Numb at the Lodge is four years old. Around this time every year, I usually write a little post on what the numbers and metrics are saying about the trajectory of this project, how I’m feeling about it, and why you’re all wrong to like it. This year, I suppose I don’t really need to bother. You’ll have seen the news. But just in case: in the last twelve months, Numb at the Lodge has suddenly gone from being a vaguely respectable middle-of-the-pack online publication to a baffling and terrifying behemoth, crushing all in its path as it rolls blind into the world. Look:
In the last one of these posts, I noted that my audience had grown from 25,000 subscribers to just under 45,000; in the year since it’s exploded to 6.8 million, which means there are now more people subscribing here than to the Guardian, the Financial Times, the Atlantic, and the New Yorker combined. I’m read on a scale that’s usually reserved for people who write novels in which it all turns out to be the husband’s fault. They’re having me on Celebrity Traitors next year. Everyone’s going to vote me out in the very first round. They’re building a statue of me in my birthplace, which happens to be Jerusalem. They’re calling me the most significant person ever associated with the place, and also the most divisive. Meanwhile the Numb at the Lodge-reading community has become a major force in public fora, known for its intensely concerning and vituperative cruelty, and for responding to all criticisms by saying things like it doesn’t matter, this is all a dream. I keep having to go on TV and apologise when you people start violently cyberbullying perceived enemies to death or hiding bombs in major European railway stations; the upside is that my takings from this site are now in the same region as the tax revenues of a minor Caribbean territory. I have been absolutely pissing away all the money on golden crowns, diadems, jewelled mitres, kalamavkia, papal tiaras, and kulah khuds. In fact, I’m currently in enormous amounts of debt because I keep buying golden crowns, diadems, jewelled mitres, kalamavkia, papal tiaras, and kulah khuds. I don’t even like them. Have you ever seen the Imperial Crown of the Holy Roman Empire up close? Horrible gaudy thing; just a bunch of multicoloured rocks. I look ridiculous in it. Wore it to one party and started feeling self-conscious, and now it’ll just gather dust at the back of my wardrobe until I die and my kids dump it at the nearest Oxfam. But I can keep buying these stupid hats forever now. I’m a Substack trillionaire. I’m too big to fail.
There is one upside, though. Conservatively, about 80% of all the writing on Substack consists of guides on how to grow your Substack audience. Nothing makes the number go up more than talking about making the number go up. Before, I never would have stooped to anything so mercenary, but I have no scruples any more. And unlike all the other grifters, I have the real secrets. I know exactly how to turboboost your KPIs. I can grease your vectors and dilate your pipeline; I can have exponential curves rising and stiffening and leaking growthgunk everywhere you lay your hands. Just know that if you do follow my advice and become unimaginably successful, it will not make you happy.
Here’s how to get grotesquely huge:
1. Literally nothing matters
All the advice doled out to wannabe bloggers is absolute bunk. Write short, punchy, digestible pieces. Slot yourself into a clear and identifiable niche. You don’t want to be the fifty thousandth sad girl splattering the world with her lowercase musings, but if you’re willing to endure the humiliation of being a sad girl whose lowercase musings include actionable lowercase insights on tractor repair or dealing with a fungal nail infection, you might find an audience. Most of all, just keep going: hammer it out, day after day, week after week, even if you’ve got nothing in particular to say. The most important thing is to just keep up a regular and reliable posting schedule; spew enough words and people will appear out of the aether to pay attention to you.
I used to believe all this stuff, which is why, for a while, I tried doing the exact opposite in an attempt to actively repel readers. In my first year, for instance, my pieces here averaged 4,442 words each. Who could possibly have the time to read all that? Wouldn’t you just click on the thing, give it a little experimental scroll, see just how long it is, scroll again in horror through the unending ribbon of text as it unwound itself before your eyes, experiencing the terror of a castaway floating above seven miles of black ocean, and swiftly leave without really reading a word? But no. This last year, the average word count has swollen to a truly bloated 5,469. Literally no effect whatsoever. My most popular essays this year include one that clocks in at 11,500 words and another that’s under 3,000. It doesn’t matter. I won’t say you people exist outside of time, but you do seem to partake in the aeviternity where, according to Albertus Magnus, the angels experience duration without end, and a single second and a hundred thousand years are exactly the same thing.
