Back in the day, my Facebook feed was set to “friends only.” It was playwright Jeremy Kareken (Lifespan of a Fact) who encouraged me to make everything public. “As playwrights,” he said, “we are public.” And he was right. There’s a transparency of brand now that the world has not only accepted but expects—especially in creative and startup spaces. We share our failures as proof of concept, as proof of life. And in doing so, our authenticity doesn’t just build audience—it builds family.
I’m also a big believer in sharing work in its infancy—not for metrics or visibility, but as a signal to others (and to myself) that there’s no mystery to good art. It’s not some sacred lightning bolt—it’s a process. You start in a place that energizes you, and you whittle and whittle until it begins to sing.
I share early because if I don’t seek opinion or feedback, I worry I’ll run out of places to probe. Criticism doesn’t threaten me; it fuels me. For me, sharing is a risk I’m willing to take for the sake of my mental health—and my artistic evolution.
My husband and I recently started a queer-forward project called PrideSquatch. We made an intentional decision to put his design into the public domain. Because yeah, it’s probably going to get co-opted, stolen, and slapped on merch we didn’t approve—but that works for us. We want it to spread. We want the message out in the wild. That was part of the mission from the beginning.
So if I take that a step further and someone wants to steal my writing and pass it off as their own? I’ll take a small comfort in knowing it was good enough to steal. Maybe notoriety over obscurity isn’t the worst tradeoff in this bizarre economy of attention—especially in an industry that has long undervalued its artists and deprioritized financial compensation.
So yes, we’re exposing ourselves. But maybe that exposure is also a reclamation. Of self. Of voice. Of agency.
It's not an easy question. I really think the internet was more civil when anonymity was the norm and it wasn't *easy* to exploit other people's vulnerabilities, like their address and employer and family. It also just helps with compartmentalizing things. On the other hand, there's a certain amount of credibility to using your real name.
This is something I've pulled away from as I've gotten older. I used to think it was completely natural to be transparent about my own struggles, indecencies, pleasures. But as I've become a teacher and a husband and realize that the eyes are really on me now, it's become more uncomfortable to do so.
I quite agree that our identities have become transactional. I'm an author, and the widespread opinion among media/marketing 'advisors' is that personalizing one's postings on the Internet is an essential part of selling one's work. Clearly, some aspects of identity and personal life retard rather than advance that goal. But the occasional content about my cat or my chronic talent for killing houseplants is, I think, harmless (if anything on the Net is ever without harm) and gives readers a way to connect with me. Does it increase sales? Who knows? But I do try. In my fan newsletter, this month, I promoted a F&SF summit a colleague is producing, but I began my pitch with a true-life anecdote about my becoming a model for a Marvel Comics heroine. That's the kind of personal detail that I hope enriches content without being objectionable or dangerous.
Interesting question and an important one to explore. I agree that it's risky to put anything personal online these days for all the reasons you mentioned, but I also think fear is a virus. So many people I know are living in fear right now about the state of the world, about their finances, and their health. It's human nature to worry, and as artists, we're programmed to be afraid of rejection. But I think we also have to try to do the things that bring us joy in this life. I've always loved writing letters to friends and telling stories so I treat my Substack the same way. And when I'm in the flow of writing a post, I have fun and make myself laugh. Of course I hope my readers will enjoy what I've written, but I've also accepted that if anyone isn't keen, they can unsubscribe. It's never fun to see the subscriber numbers go down, but I know it's just the way it goes. We're all over-Stacked these days. But I do love your work, Autumn and your personal essays. I hope you'll keep sharing them and your play!
To each their own, I suppose. I enjoy sharing my fun stuff on social media. I don't like it when people post black clouds everywhere, nor do I want to see politics, or hospital selfies. But there does seem to be a greater audience for doom and gloom... and boobs. I swear, if I post something of myself in a low-cut top (RARELY!) I get hundreds of likes. If I post that I just wrote three books, learned the meaning of life, and cured cancer, I get three likes. Go figure!
Your point about a retreat on the horizon is so interesting. I always feel like there's a reaction to every action so you might be on to something.
