Category: Social Media Escape ClubCategory: Social Media Escape Club

​Join me (Seth Werkheiser) for a 90 minute interactive workshop on the endless decisions that come with running a newsletter in 2025.

​Should you import your list to Substack?
What should you put in my welcome email?
Which analytics even matter?
Should you switch platforms?
What the heck is SPF/DKIM/DMARC?!

​Instead of writing, we’re getting lost hours in CSV files and platform settings instead of actually connecting with your readers.

Wednesday, August 27 from 12:30 PM – 2:00 PM EDT

Get more info here: https://lu.ma/uqrfb65q

We did it. During two Escape Pod Zoom calls this week I asked guests to read something for one minute.

This was inspired by Lindsey Adler’s recent post, where she attended a party where the host had folks get up in front of people and read something.

So folks in our Escape Pod Zoom calls read poetry, newsletters, dialogue, unpublished work, and more.

I used to think Social Media Escape Club was going to be all about tactics and strategy, but it’s become about community, communication, reading, making, collaborating, making room for things just outside our comfort zones, which are some pretty good ways to spend our time online and off.

I moved my VOICE NOTES podcast off of Substack, changed the name to SMEC: CURRENTS and moved it to Transistor.

Today I talk about the many moves I’ve been making, and how I’m trying to make things easy and calm, and not feel like “homework” or something you need to catch up on.

This podcast is not listed on Apple or Spotify, so listen above, or use your favorite podcast player to subscribe directly using this link: https://feeds.transistor.fm/smec-currents

We used to blog a few times a week, and update our websites. But then we started shoveling our work onto the social media platforms by the truck load. At some point making billboards for our work became the work.

Those platforms would then reward us views, likes, impressions, comments, and most importantly – FOLLOWERS. The whole system was optimized for this: make it easy to post often, and then reap the so-called rewards. Some posts would “hit” because the casino had to pay out – otherwise, people stop playing.

Some of us left social media is various forms, shuttering one account, but maybe holding onto another. We leave, we go back. It’s like a toxic relationship we seemingly can’t quit, because there are conference rooms filled with highly paid people fighting for their livelihoods, doing whatever they need to keep people locked into their platforms.

As Alex Dobrenko says, “the casinos are very good at commodifying all attempts to leave their grasp.”

So when we consider untangling from the idea of, “well, that’s just the way things are,” it feels isolating. This is mostly because when we hit publish on a blog post, nothing happens. We run back to social media to get that one LIKE in the first few minutes. Someone will drop a “nice” comment, or a heart emoji.

When we send a newsletter we just get open rates, and how many people clicked. Or in the case of Substack, we get likes and re-stacks and views.

Some of those numbers tell stories, like a 10% open rate, sure. But we can’t lose sleep when our open rate drops from the week prior. There are real people on the other side of those numbers. People with jobs, family emergencies, break ups, and dentist appointments. Sometimes our work is not the most important thing at that very moment for our audience.

And it’s important to remember all this metric-gazing didn’t happen overnight.

The three tech overlords played a part in all of this; the phone makers, the data suppliers, and the platform barons. Their influence has become the technological equivalent of micro-plastics, embedded deep in our brains and culture.

Avoiding the influence of this unholy trinity will take time, but we’ve got to start somewhere. New rituals, new habits. Hit publish and go for a walk, or call a friend. Get some space between ourselves and the work. Otherwise we allow our work to sift through the never ending filter of commerce and metrics, and that’s not how we want to operate.

Someone said in a recent Escape Pod Zoom call that back in the day a writer might finish their new book, and… that would be it. No social media to check, no unending feed of six second video clips to get lost in. No followers or view counts to monitor.

The work was done, and then it was quiet. Maybe it’s supposed to be quiet.

I’m working with a client who writes magnificent 3,000 word essays. They’re well researched, beautifully arranged, and they’re starting to gain traction and getting paid subscribers.

The problem is; they write a 3,000 word essays every week.

If this were their full time job, this would be great. But it’s a side thing, and side things can easily start to crowd into other areas of our lives if we let them. And when it’s work we love doing, it happens quick, before we even realize it.

Your newsletter writing shouldn’t be a prison sentence. It shouldn’t feel like digging ditches. It shouldn’t be fraught with stress, or like dealing with a horrible boss. None of these things are desirable, and yet so many times we create these situations for ourself.

We get so wrapped up in the moment, in the performance, and we see a sliver of it working, and we lean in.

Before we know it, we’ve painted ourselves into a corner.

But I have good news: you’re the artist. You’re the conductor. You’re the band leader. You’re the director, the captain of the ship.

You got yourself into this situation, and you can get yourself out. Otherwise you burn out, resentment builds, and you’re working this new job for yourself that doesn’t pay the rent.

It’s okay to take your foot off the gas. It’s okay to write one 3,000 word essay 12 times a year.

If you need the extra day of travel time to show up bright and refreshed for a talk or a performance, take it, because otherwise you’re putting on a different kind of show, trying to impress everyone else except yourself.

We’re trying to be our own boss, so don’t be a bad one.

Believe that your true fans will probably stick around. Let the other people leave, that’s okay. There are thousands of people out there today who’ve never heard or seen your work, who have no idea exist.

What then?

What happens when they do find your writing, or your music, or your artwork, but your latest output was from seven years ago?

You crashed and burned because you piled up too many expectations of yourself, trying to meet some un-said protocol, trusting gurus instead of your gut.

The saying “it’s a marathon, not a sprint” doesn’t even apply here because marathons hurt, too, but in a different way.

Writing is still hard work, yes, but it shouldn’t leave you sore.