I Attended A Substack Panel (But You Still Have To)
Are you writing about clothes? No? Well, you better start!
I apologize in advance
I’m about to be a giant hypocrite. I am about to criticize who I perceive to be so-called “culture vultures” while being one myself. I apologize in advance.
Last Thursday I attended the opening ceremony for The Lighthouse, Brooklyn, which is (deep breath) “the first-ever creative campus & studio playground for the Creator Economy”. They could have just said “Doc Marten outlet” or “vlogger third space” but I imagine the intern that writes their copy is gunning for a promotion.

…give me the special sauce…
Why did I attend this hipster ribbon cutting? Well, it was, like everything I do, for you, Dear Reader. I was attending an event titled “Building On Substack” so that maybe I could learn how to grow my audience from 111 people to an ambitious 112. “Maybe”, I thought, “these vibe curators could give me the special sauce necessary to really connect with my readers”.
Did they? Let’s endeavor to find out.
The event took the form of a panel. Now, usually I’m more averse to panels than a NIMBY-shutin who has a phobia of rectangles, but I thought I would give it a shot. The room was called The Library, although according to Brittany Carney it was hardly a “library suited to adult humans” because all the books were either at toddler height or accessible only to well-read dinosaurs1. Shortly before the talk I pulled a total “Zivan” and mistimed how long I had to eat free food, so I scarfed down my sandwich, wiped my fingers against my too-casual jeans, and walked inside.
Sitting down was easy, because I’m 27, but waiting for it to start was hard, because I’m 27. The women behind me were murmuring sweet somethings to each other like “…last straw…” and “…have you? you reeeeally should…” and I felt that strange kind of nostalgia for places I knew well but didn’t particularly belong in. By that I mean, they sounded very much like the people I went to college with, but I can’t say I ever felt at home at Carnegie Mellon.
I digress.
The panel consisted of the following people:
Justin Moran

Casey Lewis

Hunter Harris

I would like to start by saying that each of these people is a very competent journalist and writer. I spent more time than maybe I needed reading through work they have posted to this platform, and I was consistently impressed with the skill and personality they bring to their writing. Unrelated, I had the same feeling when I read Ayn Rand for the first time…
what skillful execution of ultimately vapid nonsense.
Perhaps I am shooting myself in the foot and exposing my-opia about things I tend not to understand or give a shit about. For example, I am not exactly certain what the value of reading about Gen Alpha trends concerning skincare products is. There’s probably a cultural nut missing or social screw loose in my head that prevents meaningful engagement in that department. Or or or maybe it’s possible I don’t posses the psychological flexibility necessary to hear about going on Substack live to discuss “The Life of a Showgirl” is anything more than a colossally empty way to spend one’s time.
Admittedly I really struggled to understand why I, a non-paying customer to this panel, had to hear about how the silver bullet to Substack stardom was, checks notes, to “already have a very large following at a magazine geared towards young creatives”. Well, maybe that is some advice I could take, seeing as I have worked for The Onion in a minor/unpaid/obsessive/unofficial capacity for the last decade and half. Aspirations to move to Chicago to pursue my wilting dream of satirical excellence aside, I’d like to really dig into the question I had the whole time:
When are we allowed to leave the fucking WHEEL?
What do I mean by “wheel”? The wheel of Samsara, dumbass! Hell-ooo? The never-ending cycle of suffering perceptible only to bodhisattvas and people with three digits in their call number at the DMV?
The whole panel was so depressing to me because it reminded me, once again, that all anyone ever wants to do is chew and regurgitate the exact same media and content over and over and over and over and over again. Commentary about commentary about commentary about commentary. Every statement a small eulogy for original thought. Every audience question a quiet surrender to the machine god and his hateful disk2.
One particularly psychologically violent thing I heard from one of the panelists was that she would spend Christmas Eve watching hundreds of TikTok’s in order to have a full understanding of youth holiday trends by the time Santa squeezed his Yuletide tummy down the chimney, by which time she would release a newsletter with her droppings3 .
What?!
And here we were, seated in all the positions native to Coastal Elite Zillenials4, drinking this in like nectar from Olympus. I certainly was. Hypocritically I actually paid more attention than anyone else in that room because I also want to be a culture commentary deity. I want more than anything to understand what the secret code is to giving two (three?) shits about Sydney Sweeney and Scooter Braun, local creator’s Photos apps, and Mr. Beast’s Saudi Arabian amusement park. Where does that emotional energy come from? Are they simply better professionals than I am, and rain or shine they can give themselves to tedium because that’s their job?
To be honest, I’m not really even sure what I hoped to accomplish with this piece. More than likely I’m just a bitter nobody that was reminded once more how weird it feels to sit at the cool table. I do know that I was a bit disappointed to find that a panel about Substack — a platform with so many incredibly talented independent investigative journalists, visual artists, and satirists— the only people these Williamsburg cats could think to interview were three “cultural commentators”.
Jesus, guys, I was free! Ask me next time. I have, like, 100 subscribers.
"Bibliosauruses"? Stackasauruses?? Read-Text T-Rex???
I’m talking about The Algorithm. Endeavor to keep up, please.
Read: “findings”






