I cried over a Substack notification today, which is probably an excessive emotional response for someone who has only been doing this for nine days, but hear me out.
When I set up my Substack, it suggested a price for paid subscriptions, and I felt guilty even looking at it. I still feel weird charging people to read my writing, but Once Upon a Time, a boss told me, “You should be paid to exist,” so when presented with the opportunity, I YOLO’d it. I eventually set the asking price for a sneak peek at my soul at $80 for the whole year because somehow that felt reasonable when I broke it down in my head to “a couple bucks a month.” I’m aware that is not exactly how $80 divided by 12 works, but I don’t take math until next semester.
I honestly figured maybe one of my rich friends who love me would pay for it. Maybe two. Enough to cover my hosting or Canva subscription. I don’t even have anything behind the paywall yet. I have some cutesy stuff planned, mostly because I wanted an excuse to make another batch of insane, unhinged stickers, but right now becoming a paid subscriber is mostly an act of faith.
I was stopped in my car when I saw that someone new had subscribed, and I was already excited because I get genuinely sparkly every time it happens. I glanced at the name and got even more stoked. She’s a Facebook friend who has supported me forever. We don’t hang out in real life, but she’s one of a handful of people I recognize because they’ve been showing up and cheerleading me for years. She’s one of the first to like my Stories, share something I wrote, or read whatever I put out there. I notice that stuff. I notice her.
I messaged her immediately to tell her how much her support has meant to me over the years. I told her that if I ever get famous and actually make money off this thing, she’s one of the people I’m buying a car for. I have a mental list that could become a Google Sheets brainstorming session at any moment. If the Sandee Hunt Cinematic Universe somehow becomes a profitable enterprise, early investors will be rewarded.
And then I scrolled down and realized she hadn’t just subscribed. She had paid me $80 for the year.
I started crying.
Then I messaged her again: Forget the car. Damn, girl, I’m getting you a house.
This woman works really hard for her money. Really hard. I know that about her, and I deeply respect her. The fact that she took $80 of that money and bet it on me wrecked me. Especially because most of the time, I still feel like a raccoon who wandered into a Pottery Barn and discovered she quite enjoys the Egyptian cotton linens. I’m just waiting for someone to notice there’s a trash goblin in the bedding department and chase me out with a broom.
I’ve been paid for writing before, and I’ve also spent a ridiculous amount of my life giving it away for free or for empty promises of “exposure.” What got me wasn’t the novelty of someone handing me money for words; it was that nobody asked her to. She didn’t hire me to write something, and she isn’t my boyfriend showing up to support me because that’s part of the job description. She didn’t even pay for something I’ve already made. She paid for whatever I make next.
She owes me absolutely nothing, but she believes there’s going to be a show.
And she was the first in line to buy a ticket.