Is the Hustle Worth It?
Bikes, Little Girl Tears & Social Media
Guys, I spiraled.
It started with me working from 3:30 am. I couldn't sleep, so I decided to get some writing done. At 7, I crashed-napped hard, waking up at 9 am to your wonderful comments. Thank you.
The algorithm was serving me well. There were many enjoyable posts about reclaiming time, appreciating life, art, and ignoring the noise of the hustle.
I saw writers seeking other writers on a particular topic, and I give a shout-out, like, 'Hey, I'm here.' Want to be friends?
And this is where a great morning went south.
The Hustle Looms
Scrolling in the forest of users I have yet to meet, a post called for writers of memoirs. I answered because I, too, like memoirs. I wondered if the conversation may include fictional memoirs, a lovely slice of the genre I've discovered through reading Shoshana von Blancksee's Girls, Girls, Girls and Lisa Montanaro's Everything We Thought was True. I began typing, hey new friend…
Then it happened. A comment something like; did you know that "memoirs" is now listed under Substack categories? Click my link for more info.
My interest piqued. Exploring these categories could showcase my work to an audience seeking my kind of voice. I clicked on the suggested article but it required a subscription. Okay, fair enough.
I click the writer's page to see if it's something I want to invest in. I did this knowing I should first pay the subbers I engage with already before throwing my money at this stranger. Living this guilt trip while clicking the link in question I realized…
Oh god. It's a depression trap!
The hustle. It found me.
This is precisely the kind of thing that exacerbates my depression. A list of to-dos, how-tos, make money and be seen. If I follow these directions, be ruthlessly self-promotional, and work around the clock, I, too, could make thousands of dollars on the Substack platform.
My inner peace was dismantled. I'm already up at 3 am, writing. What more is needed?The worst, most laughable one is one announcing Billionaire Backers. (Please see my distaste for Tech elite here.)
Thirty seconds into her scroll, I was overwhelmed. I am doing everything wrong. I’m too slow. Things are changing and changing fast! The headlines continued.
How to go from $2.09 earning to $3,568 earnings. How in the world, I wondered, did you even get to earn the two dollars? On the freeway of the hustle, I am feeling left behind.
She announces she is #25 in Education categories. I pause. Wait, yes, the categories, that’s why I’m here. I click on her announcement, genuinely happy for her, another writer gaming a system I didn’t even know existed. Then out of curiosity I scrolled up to see who is number one in this Education category.
It’s how-to Ai. I cannot compete with a machine. I refuse to become a machine. Yet, this is what success looks like?
The spiral deepened.
Like Riding a Bike
I felt like I was in the first grade. We’re all participating in a fundraiser for our school. It’s was private school so idkwtf they were raising money for. But the school was fundamentalist and terrible.
I digress.
Anyway, I was pretty good at riding my bike. And riding a bike was the task for raising the funds. Ride the perimeter of the school parking lot, earning money per lap.
I went along, my parents cheered. It was fun. Simple. Then the boys came.
They get super agro. Going really fast, competing with each other. It got dangerous. They dodged me and swerved around each other. Suddenly, it was no longer fun. It was flesh on metal. Metal near colliding with metal. It was really scary!
I started to cry. I couldn’t do this fundraiser anymore. I walked my bike to my dad, who called out to the teacher to tell those boys to chill out. This is supposed to be fun.
The teacher blew a whistle and the boys slowed. I sniffed, rubbed my face, and got back on my bike again.
Posts like these, with headlines promoting the fast-paced, changing online world of selling yourself to billionaires — is overwhelming. And unhelpful.
It’s just like being on my bike again when I’m simply trying to enjoy the ride of being alive.
Sometimes these post are ridiculous. Near self mockery.
The Dead Mom Pitch
One headline (I wish I could find it again and screenshot it) read something like "my mom died and I got 28k followers."
Is this what it takes? Selling the death of your mom. It's not the article about grief that bothers me. It's writing the second article on how to monetize that grief.
The first article connected with thousands of people. Isn't that enough? Do we need a follow up on the jackpot your mom’s death brought?
The dead mom became a McGuffin. To sell "being yourself,’ open and honest. Contradicting any raw authenticity that grief may bring.
It's another article on writing about writing. And the worst kind. Writing to sell writing. Using a dead mom to claim "I know how to win the game." Tap into your most significant loss and turn it into a sale!
It's absolutely callous.
I need a hug!
I was on the brink. The hustle took its toll. Depression creeped in. 9 am I wondered, what kind of day am I about to have? Sleep deprived, yet productive. A little vulnerable. It could go either way. Heck, if the hustle won, the depression could last a long time. What kind of week am I about to have?
Okay, breathe - Conclusion
Substack, my provoker, my friend, the algorithm figured out I was upset again. I was seeking advice on how to order this one article.
Substack, my friend, presented some notes that benefited me. Substack is much nicer platform when it comes to finding what you need to thrive. To it’s credit, it helped lift me, presenting others like me, with similar values. Such as Tia here
Right on, Tia!
And this one:
If the fast lane hustle works for you, great. Just don’t hurt anyone. No one should be pressured to keep up with the boys' death bike ride.
Substack undid me and got me back on track again. I’m a little weary of this fact, an article for another day. But I’m glad I pulled myself together.
I realized, I didn’t need this one article on categories to figure out my audience. Because my audience and I are in constant touch.
I don’t need to engage with another creator’s hustle. It’s my panic responding. It’s the tears shed on a bike.
All that’s needed is step back and tell the world, chill out, and enjoy the ride.
Speaking for Myself is written by Dana Blythe. She’s another depressed writer who wants to talk about it. Writing with honesty she hopes to uplift other creatives facing similar obstacles or at least tell them they are not alone. She believes in community and creative healing. She also writes fiction and film reviews on Substack, Little White Lies, and once upon a time on Medium.