On writing, connection, and the uneasy truth no one wants to say out loud.
There’s a temptation to romanticize the past—to imagine that being a writer in the days of Poe or Dickens carried some noble simplicity. Fewer voices, clearer paths, iconic serials in local papers, and time to brood over candlelight with quill in hand.
But let’s be honest: those guys struggled. Badly.
Poe died broke. Dickens worked himself raw trying to meet serialized deadlines. Publishing was tightly controlled, copyright laws were weak, and unless you had the right connections (or lived long enough to be “discovered”), chances were high you’d fade into obscurity. Readers were local. Editors were gatekeepers. And if you wanted to get published, you had to play the game.
Today, in contrast, I can write something at midnight, post it to my blog by 12:05, and have strangers reading it by sunrise. I can upload a book to Amazon with no agent, no approval, no printer delays. I can analyze traffic, track engagement, and send personal updates to my readers before I’ve even poured a second cup of coffee.
So yeah—it’s easier.
At least, on the surface.
But Here’s the Catch
Modern writers don’t just create art. We pitch it, package it, post it, promote it, and sometimes beg people to look our way. We are writers and marketers, editors and influencers, customer service reps and brand managers. And that takes energy—a kind of energy that can eat away at the very act of writing if you’re not careful.
It’s no longer enough to just write something good. You have to write something discoverable. You have to learn SEO and email funnels and algorithms. You have to be vulnerable and strategic. And most of all, you have to keep showing up—again and again—even when it feels like you’re screaming into the void.
Meanwhile, I Watch My Musician Friends…
And I kind of ache for them.
Many are still grinding away at traditional models—booking live shows, printing CDs or vinyl, trying to build word-of-mouth the slow, organic way. And sure, some lean into TikTok or Spotify playlisting. But most? Most seem overwhelmed or left behind by the very tools meant to help them.
Streaming has changed the landscape. It’s given listeners endless access but taken away the personal connection I used to feel when I bought a CD and studied the liner notes. I used to spend real money discovering music—now I pay for a subscription and let the algorithm shuffle new songs into my life.
There’s something lost in that. Something human.
Maybe That’s What I’m Chasing as a Writer
I’m not trying to go viral.
I’m trying to connect.
That’s why I build a weird little corner of the internet where my work lives. Why I give away PDFs to people who might actually read them. Why I’m willing to tell the truth in my writing, even when it hurts. Because I don’t want to be part of the noise. I want to be part of someone’s moment.
And the tools we have today—blogs, newsletters, social posts, reader stats—they can help with that. But only if we use them with intention. Only if we stop measuring success by how loud we can shout and start asking: Who heard me? And did it matter?
In the End
Yeah, it’s easier to publish today. But it’s still hard to be heard.
And maybe that’s the real work of a modern artist—not just to create, but to build a moment that stays. A moment that makes someone think a thought they’ve been avoiding. Feel something they didn’t expect. Maybe even stop scrolling for a second and confront themselves.
I don’t want to make noise. I want to make friction. I want to say the hard thing—the thing no one’s putting on a motivational poster.
Here it is:
Yes, you are going to be okay.
But it’s going to suck along the way.
And it’s your job to keep showing up anyway.
That’s the through-line in everything I do. Whether I’m writing about grief, faith, art, addiction, or just trying to survive another damn day—it always comes back to that truth.
The tools we have today are a gift.
But they’re also a test.
They ask us not just if we can share our work, but why.
What are we really trying to say?
What are we willing to risk to say it?
So if you’ve made it this far, let me just leave you with this:
Don’t chase likes.
Don’t water it down.
Say the thing that matters—even if it makes someone uncomfortable.
Especially if it makes you uncomfortable.
That’s how we leave a mark.
That’s how we make art worth remembering.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
Leave a comment