On this particularly gray and rainy Monday in New York, it feels second-nature to want to curl up with a good book (or a good blog) on the couch. I always find the gloomy sky provides “much scope for the imagination” when it comes to telling stories.
I imagine this desire to read on a rainy day is perhaps what snowboarders must feel when they see a perfectly snowy slope. Or what hikers must feel when a gust of fresh air brushes their face … a feeling larger than themselves. The thrill, or the promise, that adventure awaits them.
For me, this adventure is internal. I know that when the sky darkens, my bright laptop beckons me over to begin writing.
Since this post marks my 25th blog post on That American Girl (wow!) and is already a meta-commentary on writing, I figured I’d answer the question that I’ve been putting off: why won’t [I] move That American Girl to Substack?
For those unaware, Substack is an online platform where writers can publish newsletters directly to their audience. The platform is subscription based — the incentive being that the writer can build a genuine audience with their subscribers since they have control over the email list.
Substack, to me, is the fresh-face of the new writing generation. Many of my writing friends use it for their curation of articles and stories. I am subscribed to them as well as a handful of writers whom I admire but don’t know in real life — which is to say I don’t live under a Substack-shaped rock. I’m platonically familiar with the platform. I wouldn’t know how to upload a post, and I don’t know all of the platform’s features, but I can’t imagine it would be too difficult to figure either out. Substack aims to create a convenience in the transactional relationship between readers and writers: a digital space to connect and inspire like-minded individuals.
And connect it does — I would argue that there is a 50% chance of me clicking on the email notification about a new Substack post. If you’re a writer, you know those are pretty good odds in this slim industry. I don’t doubt the platform’s discoverability — I bet it goes much further than that of WordPress, which feels a little ghost towny today.
As for inspiration, I’ve saved my fair share of holiday recipes, heartfelt stories, and book reviews on the site’s convenient bookmark folder. I’ve recommended Substack to my students who want to begin their own writing adventures. And I have to add that the design of the platform is very … clean and uncomplicated, like a cup of joe from Gregory’s Coffee. It’s user friendly and aims to please.
All this praise, all these good points … so why won’t I move That American Girl there?
The simple answer is that I just don’t feel a need to do that.
The longer answer? I like owning a domain because it provides the illusion of privacy and sovereignty — I am the queen ruling my own niche kingdom. Only those seeking out blogs by Kasey Dugan, blogs about Serbia, or blogs about Serbian-American relationships will come across my domain. Substack, on the other hand, feels intimidatingly discoverable. If I posted my blogs there, I think I’d feel more like one of those guys in the Elmo costumes at Times Square: everyone seeming to notice me but not want to engage with me.
This is particularly absurd and ridiculous, I know, because this blog has had more outreach than even I could have anticipated. It’s gotten some tabloid coverage and its connected me to new friends on the internet. If anything, owning this domain maybe makes this blog more accessible than not. So perhaps that’s not a sound argument. Maybe I’d have less readership on Substack, maybe not. It’s not about competitiveness. It’s about feeling overwhelmed.
I also want to be clear — I am not judging anyone who uses Substack. That’s the platform that works for that writer; who am I to have any opinion on it? All I know is what works for me as a writer, and I think Substack would summon an amount of anxiety that would disrupt and complicate my blogs. I like writing blogs on this “ancient” platform. I like being disconnected from the noise of the newer platforms out there. I don’t think of myself as a better writer or more important because of this; I just feel content with this choice.
Lest we forget, of course, I am speaking about blogs as though they are something people truly care about. This is a lesson I give all my poetry students early on: no one cares about your poems.
I tell them this not to antagonize them or make them feel like awful writers, but because it is just the plain truth. Poll your friend group: how many of them are seeking out poems in their daily lives? Not poems that may pop up sporadically on their for-you-page; not the poems behind the smudged plexiglass they read to pass the time on their subway commute; and not poems from their past such as a Shakeapearean sonnet they had to memorize for the Language Arts unit in 8th grade. Poll them, as unpretentiously and earnestly as possible. I guarantee that most are not seeking out poems. And there’s a good chance they’re not seeking out blogs, either.
And that’s ok. All that matters is that the writer cares about their work. Of course, readership is exciting and recognition is an assurance of one’s craft. But if you write poems — or blogs — you write them because of your love of language. You do it because you can’t seem to not do it. You don’t do it because you think people will love it or care about it. You don’t do it in hopes to become wealthy or even famous (rare and fleeting). You just need to do it — as the snowboarder needs to snowboard, as the hiker needs to hike.
In high school, I seemed to always be toting around poetry books. I think some people knew this was a legitimate passion of mine while most likely thought nothing of it. And then there were those, probably, who thought how obnoxious when I would read a poem aloud to a teacher or say something like, this line has such psychic weight. I always knew that I was pretty serious about this poetry thing, and I also knew the strong likelihood that I was being made fun of or labeled as pretentious. Or perhaps not noticed at all.
For a little over a year, I ran a “poetry club” with my freshman year English teacher. The club had sparse attendance among genuine members. (The “ingenuine” members who attended were mainly my friends who were there to support me rather than a love of poetry, or so I believe.) Likewise, the club mainly discussed poems my English teacher or I enjoyed, which meant the discussion was mostly between my English teacher and I.
So we’d resolve to free-writing for most of the club period, churning out half-baked poems or hastily-done prose. Most would be too shy to read their work aloud, so the club would end with a tense energy: the room full of secrecy, boredom or even humility. I often wondered if people were even writing or just doodling behind their spiral notebooks. Both are reflexive exercises in creativity, but this seemed to distress my teacher and cause the line in his forehead to crease even deeper.
Eventually, some sweet-natured junior joined the club and wanted to name it the “Dead Poets Society” which mortified me. It was rough enough the club was as finicky as it was. Now we had to attach ourselves to that feel-good-yet-undoubtedly-corny movie? But she was a junior and I was a sophomore, so the club name changed. It dissolved soon after, thank goodness, and I believe was never photographed for the yearbook (also, thank goodness).
Around this same time, my kindred spirit (high school best friend) and I decided to randomly perform a slam poem for our English class. This was a secret — not even our teacher was aware that we had hijacked her rather straightforward assignment and turned it into a circus act requiring a wardrobe change (we wore costumes to school UNDER our clothes?!), a three-part denouement and a grating, repeating motif: socially conditioned materialistic lives…
After that bizarre performance, I remember my high school crush rightfully asking me, “why?!” The look on his face was bewildered, endeared and also humorous. I don’t think he knew what to make of the poem or of me.
I said something like, “because …” and I didn’t know how to answer. Why had we done it? To prove to ourselves that we had it in us? To see if we could push back on those assignments that felt so restricting? For “funsies”?
“Because we wanted to,” I settled on. It was the best answer I could grasp, even though it felt deserving of an eyeroll.
This bizarre recounting of my teenage years and writing was with the intention of coming back to the Substack question — I just don’t want to, I think. When I want to do something, I usually do it. That’s my best and most honest answer. But who knows. Maybe things could change? Writing feels really sacred to me, so I have to go with my gut on this. (No costumes under my outfit this time, though.)
If I do decide to run a Substack page, I don’t think it would be connected to That American Girl in any way. It would be something new and bold. I love blogging for the sake of blogging, regardless of whether it’s an “ancient” practice; regardless of whether Vogue claims it’s making a comeback; regardless of whether people read it or like it.
But if I do make a Substack, I’ll be sure to let you know.
Strangely and cumulatively yours,
That American Girl
That American Girl 
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