Should You Substack?
A note for authors on ownership, SEO, and the cost of convenience
If you’re an author right now, it probably feels like Substack is the thing you’re supposed to be doing.
Agents mention it. Other writers recommend it. Thoughtful people you admire seem to have one. It’s framed as low-risk, professional, and smart—especially if you’re trying to “build a platform” or stay visible while you work on longer projects.
I don’t think Substack is bad.
But I do think it’s worth slowing down before defaulting to it—especially if you care deeply about your writing and where it lives.
This isn’t an argument against Substack. It’s an argument for intentional publishing.
Not all creative work deserves the same home
One of the most helpful distinctions I’ve made in my own work is this:
Not all creative output is meant to last in the same way.
Some things are:
quick
experimental
ephemeral
meant to be seen now and then disappear
Other things are:
slow
carefully shaped
revised and reconsidered
meant to be returned to, cited, or discovered later
I’m perfectly comfortable putting low-effort, high-velocity work on rented platforms. Social media fits that category for me. A short video or post is understood—by me and by the audience—as temporary. If it vanishes tomorrow, nothing essential is lost.
But writing is different.
If something takes hours or days to write—if it asks for emotional labor, craft, restraint, and revision—I want to be deliberate about where it lives. I want that work to have a permanent home, not just a moment of attention.
Why Substack feels so appealing (and why that matters)
Substack’s appeal is real.
It’s fast to set up.
It removes technical friction.
It handles email and publishing in one place.
It offers built-in discovery and social proof.
For many people, especially at the beginning, that ease can be genuinely helpful.
The problem isn’t the convenience itself.
The problem is what convenience quietly trades away.
When a platform removes friction, it also removes choice. It makes decisions for you—about structure, presentation, discovery, and longevity. Those decisions are optimized for the platform, not necessarily for your work.
Convenience now often comes at the cost of flexibility later.
The long-term SEO cost most authors don’t see at first
Search engine optimization isn’t glamorous, but it’s deeply tied to how writing ages.
SEO rewards:
clear structure
intentional internal linking
evergreen pages
work that compounds over time
Substack posts can rank, but the value accrues primarily to Substack’s domain, not yours. You don’t meaningfully control URL structure. Everything lives in a chronological feed. Older work sinks quickly, even if it’s still relevant or excellent.
If I spend days writing an essay, I want it to work for me for years—not be buried beneath whatever I wrote last month.
A personal site allows writing to become a library instead of a feed. Pieces can be resurfaced, reframed, linked together, and discovered long after they’re published. That kind of longevity matters when writing is something you’re building your life around, not just posting for momentum.
Ownership is more than being able to export a list
It’s often said that “you own your audience” on Substack because you can export your email list. That’s true in a narrow, technical sense—but ownership is bigger than a CSV file.
True ownership includes:
where your archive lives
how your work is framed
how readers encounter it
how easily it can be reused or repurposed
whether its value compounds in your name or someone else’s
Publishing exclusively on a platform is a bit like building a house on leased land. You can live in it. You can decorate it. You might even love it there. But you’re still operating within someone else’s system, rules, and long-term incentives.
For casual or experimental writing, that may be a perfectly acceptable trade.
For writing you deeply care about, it’s worth thinking twice.
This isn’t about right vs. wrong
I want to be very clear: using Substack is not a mistake. Many smart, thoughtful writers use it well. It can be a generous, functional tool.
My concern is with default decisions—especially when authors feel pressure to adopt a platform because it’s what everyone else is doing, not because it truly fits how they want their work to live in the world.
If you’re an author, it’s reasonable to ask:
How much time did this piece take me?
Do I want someone to find this five years from now?
Does this feel like publishing—or posting?
Am I building something I own, or contributing to a system I don’t control?
Those aren’t rhetorical questions. They’re practical ones.
A note on money (because it matters)
It’s also worth saying plainly: people are making real money on Substack. For some writers, it’s a meaningful source of income, and in some cases it has replaced or supplemented traditional publishing in ways that genuinely work.
I’m not discounting that reality or pretending it doesn’t exist.
My hesitation isn’t about whether Substack can be profitable—it clearly can. It’s about what kind of work I want to invest my deepest energy in, and where I want that work to live long-term. For me, income alone isn’t the deciding factor. Ownership, longevity, and control over my archive matter just as much.
Different goals justify different tradeoffs. This is simply about choosing them consciously.
A quieter alternative way of thinking
Instead of asking, “Should I be on Substack?”
I think a better question is:
“What does this piece of work deserve?”
Some writing is meant to pass through.
Some writing is meant to stay.
You’re allowed to choose tools that protect your work—not just your momentum. You’re allowed to prioritize ownership, longevity, and care over speed and visibility.
Convenience is a tool.
Ownership is a strategy.
And for work that matters to you, strategy is worth slowing down for.
If this piece resonated, you might enjoy thinking about publishing less as posting and more as stewardship.
I’m interested in helping authors build quiet, durable homes for their work—places where writing can accumulate meaning over time, not disappear under the next update.
You don’t have to move fast to move forward. Sometimes the most sustainable choice is simply choosing where your work belongs.
