When writing, the internet should be an afterthought

etc. etc. etc.

Someone said to me recently that being offline is today’s greatest privilege. The more I think about it, the more I know it’s true. Opting out of all of this means opting out of work opportunities. At least for most of us. I often dream of giving it all up and moving to a farm in Vermont. And then I vacillate. I know I would feel unstimulated, unfulfilled. I’d like to say I would still be here even if I knew I was set for life. Honestly, I think I would. I’m probably overthinking it.

It’s hard to even comprehend all that comes from an online presence. It’s making oneself available to the world, for better or for worse. For better, it’s new friends, interests, ideas and works that resonate with and shape a life. For worse, it’s becoming so tethered to an internet presence that it feeds the ego, warps the sense of self, inflates the idea of self importance, and creates an addiction that ultimately impacts one’s psychology. Being online isn’t good or bad. It’s extremely both.

While swimming in a bathhouse with 50 other Substack writers at an event last week, I thought about what it means to exert oneself on the internet today. What are we doing here? What is actually the point of it all, if not to gain a quick internet applause and feeling of importance? There are so many writers today baring their souls, telling deeply personal stories (which, by the way, is an extremely courageous act) that can often feel cheapened by the medium on which they are shared: the over-saturated and under-appreciative internet.

I once saw Fran Lebowitz give a well-known writer the harsh but honest advice of writing about something other than themselves. It needed to be said. When I think about writing that left a mark on my brain, it’s essays like The Crane Wife and Joan Didion’s On Self Respect—stories that start with the personal but eventually make a much bigger, universal point outside of the self. Pieces that are also really, really well written. I can’t help but feel like we are moving further and further away from that.

Like most readings, last week’s bathhouse reading prompted readers to share something related to their personal lives. I have utmost respect for that. I love a reading where brave writers go in on what they think, what they feel, what they’ve experienced. And maybe in some way, it’s an invitation to dive into the literal pool of self indulgence. So what’s the problem with that? Maybe there isn’t one, but it does seem like sharing something shocking as a writer today doesn’t always require craft. I’ll get to the point: Something about this particular evening felt like a metaphor for swimming in this swamp that exists in certain corners of the internet, where online fame is the wetness one cannot resist. Where a splash is so deeply craved. And that swamp feels really sad to me. There’s something empty about it. It just makes me want to get out of the swamp.

I’m not sure what the answer to these thoughts are. There probably isn’t one. The only takeaway that helps me is the truth that a brief internet applause will never have the lasting effects of good work. Getting attention online will never outlive mastering a craft. I’ve felt the cheap thrill, and I’m not so sure it’s all that. Having an internet presence is part of the whole thing now. I like the good parts. I hate the swamp. Some days I’m ready for the farm. Some days I’m going to the Substack swimming party. Overall I think the goal is to become so good that the internet of it all doesn’t even matter.