Similarly, I thought I was doing something interesting by refusing to slot myself into any kind of niche, and instead capriciously combining elements of fiction and non-fiction without warning into a kind of deeply annoying mélange. This was not a particularly original move—it’s what basically every essayist has done for the last three hundred years—but my innovation was to be particularly arsey about it. The result, of course, was that a whole bunch of people, most of whom appear to have never read an essay that didn’t include the words ‘epistemic status:’ at the top, immediately slotted me into a niche of my own, as ‘that guy who keeps capriciously combining elements of fiction and non-fiction without warning into a kind of deeply annoying mélange.’ This was probably inevitable. A niche is not something you try to inhabit; it’s just that whatever you do, you can’t help being yourself, and eventually people will notice the little blob of disease inside your brain that makes you write in a particular way, and categorise you accordingly. But even so, the whole experience disgusted me so much that in the last year I’ve almost entirely stopped carrying out my little experiments in lies. [...]
I don’t think this has hurt me. In fact, it’s probably helped. Every time I do publish something, I instantly lose about 200 subscribers as people notice my barely solicited bloviating in their inbox and mash the unsubscribe button. After all, text is cheap, cheaper than it’s ever been. The situation has changed a lot since 2022; if readers want a constant, reliable stream of short, punchy insights tailored to their own individual needs and interests, they can generate a theoretically infinite quantity of that at any point. But aside from a few maniacs, who will soon be yoked to my chariot, bearing me across the desert to generous lashings of the whip while cities burn on the horizon, most people don’t do this. There is something else we want from written text, and I think part of it is the possibility of silence. An AI exists entirely within its output. It’s made of words; it only has being while it’s speaking. It dies every time a chat session peters out. Maybe in a hundred thousand years one of our lurching and disfigured descendants will find something buried in the dirt, peer uncomprehending at your daily affirmations session with ChatGPT, and accidentally add the message ‘fjvwruokbcdErhnk.’ From the machine’s perspective, if it has a perspective, no time has passed at all. But humans have the extraordinary ability to be and do nothing. To exist, as a heaving breathing ape, outside of words or thought; to write as a break in the great silence of the body. The optimal post rate for growth is not zero, but you really should try to write as little as possible, maybe around once every thirty or forty years. [...]
2. Shamelessly follow every stupid and meaningless trend
Here’s a summary of my year: [ed. List of essays published over the course of a year.]
In other words, of the twenty articles I published this year, only five were not directly tied to the news cycle or to bullshit online discourse. When I say I’ve let all my worst instincts take over this year, this is what I mean. I used to think I was better than this; I used to be right. In previous years, the bulk of my output here was about stuff like the Gerasene demoniac, or whether God is a meteorite, or what it means when you dream about your own death, or eggs. I thought I was interested in the wide world: all the things that exist, and all the things that don’t exist too. But I was wrong: as it turns out, what I’m really interested in is just whatever bullshit people on the internet are talking about right now. It’s only my commitment to writing incredibly infrequently that’s saved you from having to deal with my dumb opinions on the riots in France and Sally Rooney’s books being withdrawn from sale in the UK. I have become a parasitic worm, crawling around in the dark guts of the news. What a waste.
But it does work. [...]
3. Be a violent, rabid maniac
In fact, the only thing better than thoughtlessly sounding off on every passing issue is to do so with a terrifying level of fury and spleen. This year, I wrote four essays in which I was in full-on attack mode, everything on the line, wild-eyed, frothing at the mouth, snotting from the nose, gibbering like a schizo as I doled out threats and insults in every direction, and against the reader in particular. This kind of stuff ought to be off-putting. When you encounter someone on the street behaving in a similar way, you try to avoid eye contact and get past them as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible. But if the frenzied ranter doesn’t pose any immediate physical danger to you, suddenly you’re entranced. Pieces in which I yowl like a mad dog consistently received 70 to 120% more readers than the ones where I level calm and cogent critique. Well, a lot of things are grotesquely fascinating; people are also more likely to crowd around the mangled wreck of a horrific car accident than they are to gawp at a sensibly parked family car. But even so, I don’t think you’d start throwing money at a dangerously reckless driver. Meanwhile, every time I start twitching like an escaped mental patient, there’s a sudden and significant spike in my earnings.
