You're Tempting Me to Hit the Eject Button
Basic reasons why I struggle to read pieces (or stop reading them altogether) on Substack
I know nothing about reading, even less about writing—I’m not even sure how I’m typing this right now—but it’s true that, during my time browsing around on Substack, there have been more than a few pieces I could barely finish, more than a few I could not, for reasons I’m willing and able to articulate publicly. My main concern is finding the best writing, wherever it may be, particularly about literature, regardless of likes, subscriber counts, slickness of presentation, or leaderboard position. Literature may not be valued by schools, the market, or the culture at large, and yet the conversation must continue. And the best writing is making the best conversation.
The difficulty of the search is ineluctable. There’s no financial incentive for a writer who fails to attract paying users, scant attention for a writer without an established name and who’s not inclined to make use of the site’s social media tools or strategies on how to grow an audience. (Depending on how they’re used, these tools and strategies can be what disqualifies a writer from serious consideration. I can do without Twitter by another name.) Plenty of writers offer instruction, which suggests plenty of users are at an early stage in their development. And the writer is the editor, the first and last word on what gets published, which has its upside as well as its (manifest) downside. I’m not sure how the algorithm works, why I encounter certain writers all the time and not others. Among many of those I’ve been presented, that I’ve taken a chance on and didn’t like, the same issues that have historically inspired me to hit the eject button arise.
For users who don’t necessarily read for aesthetic merit, who are in it, above all, for information or community or branding purposes, the following remarks are unlikely to mean anything. So feel free to hit your eject button, I guess.
Rote summary
When talking books, for instance, often one must summarize. This can be done sparingly, carefully. And to get to the crux of the piece sooner, it’s arguably essential. After all, it doesn’t take much: read the book, report enough of it to provide an accurate idea of what it contains, maybe even nudge the reader in one direction or another, depending on one’s verdict. Since everyone who writes about the book shares the same facts pertaining to what happened, summary is like a disease that, left unchecked, metastasizes, rendering the writing anonymous.
Some pieces, diseased in just this way, do little more than alert readers to a book’s existence. (It doesn’t even serve as convincing proof that the writer read the whole book superficially.) I can get that type of writing anywhere, including the back cover or inside flap. One of the chief distinctions between real writing and content creation.
Bland observations
An entry from a future piece on blurbs that turn me off: "This well-conceived tale of journey and discovery confirms [Sergio] Pitol's ability to translate his experiences into interesting reading" (Publishers Weekly). Praise so perfectly vapid it might be taken as an insult.
Some pieces garnish a cold unsavory block of summary with a line of this caliber and move right along to the next course (more summary—different dish, same taste). A lost opportunity for the writer as much as the reader. Cut deeper for your own sake, at least.
Bad Humor
I once had a coworker who routinely made “jokes”: anodyne, laboriously delivered asides that had the tone of witticism and nothing else. It was a remote job in which we communicated in writing, by email or in a chatroom, so I was glad not to have to hide my reaction. I never sent a false lol just to be polite. No one sent so much as a pity ha. It wouldn’t have been possible without sounding sarcastic. Instead, everyone opted for silence, absolutely no encouragement, which nevertheless wasn’t a strong enough sign of audience reception, as he kept making these horrible “jokes” undeterred. I had begun to tune them out until one day someone responded: “Ooh! Don’t quit your day job!” Just a spasm of exasperation, gently expressed, albeit in a public forum. Suddenly I had to reinterpret the silence: others weren’t ignoring his jokes but enduring them until one couldn’t anymore. The silence that followed was different, for me at least: I was busy laughing. From then on that coworker stopped making jokes, chose not to join in when the rest of us got rowdy, and his later messages took on a pointed professionalism I traced back to the affair in question. I suspect he disdains slackers to this day.
Early on in college I took a required public speaking course. The professor who taught it served as a good advertisement for her own subject: easygoing, energetic, supportive, the last person in the room—perhaps any room—who would coolly look on as someone drowned up there. So I was a bit taken aback to learn that she was the one who once drowned before an audience she failed miserably to amuse. She related this story with a laugh, lingering pain but finally a laugh.
The other form bad humor takes is endemic to the internet and social media in particular. To become a true master of it, one must spend less time reading, with all that entails, and more time recycling gags ad nauseam, borrowing cleverness, if it can be called that.
Filler
Okay, let’s just get right to it….
And with that out of the way, we’ll start….
Your weekly content begins now!
Without further ado, let’s begin!
Here we go!
So what did ya think?
The problem is, by then I’m already gone (boopboopboopboopboooop).
It seems harmless. And if one writes in a conversational mode, one may favor natural speech over strict elimination of anything close to wordiness. …And even the best writers use “in order to” instead of “to.” But there are limits to how much and what kind of filler the attentive reader can stomach. A way to avoid testing them is to think of pieces in relation to other pieces. One offering can hardly bear a lot of extraneous material.
When I encounter work like this, it doesn’t necessarily mean I lose all faith in the writer. For some, I think: I’ll see ya around. Let weeks and months go by. Let the conscientious writer read and progress incrementally. Maybe, if I happen to run into this person again, something else will get and hold my attention.
I’ve spoken of writing that bores and disappoints. I’d rather be thrilled. And I trust that I will be.