Everything I’ve learned from 3 years in the newsletter mines
Six lessons learned the hard way
In honor of my three-year newsletter anniversary, I am offering a 30 percent off sale for paid subscriptions. If you are already a subscriber and you want to support me, you can forward the newsletter to someone who might love it, and you can pre-order my book This American Ex Wife, which will be published in February.
Your support keeps this newsletter independent, fun, and ad-free. It helps me pay for an editor, helps keep the community safe and supportive, and this year, it’s helped me hire a podcast producer! The podcast launches in November. And we will have special subscriber-only benefits.
Yesterday, on a walk with my dog, the early morning October light was so golden that it sat like gems on my eyelids when I blinked against the sun. Tiny yellow leaves fell around us like confetti and a Taylor Swift song came on my playlist. Time collapsed then. It was 2020, and I was walking through piles of fallen trees, months after an epic storm that leveled my town, a mask in my pocket. I cried as I took long walks in October, because after almost a year of working two jobs at my paper through a pandemic and disaster, I had been fired.
It happened through a series of events that among many things involved me calling the campaign manager of a Republican candidate — a man named Jimmy — “Jimothy” on the internet; huge backlash to my columns; and a charge of “insubordination” by my bosses after I objected to the publication of a column that argued that police had the right to shoot Black people.
In the days after, I alternated between taking very long walks listening to Taylor Swift and refusing to get off the couch. I read novels and cried on the phone to my agent and told her I’d never have a career. It seems silly now. But I was devastated. I’d given everything I could to a cause I believed in — started an award-winning kids’ section, broke news in my column, did cable news hits promoting the work of my newspaper and colleagues, raised $30,000 for Meals on Wheels — and still, here I was.
In those days after, I had a couple of job interviews for very amazing publications, all of which mentioned that eventually I would have to move. It didn’t make sense to me. That after years of talk about the power of journalists who live in the places they write about and about how remote work was the future, I was still being told those were just talking points.
Finally, Substack offered me a small grant (more than my newspaper salary, which had put me right at the poverty line for a single mom of two), and I thought, “Well, what do I have to lose?”
This is all part of the lore of this newsletter and my life. But that's not all of it. And as time goes on, it’s becoming just another minor moment in a career that has involved being yelled at by a Nazi and Tucker Carlson and being snarked at by Joe Biden. In the time since, I’ve written definitive profiles of Chuck Grassley and Casey DeSantis, and a whole other book, which will be published on February 20, 2024.
But even more than that, I’ve built this newsletter. Three years later, my newsletter draws more traffic per day than the place I previously wrote for. It’s my primary source of income (though I still rely on book money). I’ve hired an editor and a podcast producer. Together with Garrett Bucks, I’ve built a Discord community and made space for an incredible community of people who care about the places so frequently flown over.
And I’ve learned a lot about media, money, and what it means to be a writer. Here are a few of those lessons.
I do not work alone: Last year, two of my friends — Anne Helen Petersen and Virginia Sole-Smith — and I created a group chat where we discussed how to make our newsletters more successful. Having co-workers is essential. We’ve compared open rates and paywalls; I’ve bounced content ideas off them and analyzed my newsletter stats with them. This year, we expanded our coworker chat with the addition of three others. Already, I’ve learned a lot about strategies for engagement and tweaks to help me grow my list.
This year I also hired a newsletter editor. I had a different one that Substack subsidized for two years. She was absolutely incredible. But eventually, Substack stopped subsidizing her work and I hired Serena. Serena has edited me at various publications and I think she understands my strengths and weaknesses as a writer — and, just as importantly, the strengths and weaknesses of the newsletter format. She’s always challenging me to be more rigorous in my assertions and to get to the point more quickly. In this past year, so many of the lines and quotes and bits that have resonated with people the most were lines that Serena helped refine. I do not pay her enough. I would like to pay her more.
I also hired a local journalist and producer, Zachary Oren Smith, to work on a podcast with me. This podcast will be released next month. But working with him in a medium with which I’m not familiar has taught me how truly valuable a good co-worker can be, and what a joy is is to collaborate. I hope our project is successful so we can do more!
