Feeding the Tamagotchi
A reflection on keeping your digital companion alive
Next month will be my first anniversary on Substack, and while I didn’t achieve best-selling literary stardom, I did earn enough through tips and paid subscriptions that I legally have to claim it on my tax return—which is as exciting as it is deeply frustrating. By the time you’re reading this, I’ll have either mastered “Schedule C” on my Form 1040 or desperately filed for an extension with the IRS.
At the moment, I’m leaning toward the latter. The TurboTax chatbot is my only true ally on this adventure, and while its spirit is willing, its underlying algorithm is more likely than not to get me incarcerated.
The American tax code: proof that this country hates whimsy.
Of course, I’m honored and humbled that anyone would pay to read my writing. I started this Substack with the express intent of accumulating money, women, and power honing my craft into something I felt proud to publish each week to an assembly of internet strangers. In that time, I have written over 200,000 words, published 54 posts, and obtained (1) tattoo of a raccoon named Ketchup (please see this link for more context on that last one).
Money aside, this Substack has been one of the most creatively fulfilling things I’ve done in a very long time, and has far surpassed the tepid expectations I set for it. In fact, if I were a less critical man, I’d just stop here—we could all close our browsers and go about our day with a smile on our lips and a little extra pep in our step.
Alas, old habits die hard—and we pessimists have a reputation to uphold.
So please forgive me when I say that for all its wonderful qualities—for all the creativity, community, and added complexity to my tax return—Substack is still, effectively, just a Tamagotchi with a mailing list.
It is a digital ecosystem that I barely understand but am nonetheless expected to keep alive.
It is a beeping little creature in my pocket, hungry for its next morsel of engagement, but never satisfied with what I feed it.
And it’s exhausting.
“Oh, I guess the serialized fiction is giving you indigestion today, huh? Funny—last week you ate that shit up like it was going out of style. Okay, how about a personal anecdote sprinkled with a dash of existential humor? I could layer in some—okay, now you’re sick. Cool. Awesome. That’s fine—I mean, not to brag or anything, but I’ve been called adaptable by more than one corporate executive in my day. This may be a bit experimental, but how about a nice little faerie tale, hmm? Something cozy and wholesome to soothe the algorithm? Yeah, that’s right. Good! You’re doing great, kid. Here, let’s build on that. Here’s another quaint tale that can—why are you on fire?”
If that internal dialogue sounds familiar to anyone reading this, please take comfort in knowing you’re not alone. It’s a battle as old as DeviantArt: art vs. commercialization; the desire to create vs. the desire to engage. We are all comrades in arms, our pens drawn in a feeble salute as we run laps along the engagement hamster wheel.
Of course, as we progress through this age of AI and digitization, the war only grows bloodier—and far more nebulous. What the past year has taught me, more than anything, is that writing is only half the struggle. The rest is feeding pellets to your digital pet so it doesn’t starve.
And that, as it turns out, is practically a full-time job.
I’m still not entirely sure how notes factor into the Substack ecosystem, but I do know that if I don’t post one every 12-36 hours, my profile will get blacklisted from the digital town square. Friends, I ran out of material six months ago—we’re down to cat memes and pictures of my sixth-grade basketball team.
Let me take a break, I beg you.
I haven’t posted here for nearly a month—largely for this reason. For a man whose main hobby is walking, my legs had grown ironically tired from the hamster wheel. I grew weary of kneeling at the altar of recommendation engines when all I had wanted to do was write whimsical tales about vaguely anthropomorphic raccoons.
Truly, it is a test of character to maintain a healthy, balanced life while making sure your digital pet’s enclosure is safe and stocked with high-value enrichment activities. Unfortunately, such balance requires a sort of mental and emotional stability I have historically brought to almost nothing in my life.
And so, I’m left asking myself, “What’s next?”
Do I let my literary Tamagotchi die, allowing it to languish in a diminished state until it fades into irrelevance? Or do I establish some clear boundaries with my little Substack—giving it just enough space to grow into the adult I know it’s capable of being, while remaining close by in case I need to check its vitals?
My preference is certainly for the latter, assuming I can resist the sweet siren call of a 9 p.m. push notification.
Perhaps my Tamagotchi doesn’t need a live-in zookeeper. Perhaps it just needs a well-meaning caretaker who shows up once in a while with something meaningful to say—who brings a nice bag of treats when he can, and who lets it sulk in the corner for a few days when it’s going through one of those pesky adolescent phases.
After all, I still want this weird little creature to grow. I care about it deeply. But I’d like to care about it in a way that fosters creative growth without the constant pressure to commercialize and engage.
I was sincere when I said that this Substack has been one of the most creatively fulfilling things I’ve done in a very long time.
Now, I’d just like to keep it that way.
And while I’m not exactly sure how to do that, I know one thing for certain: stressing about it isn’t going to help. For in the end, I—
*Beep*
What the fuck—I literally just fed you!