A little rant I reserve the right to delete: Part of being a writer is weighing the meaning of things. We know, instinctively, that spilling a glass of milk is not as hurtful as the death of a parent. We know that when someone cuts you in line, it’s not as disruptive to your day as being T-boned by an 18-wheeler. Which is not to say that “small things don’t matter,” only that “small things matter differently,” and artful writing understands how to contextualize the minuscule within the epic by finding the proper tone and balancing of details.

I forgive inexact expression on Twitter, or BlueSky, or any other short-form opinion-generating machine, as blowing off steam. But when I come onto Substack, and see allegedly serious people writing in an incandescently righteous or forebodingly morose register about things that just — do — not — matter the same, measured against all that is happening in the world, I’m confused, then dismissive, but ultimately annoyed. You can care about frivolous topics in a time of war and upheaval — I do, all of the time — but the insistent tone that suggests the frivolous deserves our urgent, utmost attention always sails over my head. So often when encountering this genre of writing I think, “please be for real.” You, reading this, know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s bad, shallow, literally unbelievable work — and as Substack further transitions into the platform of expression amongst so many aspiring and professional writers, I urge everyone to please be for real before hitting that “post” button.