You don’t need to actually mean any of it, of course. It only really works if you don’t. Some people seem to think I’m a kind of permanently bilious black-hearted scorpion of a man, which really couldn’t be further from the truth; in real life I’m fundamentally quite goofy and cheerful. It just so happens that one of my goofy and cheerful interests is figuring out how to do things with words, and one of the most fun and interesting tricks you can play with words is to summon the immense and captivating powers of hatred. It doesn’t really matter what kind of writing you do or who your audience is supposed to be: you can make vituperation work for you. Actually, the only real exception is politics, where absolutely everyone is already a frothing hate-filled maniac and you won’t stand out at all. If you’re going to be a rabid dog about politics, you have to also be witty and creative. Everywhere else, violence alone will do.
Here’s a summary of my year: [ed. List of essays published over the course of a year.]
In other words, of the twenty articles I published this year, only five were not directly tied to the news cycle or to bullshit online discourse. When I say I’ve let all my worst instincts take over this year, this is what I mean. I used to think I was better than this; I used to be right. In previous years, the bulk of my output here was about stuff like the Gerasene demoniac, or whether God is a meteorite, or what it means when you dream about your own death, or eggs. I thought I was interested in the wide world: all the things that exist, and all the things that don’t exist too. But I was wrong: as it turns out, what I’m really interested in is just whatever bullshit people on the internet are talking about right now. It’s only my commitment to writing incredibly infrequently that’s saved you from having to deal with my dumb opinions on the riots in France and Sally Rooney’s books being withdrawn from sale in the UK. I have become a parasitic worm, crawling around in the dark guts of the news. What a waste.
But it does work. [...]
3. Be a violent, rabid maniac
In fact, the only thing better than thoughtlessly sounding off on every passing issue is to do so with a terrifying level of fury and spleen. This year, I wrote four essays in which I was in full-on attack mode, everything on the line, wild-eyed, frothing at the mouth, snotting from the nose, gibbering like a schizo as I doled out threats and insults in every direction, and against the reader in particular. This kind of stuff ought to be off-putting. When you encounter someone on the street behaving in a similar way, you try to avoid eye contact and get past them as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible. But if the frenzied ranter doesn’t pose any immediate physical danger to you, suddenly you’re entranced. Pieces in which I yowl like a mad dog consistently received 70 to 120% more readers than the ones where I level calm and cogent critique. Well, a lot of things are grotesquely fascinating; people are also more likely to crowd around the mangled wreck of a horrific car accident than they are to gawp at a sensibly parked family car. But even so, I don’t think you’d start throwing money at a dangerously reckless driver. Meanwhile, every time I start twitching like an escaped mental patient, there’s a sudden and significant spike in my earnings.
You don’t need to actually mean any of it, of course. It only really works if you don’t. Some people seem to think I’m a kind of permanently bilious black-hearted scorpion of a man, which really couldn’t be further from the truth; in real life I’m fundamentally quite goofy and cheerful. It just so happens that one of my goofy and cheerful interests is figuring out how to do things with words, and one of the most fun and interesting tricks you can play with words is to summon the immense and captivating powers of hatred. It doesn’t really matter what kind of writing you do or who your audience is supposed to be: you can make vituperation work for you. Actually, the only real exception is politics, where absolutely everyone is already a frothing hate-filled maniac and you won’t stand out at all. If you’re going to be a rabid dog about politics, you have to also be witty and creative. Everywhere else, violence alone will do.
by Sam Kriss, Numb at the Lodge | Read more:
Image: uncredited