What it actually means to be independent: At some point this year, I pitched a piece to an outlet, which readily accepted it. During the editing process, it became clear that what I wanted to say about women and bodies needed to be watered down to fit the publication’s focus. I don’t want to name any names here, because good editors are often stymied by the corporate forces they work for. This happens at big outlets and smaller outlets. It’s not any one person’s fault. It’s a system of money and power. Even small independent news isn’t always so independent — money, bosses, and competing interests apply pressure. I pulled the piece, reworked it with Serena, and published it here.
And it’s one of my most popular newsletters of the year.
When I talk about independence, I don’t mean being independent of fact-checking or rigorous editing. What I mean is the ability to say important and true things without apology or pandering or ego-stroking.
Not every newsletter has to be popular to be good: I got frustrated last month when a newsletter I worked very hard on didn’t garner a lot of response. It’s a familiar story if you work in any creative field. Sometimes the stories you work hard on, believe the most in, don’t make the ripples and waves you hope for. We tell journalists that if they just work hard for a small amount of money the stories they tell will change the world. And sometimes they do. But most often that’s something we tell people so they’ll work hard for poverty wages while bosses hide important stories behind paywalls.
Bosses also tell journalists that they should live and die by page views and clicks and subscriptions. Which creates a tension between journalists being allowed to tell the stories they believe are important and the stories that will get the most clicks. The two are not always the same. And sometimes the work we believe in the most has the smallest ripple.
There is a temptation, to discontinue things that don’t do well. I have to confess, my interviews don’t always do as well. I get it. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t worth doing. This year, I’ve stepped back and really thought through the format. And I talked it through with Serena, who has been helping me edit and sharpen them. Zach’s been helping me with my interview skills.
I believe in the power of stories. And because I work independently, I can afford to take risks. Step back. Think through stories. I don’t have to rush things. I don’t have a manager frowning at me asking me why something important I wrote didn’t get enough likes or shares. It’s just me. And I know the personal essays lift up the reported pieces and it all works together. Both are vital.
When I worked for a literary magazine, we used to joke that we sold mugs so we could afford to publish poetry. Poetry has never been a real money-making business, but it’s still vital and beautiful, and necessary. Similarly, I write dinguses because they are fun and also so I can afford to take the time to report about how statute of limitations laws hurt victims or write stories about medical licensing boards. I’m so happy I have a space where I can do that without having to justify myself to the gods of commerce and traffic. That’s independence.
The joy of community: This year, a group of people who subscribe to the newsletter (and a few who don’t) got together and ran a 339-mile relay across Iowa and raised over $5,000 for One Iowa and Iowa Trans Mutual Aid
I did not organize this. I didn’t plan it. I simply ran with them. And it was one of the most fun, deranged, and challenging things I’ve ever done. Watching the online community go offline into the world to be together and to do some good was one of the most moving things I’ve ever witnessed. I think for so long I wanted to change the world with my stories, but what I didn’t realize is that nothing changes unless people are empowered and connected. And I could not be part of that if I had not lost it all and gained this newsletter.
Also, my offline friend Molly wrote for this newsletter about her gayborhood, which is filled with hope and joy in a red state where LGBTQ rights are being systemically eroded. And that piece also raised thousands of dollars for trans mutual aid. There is literally nowhere else it could have been published. I was able to pay Molly a fair rate for her essay and it raised money for queer people in Iowa. But it’s not all about me. So many of you are impressive as hell. Best-selling writers, lawyers, advocates, educators, PhDs, politicians (hi!), and even a couple ex-boyfriends. And I’ve seen you all volunteer your time and advocate and work on campaigns. This is how change happens.
Inspired by you all, this year I applied to be part of the board of the Iowa Abortion Access Fund, a group that exists solely to help Iowans pay for abortions. I just joined in August and already I’ve seen the power of being able to wipe away someone’s medical bill. And that’s not nothing.
Be consistent: Since I started this newsletter, a lot of people (mostly men!) have reached out and asked me how I made it successful. At first, I took their calls and would explain patiently how I set a plan, publish regularly, and look at data and stats and comments to see what resonates; how I can build off what does well, and what I can learn from what fails. I also talked about the different types of content and the value of community. But every time I did this, I’d watch as they didn’t listen. One even told me, “Thanks for your advice, but I’m going to do what this other person told me.” Okay, well, his newsletter is now defunct.
