I remember when I first began writing online, filled with the excitement of possibility. I followed the advice of successful writers on Medium and Substack, who seemed to have cracked the code to building an audience. Many posted daily, churning out content like a well-oiled machine. I thought, This is what I need to do. So, I started writing feverishly, convinced that the more I published, the faster I would grow.
Every morning, I woke up thinking about what I could post that day, always focused on the next piece, the next idea, the next opportunity to get more eyes on my work.
At first, it felt great. I was productive, and the adrenaline of hitting “publish” day after day gave me a sense of purpose—something to hold onto when my personal life was in disarray. Writing became an anchor during my darkest times, a way to escape the chaos. For a while, it worked. I channelled my pain into my writing and felt like I was moving forward, even when everything else seemed to be falling apart.
But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show. I ran out of ideas, my enthusiasm faded, and worse, I began to dread writing. The joy I once felt in crafting stories and exploring ideas turned into a race against time—an exhausting cycle of reading, writing, and producing content just to stay in the game. What had once been my refuge became a source of unnecessary stress, and I realised I was trapped in a pattern of writing for others instead of for myself.
It’s easy to see how I ended up at this breaking point. There’s a popular belief among online writers that if you want to be successful, you have to be prepared to write more and more. While this may be true for some, it’s far from the norm. In reality, trying to keep up with a relentless publishing schedule can lead many writers to burnout.
Despite my efforts, my numbers didn’t improve the way I’d hoped. Sure, a few posts gained some traction, but overall, the daily grind wasn’t translating into meaningful growth. In fact, the more I wrote, the more I realised something important was missing: I wasn’t taking the time to develop my voice or figure out the true value I could offer my readers. I was so focused on writing for others that I lost sight of myself.
That experience taught me a hard but valuable lesson: writing more doesn’t necessarily mean growth. It took time, but I eventually stepped back, slowed down, and asked myself what I really wanted from all of this. Was it money, fame, or popularity? If it was to make a living from writing, it wasn’t working, and I’d need to find that elsewhere.
The truth is, growth on Substack isn’t driven by how often you publish—it’s driven by the quality of your work and the connection you create with your audience. The pressure to constantly put out content can make you lose focus on what really matters: your unique voice, the value you bring to your readers, and the development of a meaningful niche. Without those foundational elements, no amount of content can make up for a lack of substance.
It’s important to write at a pace that’s sustainable, both for your creativity and your audience. Readers are more likely to stay engaged when they sense that your work is thoughtful and authentic, rather than rushed or reactive. If you’re just starting out and haven’t yet found your niche, give yourself time to explore and experiment. There’s no need to dive headfirst into a high-frequency schedule that you may later regret. The key is to develop something sustainable that resonates with your readers, not to overwhelm them with content. In the long run, it’s the quality of your work and the unique perspective you offer that will drive growth—not the frequency of your posts.
It's really good to have these checks with yourself once in a while. The weekly cadence of publishing can be a grind of one's own making, but is it necessary? Questions I ask myself all the time...
It's hard to write because we have the feeling that we must to keep an audience. I've slowed my pace and feel better for it.