Good day/afternoon/evening to you.
My name is Rachael and I am a professional writer and pre-licensed therapist in the state of Virginia providing mental health therapy to clients.
You can read my bio here at my other publication, The Practical Therapist, and if you’re interested in hiring me for writing articles around history, psychology, education, literature, or the sciences; proofreading, editing, or resume writing/reworking, you can email at inkingoutloud@substack.com.
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Since childhood, I dreamed of being a writer, of telling stories that stick, shape, counter perspectives, or leave an imprint on the mind for the better, rather than the worse by conjuring a sense of despair and ick that does nothing but make you feel gross rather than entertained or challenged.
Due to the nature of my work, I cannot promise an entirely consistent schedule. Often, I have to take extra time from my schedule of seeing clients, writing up documentation, and striving for self care to keep my stress mostly at bay and my anxiety dealt with in a healthy manner.
Erik Hoel had a great piece — of which only the first three paragraphs are available before the paywall — on the crap quality of writing here on Substack between good writers in polished publications and the long-winded rambles that are neither well-written or cogent.
To quote:
There’s a mystery I’ve been struggling with: when famous writers migrate to Substack, there’s often a huge differential between their officially published work and what they write here. I’m talking both in terms of elegance and interestingness, but also at a literal sentence level. In some cases, the drop-off is enough to indulge in tin hat levels of conspiracy: if this whiny rambling Livejournaling is how they write without an editor, publisher, or MFA workshop, who the hell really wrote their books? Does the publishing industry somehow just excrete books accidentally, like how individual bees trying to move in circles rend a honeycomb into precise hexagons?
For, unknown to most, there is an entire pipeline behind traditional publication. Manuscripts are workshopped, agents contribute, editors contribute, etc. Almost everything in The New Yorker is good, and it all sounds the same, and that’s because it’s pretty much the voice of the editors, not the writer. That sort of uniformity doesn’t happen by accident. My sneaking suspicion is that, due to institutional support, it’s actually pretty easy to write one amazing essay every six months for The New Yorker. It’s a lot harder to do something even close to as good every six days, which is what’s required here on Substack. Writing online is just a much more honest signal, since these are, compared to industry standard, essentially first drafts—even if they are returned to and edited, they are fundamentally more intimate and singular. And despite the higher likelihood of mistakes, I think people often prefer this as an aesthetic.
To back up: on Substack there are now the Big Fish, e.g., real writers. Whatever a “real” writer even is. You know what I mean. You’ve probably heard of them, although you may not have read them. Their books sold like, at least tens of thousands of copies (you would be shocked at how low the sales are for even household names). How are these writers doing on Substack? I’m happy to report some are doing great! Really amazing. But others, not so much.
He isn’t wrong. Having worked for newspapers and magazines, an enormous amount of the voice of a writer is lost in the editing process.
A friend of mine wrote this piece on terrariums, published at Verily Mag, and apparently the changes were so different, the tone and writing was utterly unrecognizable from what had been submitted. Knowing her, there is almost nothing discernible — no prose, no beautiful turns of phrase. Just a falsely chipper DIY that has no reverence or reflection, indicative of her style, wit, or passion.
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My writing isn’t for a particular audience. If I wanted to chase that, I would dedicate myself to a genre and just go down that path. However, my interests are as varied as my writing, and if Clifton Strengths taught me anything, it’s that idea generation is one of my greatest assets.
Often, an enormous amount of the work here on Substack feels like it’s aiming for the perceived Zeitgeist of writing on the brink of a new model. Substack can be more — there’s phenomenal writing by very talented journalists and thinkers. But it drowns in quantity, with many publications striving to churn out content to stay relevant. While competition can drive better quality product, it seems few and far between as every actual and aspiring writer/critic/thinker/hack is attempting to gather an ever-increasingly finite amount of attention from the people who pursue writing here.
I prefer digests to constant updates related to the navel-gazing of some publications. Hence, why only certain Subs get my attention and perusing gaze.
My professional writing on mental health tries to tread that border carefully, hence why I have a twice-per-month free model. I believe in charging for therapy, but not for well-written thoughtful mental health content. I want people to be interested and to work to change their life, at their pace, not my pushing; if it helps, then I’m more moved by that. Also, I get paid per the hour for therapy more at this point than I would by subscription. My aim is to build a business and a brand, as well as an archive of written work to justify selling myself to whatever publication I send a query to.
Here, at Inking Out Loud, it’s a bit different. The writing is done for the pleasure of storytelling, not to sell you a gimmick or drown you in half-baked essays that needed to be reworked and lose a third of it’s content to the editor’s scalpel, with weekly posts promising a brutal publishing schedule that makes my head hurt—and may cause repeated carpal tunnel problems. I used to write anywhere between 2,000 to 5,000 words a day for a daily newspaper, and edited nearly as much per day for an educational publication. Many people are not sufficiently skilled — or perhaps patient enough — to go back and re-edit their work.
While I have spelling and grammar errors, I reread my work and rewrite it two-three times before it is published. Even when it’s written the day before.
Mental health trends and political commentary surrounding those trends impacted by various factors are reserved for TPT. Here, I intend to start off small with poems, of which there is a backlog, followed by the slow build of at least one short-story per month, and an essay.
Currently, I have a project in the works for a written, serialized novel, which will be paid.
In the following weeks, I’ll lay out a pay and publishing schedule, so you know exactly where and what your dollars are being used for.
The elevator pitch and promise to the reader
If you choose to stay and read, it’s because it’s good, quality writing.
The story grabs you, entertains you, expands your perspective and asks you to think.
It doesn’t proselytize, berate, or push a political agenda.
It’s just here to entertain.
I do enjoy people, despite my misanthropy, so if you liked something, drop me a line or leave a comment. If you want to hire me, see instructions above.
While I’m building an audience and figuring out a feasible paid subscription system, consider donating to through Buy Me a Coffee. Just scan this QR code or click the hyperlink. Donate what you feel is fair, but $3 is decent place to start.
Till next time,
Rachael