thing in 2022, and have consistently written for 178 weeks. And while yes, more people are subscribed to Please Read Me, my monkey brain keeps telling me that not enough people are subscribed. I’m jealous of those charting on Substack’s new “rising” section. I’m jealous that writers get many likes on their posts.
What can I say? I’m a Capricorn rising who constantly yearns to be the best at what I do. And this time, I actually feel like I deserve it! I put a lot of time into Please Read Me! I research and write and edit and post almost disgustingly often to my social media about it. At this point in my Substack career, 178 weeks in, it’s like I’m writing into the void. Shouting for strangers to read my work, but in reality it’s just my friends and my parents.
Isn’t that enough? For my friends to read my work, for my dad to text me the sweetest messages after finishing my latest newsletter. An idealistic part of me wants to say yes, that is enough. But, the ego maniac, success obsessed monster living inside my soul says no. I want to be admired by the masses, consumed by everyone.
All this comes at a time where I am writing more than ever. I work for a celebrity magazine and churn out articles like my life depends on it. Thousands of people read those stories, but it doesn’t feel the same. I enjoy it, for sure, but there is something special about publishing your own work purely by you, no other filters. And with all that writing, I’m exhausted when it comes time to Please Read Me. So I’ve turned to listicals – what I’m consuming, my morning routine, what I did on my birthday.
I have to confess that a huge part of why I wrote those is because I thought more of you would read them. I was wrong. My most popular newsletters of the past few months have been my well researched pieces on SkinnyTok, Alex Cooper, and how I quit my toxic job. Those stories take more time, require me to sit with my thoughts much longer, and ask my dad to edit – he is very good at that and he doesn’t charge me.
So, I don’t know what Please Read Me is right now. I don’t want to treat it like a place for me to dump nonsensical listicals. I enjoy writing about politics and culture and our very, very messy world. But finding the time is exhausting! You see the problem don’t you!
I am not quitting Substack. I still love it and love my Dear Readers. When I bang out a sharp, opinionated newsletter about the state of the world, there is no better feeling. I just knew I needed to be honest. That I’m confused by Please Read Me. And I adore it. It’s my baby and my problem and my outlet and my greatest dream. Maybe I’ll slow down my output and just focus on the juicy stuff! Maybe I’ll share a few more listicals because they’re easy to write. Who knows. But thanks for sticking with me and also please give this newsletter a like to boost my fragile ego.
The Ryder Cup
Yesterday, I was tasked with attending the Ryder Cup for work. What is the Ryder Cup, you ask. I wish I would have done an ounce of research about the actual event ahead of time. What I knew was that it was a golf event where American golfers play against European golfers. I was covering the celebrity match with Americans like Colin Jost, Michael Strahan, and Miranda Lambert playing against Europeans like Catherine Zeta Jones and Brooklyn Beckham.
My coworker and I had the questions we wanted to ask, I was supposed to catch everyone on social media while she interviewed. I knew how to get there – the course was on Long Island and required me to get up at 5 AM to get there on time. And folks, that was all I knew! The moment I arrived at Bethpage Black Golf Course, I knew I fucked up.
I wore a white t-shirt under a short sleeved sweater, a pair of jeans, and my trustee black mesh flats. I even brought a blazer. This was the WRONG outfit. I had to traverse the golf course – which is only accessible via my two legs??? No golf carts available?? Even for MEDIA ?? Immediately, at 8:30 AM, I was hot, sweaty, and grumpy. I missed the celebrities at the early holes and waited at hole 15 for them. Colin Jost hit the ball, walked by and made a joke. And that was it! That was all the time I had with him!
My phone was dying, my coworker was somewhere deep within the golf course, and I was dripping with sweat. I walked back and forth between the media center (the only place in the entire venue with seats) so many times that all the guards recognized me. No celebrities stayed for interviews in the designated interview section and I didn’t even get to see Noah Kahan (who was playing for America).
I spammed my friends with messages about how bad of a time I was having, texted my golf loving cousin (thank you Will) questions about what golf is and what golf lingo means, and even walked up to a few water boys to beg them to help me figure out where to go. I have never felt so out of place! And I feel bad that I was there, at this illustrious golf tournament that many people around me called “a once in a lifetime experience.” The experience was lost on me. I hated it and could not wait to be home, in my air conditioned apartment and to never, ever step foot on a golf course again.