There’s a new piece published this morning by Emma Collins / A New Heaven on this burgeoning movement.
Back in the day, my Facebook feed was set to “friends only.” It was playwright Jeremy Kareken (Lifespan of a Fact) who encouraged me to make everything public. “As playwrights,” he said, “we are public.” And he was right. There’s a transparency of brand now that the world has not only accepted but expects—especially in creative and startup spaces. We share our failures as proof of concept, as proof of life. And in doing so, our authenticity doesn’t just build audience—it builds family.
I’m also a big believer in sharing work in its infancy—not for metrics or visibility, but as a signal to others (and to myself) that there’s no mystery to good art. It’s not some sacred lightning bolt—it’s a process. You start in a place that energizes you, and you whittle and whittle until it begins to sing.
I share early because if I don’t seek opinion or feedback, I worry I’ll run out of places to probe. Criticism doesn’t threaten me; it fuels me. For me, sharing is a risk I’m willing to take for the sake of my mental health—and my artistic evolution.
My husband and I recently started a queer-forward project called PrideSquatch. We made an intentional decision to put his design into the public domain. Because yeah, it’s probably going to get co-opted, stolen, and slapped on merch we didn’t approve—but that works for us. We want it to spread. We want the message out in the wild. That was part of the mission from the beginning.
So if I take that a step further and someone wants to steal my writing and pass it off as their own? I’ll take a small comfort in knowing it was good enough to steal. Maybe notoriety over obscurity isn’t the worst tradeoff in this bizarre economy of attention—especially in an industry that has long undervalued its artists and deprioritized financial compensation.
So yes, we’re exposing ourselves. But maybe that exposure is also a reclamation. Of self. Of voice. Of agency.
Thanks for naming it so clearly.
It's not an easy question. I really think the internet was more civil when anonymity was the norm and it wasn't *easy* to exploit other people's vulnerabilities, like their address and employer and family. It also just helps with compartmentalizing things. On the other hand, there's a certain amount of credibility to using your real name.
This is something I've pulled away from as I've gotten older. I used to think it was completely natural to be transparent about my own struggles, indecencies, pleasures. But as I've become a teacher and a husband and realize that the eyes are really on me now, it's become more uncomfortable to do so.
Thanks for the article!
I quite agree that our identities have become transactional. I'm an author, and the widespread opinion among media/marketing 'advisors' is that personalizing one's postings on the Internet is an essential part of selling one's work. Clearly, some aspects of identity and personal life retard rather than advance that goal. But the occasional content about my cat or my chronic talent for killing houseplants is, I think, harmless (if anything on the Net is ever without harm) and gives readers a way to connect with me. Does it increase sales? Who knows? But I do try. In my fan newsletter, this month, I promoted a F&SF summit a colleague is producing, but I began my pitch with a true-life anecdote about my becoming a model for a Marvel Comics heroine. That's the kind of personal detail that I hope enriches content without being objectionable or dangerous.
Interesting question and an important one to explore. I agree that it's risky to put anything personal online these days for all the reasons you mentioned, but I also think fear is a virus. So many people I know are living in fear right now about the state of the world, about their finances, and their health. It's human nature to worry, and as artists, we're programmed to be afraid of rejection. But I think we also have to try to do the things that bring us joy in this life. I've always loved writing letters to friends and telling stories so I treat my Substack the same way. And when I'm in the flow of writing a post, I have fun and make myself laugh. Of course I hope my readers will enjoy what I've written, but I've also accepted that if anyone isn't keen, they can unsubscribe. It's never fun to see the subscriber numbers go down, but I know it's just the way it goes. We're all over-Stacked these days. But I do love your work, Autumn and your personal essays. I hope you'll keep sharing them and your play!
To each their own, I suppose. I enjoy sharing my fun stuff on social media. I don't like it when people post black clouds everywhere, nor do I want to see politics, or hospital selfies. But there does seem to be a greater audience for doom and gloom... and boobs. I swear, if I post something of myself in a low-cut top (RARELY!) I get hundreds of likes. If I post that I just wrote three books, learned the meaning of life, and cured cancer, I get three likes. Go figure!