I don’t take those calls anymore. It’s not because I don’t want to be helpful. I’m just tired of putting my energy into people and places that don’t respect me and my work. But if you want to know: The key to writing a successful newsletter is the same as the key to any writing – just be consistent. I write every week. I plan out my content, research, go deep, and have fun, but always, I put a newsletter in your inbox. Sure, I’ve taken vacations. But even then, I pre-schedule newsletters and get guest writers. This is a business and I take it seriously, even the goofy stuff.
There is a lesson here about showing up every day, about putting in the work, about advocating for yourself and betting on yourself. When I first went full time, I accepted the $60,000 grant from Substack and I was told I’d quickly out-earn that. I didn’t believe them. But they were right — I did. I learned to bet on myself more, to prioritize my work, and to put in the hours. Does this sound like hustle culture? God, I hope not. What I mean is, if you don’t make your work a priority, other people won’t. If you don’t take yourself seriously, other people won’t.
Okay, but what does success actually mean? This year, I turned down an opportunity that I was very excited about but that would have meant putting this newsletter on hiatus and other projects on hold. I turned it down because I was dealing with some health issues and my kids are still young. It made me feel sad and like I was missing out. And maybe I am. I am very excited for this venture and I wish them all the best. But I also know that I still have more stories to write and books to create. My kids are still young. But the kind of young where I can see the adult shadows looming in their faces. The kind of young where I feel like they are are swiftly slipping from my hands and I want to hold on to them while I can.
I spent a lot of my early career at home with them, doing interviews while they watched Curious George, bartering with neighbors for writing time. Most of the pandemic was spent working and homeschooling with them by my side. They’ve listened to me question city council people and the Red Cross and talk about Covid testing and disaster.
I am ambitious. I am a mother. The two are not in conflict. In fact, becoming a mother sharpened me and forged my ambition. So I am not using them as an excuse, but they are a consideration. The bottom line is, I know that I can work for institutions that will just toss me out once my voice becomes an inconvenience. Those institutions will always be there. But my children will not. Eventually they will move onto their own lives, and I’ll readjust. But in the meantime, I never again want to work until my back spasms for a place that doesn’t see me as a human being.
What does this mean for the newsletter? Knowing that what I do and write drives the metrics, makes me constantly focused on how to improve. And my Type-A, overachieving self is always looking to make this space even more of a success. But I also remember that I have this job so I can have time to be human. (I’m taking this Friday off, for example!)
I am sure my definition of success will shift once my kids are older and my life changes yet again. But for now, I can take my son to get ice cream after soccer. I can take my daughter to Starbucks and sing Taylor Swift with her in the car after the orthodontist. I can write about the things that bring me joy and that interests me. I can write books! Together can create a community that can do some good. And we can have a lot of fun while doing it. That too is success and a beautiful life. Thank you for letting me have it.
Raise some hell: I don’t regret anything that brought me here. In fact, if I’d have known, I’d have punched harder, faster, dirtier, with fewer tears and no apologies.
While walking my dog yesterday, feeling like I’d been brought back in time, I changed my playlist to my Spotify most played in 2020. The very first song was a song by Big Freedia and Kesha called “Raising Hell.” It’s an upbeat pop song that celebrates the joy of raising hell and the music video features a murder. And I laughed because I had forgotten how often I played that song while I went on long runs and cried, jumping over fallen trees. The lyrics, “I don’t want to go to heaven without raising hell” for a whole year were my anthem. And they still are. And here we are, raising a little hell, sharing stories, and mocking a few dinguses along the way.
Thank you.
Now, on to the next year!
Congratulations, Lyz. It's a terrific newsletter; I've frequently cited it when talking to people who are trying to crack the Substack code, as it were. I subscribe to several Substacks and I'm truly shocked by people who charge for subscriptions and then don't even post weekly!
I love celebrating and your success (so far!) is absolutely something to celebrate. Happy 3 years!
It feels cheesy of me to say it, but you and your work are inspirations to me. The MYAM newsletter and Flyover Politics Discord are my favorite internet hangouts and the community here is a vital connection to the midwest for me. I think about Molly's gayborhood newsletter so often that it might be my roman empire. And as for our run across Iowa--I led the team but it could not have happened without you and the runners and drivers from this community (Molly, Gabs, Katie, Jennifer, and Ted). Also shout-out and additional eternal gratitude to the generosity of this community for buying supplies for our team and sending funds to Iowa Trans Mutual Aid Fund or One Iowa in honor of our 339 mile run.
Cheers to many more years of raising hell!