Confessions of a Clickbait Content Creator

My complicated relationship with writing and the correlation with my mental health.

Photo by Leah Newhouse

“The Awesomeness of Oatmeal”

“Big Screen Dramas That Began As Books”

“Four Ways to Use Up Old Bananas”

“Five Fun Facts About Charlie Chaplin”

You’re right to think these titles evoke the worst of the internet, they do. I should know; I wrote them, along with the godforsaken clickbait articles that accompanied them. While my writing has always served as an outlet, for a time it was also a means of survival. For two years, more or less, I was one of the many hapless “writers” who churned out hundreds of thousands of words’ worth of inane content to pay my bills. And let’s be clear: It was a very effective way to pay the bills. Paid by the article, I could spew out a barely-sensical 250 word salad within ten minutes, be it at home, on the bus, or wherever else I went about my day, until my daily quota was filled. By evening I could give each piece a cursory proofread if I was so inclined (I seldom was), email them to my employer, then sit back and collect $20 every half-assed article.

You’d be right to question how any company could afford to pay a writer so much for so little. Seeing a steady income for the first time in a number of years, I chose not to ask too many questions and enjoy the ride while it lasted. But even before I did any real poking or prodding, I had a feeling the company I was writing for was involved in some sort of scam. Each article ended the same way, encouraging the reader to sign up for an online library. I would eventually let my conscience get the better of me and would google this online library only to discover a plethora of fraud complaints, but my doubts dated back far further.

My first major red flag came when my employer asked me to write a Keto handbook, a diet I believe can be fundamentally damaging to human health. Still, the money was just so damn good, and my rent was so damn high. I dug my head in the sand and kept writing entire novels’ worth of absolute garbage. My employer, cashing in on current health crazes, pivoted to the apple cider vinegar gummy game, a not-too-distant cousin from the superlative supplements that made right wing conspiracy nuts like Alex Jones rich. They became tremendously successful, drawing all kinds of justifiable scrutiny along the way. Here’s a fascinating deep dive if you’re so inclined. Technically I shouldn’t be writing a word of this. I did, after all, sign an NDA. Though I doubt the company can enforce it since they’ve thankfully been sued into bankruptcy and subsequently out of existence.

My writing definitely suffered as a direct result of my writing gig. I got lazy about rough drafting, expecting myself to get it right the first time every time. My standards staggered significantly. My proofreading, when I bothered doing any, was spotty at best. I hated what I was putting out, but put up with it for a paycheck. I employed the worst of writing practices, not just when writing for a living, but also when writing for myself. While writing “professionally” I was also writing on a platform called Medium. I saw Medium as a method to monetize my writing while still writing what I wanted to, not what I had to. Medium held the promise of building an audience of people who actually wanted to read what I had to write. Ultimately, though, Medium encouraged writers to strive for engagement rather than quality for the sake of increasing views. Medium pushed trending topics, swore by SEO standards, and eventually became inundated with articles on how to make money and achieve success on Medium. I soon grew so sick of the platform, and of the low calibre of writing I was producing, that I decided to remove my content and leave Medium altogether.

I then found Substack, and subsequently decided to write about my mental health and mental health in general. And this, dear reader, was the genesis of the very blog you’re reading right now. But I worry. I worry because I see the same scenario playing out on Substack as I did on Medium. I see a seemingly infinite amount of posts directed towards writers and offering tips for achieving success on Substack. The platform has also grown exponentially, adding an astronomical amount of celebrity voices to the mix. There’s also the contentious question of freedom of speech on Substack and how far that right should be extended. All this without even addressing the issue of AI, which is filling up the internet (though not specifically Substack) with a disturbing deluge of questionable content. This, though, is not a writing blog; it’s a mental health blog. So, let’s talk about mental health.

While I may feel swallowed up by a sea of new writers on Substack, the truth is my lack of conventional success in the writing world is more personal than platform-related. Self-promotion, for starters, is arguably the key to any successful venture, yet something I’ve struggled with from the very beginning. Never having developed any real sense of self-worth, I’ve never felt comfortable enough to self-promote. Instead, I would helplessly hope my writing would be discovered on its own, a particularly rare phenomenon. Finding myself amidst the many fantastic writers on this and other platforms has also led to no small measure of imposter syndrome, one of my traditionally tapped thinking traps. All the while, much like with the many previously published pieces I removed from Medium, I continuously find myself fighting the impulse to destroy everything I create and remove my content from Substack as well.

I want to achieve some measure of success with my writing, but I find it increasingly demoralizing to see my stats decrease on Sbstack as the platform continues to grow. Success, though, would come with its own set of challenges. While writing on a daily basis to earn my living I would often spend days, sometimes weeks, barely leaving the house. I toiled away too much of my time in front of a screen; isolated, lonely, and with no real sense of purpose or balance to my life. There are also concerns around commodifying my creativity, which as previously mentioned has already been less than magnificent for my mental health. I share these thoughts and feelings not necessarily to serve a particular purpose. Rather, let this post serve as a reminder that the person writing the words you’re reading is just that: A person, one with doubts, fears, and frustrations around the very words I write. I’m not entirely sure where to go from here, but I’m grateful to those who have joined me along the journey thus far.

Thank you for reading my Adventures in Antidepressants. If you’re enjoying these posts and would like to read more, please share this or any other post, like and comment to help game the algorithm, and please subscribe (it’s free unless you feel like kicking a few bucks my way.) Every interaction makes me feel seen, validated, and encouraged, and hopefully helps break the stigma surrounding mental illness. Thank you for all your support and encouragement so far.