The Poet's Pace
On release strategy, reader fatigue, and letting writing breathe.
Spend enough time on Substack, and certain patterns emerge. Many writers are publishing constantly. Often daily. An elegy for Monday, a second on Tuesday, a short reflection by Thursday, then a villanelle over the weekend. The output begins to resemble a social media content calendar.
The instinct makes sense. This platform rewards consistency. The small scarlet notification dewdrop becomes its own form of encouragement. Writers want to remain visible, to keep the line open with their readers.
But poetry does not benefit from that velocity.
During my freelance career, I spent several years as an artist manager and publicist for a handful of hip-hop artists. Some had modest regional success. One eventually became a global act. The music industry very clearly taught me that release strategy matters.
And I know many of us are here for fun, for the social elements of the platform, and because it’s freaking awesome to have readers. But if you’re going to take the work seriously, it’s worth taking the process seriously too.
The global artist I mentioned recorded far more singles than his followers ever heard. An album of his came from, on average, 62 tracks. Only a fraction were released, and they were chosen carefully—sequenced, tested, sometimes kept in the vault for years.
Not because they weren’t damn good. Or even because they didn’t fit the ambiance of the project. Most of it is simply part of the process—and understanding the value of having a creative pipeline.
That discipline used to be built into the literary ecosystem.
Poetry should operate under a similar logic. A poem might circulate privately among peers or sit patiently in a moleskin for months. Maybe it’s performed at an open mic. Eventually, it might appear in a lit mag, where it arrives with a certain sense of occasion. Or, it might sit in said poet's OneDrive until they’re feeding the worms.
What’s happening now on Substack often feels closer to mass production—volume and speed resembling the assembly line models of companies like Shein or Temu—constant output designed to keep the feed moving. And done cheaply.
Poetry is not fast fashion.
Most writers here produce far more work than they should immediately publish. But it’s not a flaw in the process; it is the process. The remedy is getting into the habit of straining your strongest work and allowing it a more deliberate path into the world.
For many poets, that still means literary magazines. It means assembling manuscripts. It means letting pieces sit long enough to tell you what they actually are.
Even if the poet isn’t fully fledged yet, these habits are essential. They create a healthy separation between writing and releasing—between creating and facing the public.
There’s also a more delicate reason for patience.
Poems often don’t fully form right away. They change in the presence of other poems. They change with life experience. A line written today might reveal its meaning only when it sits beside something written years later. Anyone who has assembled a manuscript knows the feeling: two pieces that once seemed unrelated suddenly begin speaking to each other across time.
A poem sometimes isn’t complete until it meets the one you haven’t written yet. And publishing all of your work immediately can interrupt that conversation.
None of this is an argument against platforms like Substack. If anything, they’ve opened an extraordinary space for writers. The ability to reach readers directly—without waiting months for an editorial reply—has changed the landscape in ways that are largely positive.
But abundance comes with its own pressures. When every piece appears the moment it’s written, readers are overwhelmed. There’s no anticipation left. Even the most loyal ones eventually fall behind.
No one wants literature to feel like catching up on work emails.
Write often, maybe every day if that’s your practice. Generate far more than you release. Then choose carefully which pieces deserve to leave the workshop.
Some are twice as tender when they’ve had time to slow-cook a little—
when they’ve waited long enough to discover what they’re really trying to say.
If you have questions about release strategy or the business side of literature, message me directly—I will try to respond to everyone. Advice like this is not often given freely. And it might not always be so here.
I am guilty of the daily posting but it’s because I have over 50 years of writing in my archives and am now retired. I’ve been primarily reviewing, revising older poems. They have fermented enough. But also creating new poems.
My archive is over 6000 pieces annd easily 80% is crap. Still that leaves 1200 that aren’t crap. BUT I think I’ve reached the end of my “better works for posting” or my “weird poems I love but no one would ever publish.” I have 15 poems set aside that I think are my best works reserved for submission.
I gave up submitting to literary magazines about a decade ago because I was never accepted. Hundreds of submissions. Zero acceptance. I’m just not good enough for the gatekeepers.
My remaining time is limited. I am in my late 60s with health issues. I will shortly send out my best of the best to see if I can get one published in a real journal.
Great post JC. I think there is a way to be patient but also prolific. For example, I am on Version 3 of my poetry chapbook manuscript that I am taking my time with as I submit it to different places. Lately, I’ve been so inspired my fellow writers on Substack that I’ve been writing more than I ever have. So I’ll publish once per week normally with a fresh poem because I am riding this wave of inspiration.