Spandrels and Sparks

On the evolution of a newsletter

Spandrels

Bear with me. There is a point.

Very few academic papers get their own Wikipedia page, but one of the most (in)famous papers in evolutionary biology did. The paper, ‘The Spandrels of San Marco and the Panglossian Paradigm: A Critique of the Adaptationist Programme’ (the Spandrels paper for friends), appeared in 1979. In the Spandrels paper, evolutionary biologists Stephen Gould and Richard Lewontin¹, two giants in the field, pushed back against the rampant adaptationism in the 1960s and 1970s.

With the advent of population genetics in the early 20th century, biologists began combining the mechanisms of heredity with Darwin’s great insights into a renaissance called the modern synthesis. Driven by the explanatory prowess of that synthesis, many biologists at the time were a bit overeager to see every trait as an adaption finely honed by selection.

But that’s not the case, Gould and Lewontin argued. Not every trait is the result of adaptation. Many genetic, physical, and developmental constraints limit what a trait can evolve into and some traits are simply byproducts of others, much like architectural spandrels, or the triangular spaces between an arch and the ceiling.

(Wikimedia Commons)

In the St. Mark's Basilica in Venice, these spandrels provide the background for splendid mosaics. Almost as if the spandrels were designed specifically for the mosaics. In reality, the spandrels are architectural byproducts², which were then coopted for another purpose (an exaptation in biology jargon).

The human chin is sometimes considered a spandrel; a remnant that stuck around after our distant ancestors’ bigger chewing muscles retreated. In his more lyrical moments, Gould suggested that human language and music were spandrels too, simply tagging along with our growing brains. The Spandrels paper was a pretty broad sweep and since spandrels can later be co-opted to fulfill a function, it’s not always easy to tell when a trait is actually a spandrel.

Sparks

All this got me thinking.

[ominous music - screams in the background - sound of erupting volcano]

What if Subtle Sparks is a spandrel?

First, background. Earlier this year, I switched my job from full-time to 80%. How ‘unmanly’ in a world that tells (especially?) men to grind themselves into dust to make as much money/career progress as possible. Do I want money, success, and all the shiny things? Yes, gimme! On my terms. So why make that no-more-full-time call? Beyond my allergy to social pressure, I wanted to explore independent writing. At the time, I didn’t know what that would look like and Subtle Sparks turned out to be an unintentional outlet. A spandrel. It was there, and I used it. As Gould and Lewontin point out, evolution often uses what is available, like spandrels as a base for mosaics.

When I pulled the now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t magic trick with 20% of my job time, I intended to make up the salary shortfall with my writing…

[lonely cricket chirping]

Altogether, three essays and two short stories have been professionally published since the switch — a month’s rent and a few grocery trips (before taxes) in this economy. Other queries and pitches have been swallowed by the internet void or chewed up and spit out by Rejectosaurus Rex. My inner critic says my writing or pitching may simply suck, but I told him to sit down in the penalty box for the rest of this post. He’s tenacious, though, so I better write fast.

We arrive at the point. What if I got it backward?

Blogging, writing, and option three

In an excellent essay (or should I say blog post?), Leigh Stein dissects what Substack newsletters are for — their adaptive function, if you will. Many established writers, journalists, or academics, she notes, use their newsletters as blogs for valuable content rather than for their writing. These newsletters also tend to do relatively well, which makes sense. As a writer with a name beyond Substack, you’re more likely to attract an audience without depending only on Substack’s internal mechanisms. So, while many aspiring writers arriving on this platform might think,

Substack → writerhood

The reality might be:

Writerhood → Substack³

Exceptions exist, but I think this is a valuable point. Have I thwarted my plan for world domination independent writing by relying too much on Substack’s promise of building a ‘publishing career’? If even writers I consider successful, like Poorna Bell, feel clueless on Substack, I might as well do a backflip into a cement mixer⁴.

A grin flickers to life in the shadows behind my grumbling inner critic. Trickster me has arrived. He writes something on a scrap of paper (where did that come from?).

Writerhood ⇄ Substack

When I look up, he’s gone. Wonderful weirdo. I’m not a *big name* writer with the right connections and a legion of salivating fans. For obvious reasons, I do not have the vibe to go viral with a girlhood essay. I could write ‘science-backed productivity tips’ or create fake political/diet/vaccine controversy and watch subscribers roll in, but my inner critic and trickster would team up to kick my delightfully perky behind.

The longer, researched posts are where I can add the most objective ‘value’, accumulated over a decade of (education + experience). They are also labor-intensive. It makes sense to pitch these to established publications, both for the money and to establish a ‘name’. But there, I run into the problem of being too much me⁵ in tone and voice. Even science-focused publications care (justifiably in this algorithm-mediated information ecosystem) about clickability, timeliness, and limited ‘voice’⁶.

So, where to go with this virtual notebook? More precisely, where to go with the writing? Many writers feel awkward indicating the effort their work requires as they try to stay afloat in an ocean of free content while facing an armada of tools to generate sleek marketing copy. I don’t want to force template-riddled, engagement-optimized junk down your metaphorical throat. My stuff needs chewing. The problem is that the writing I’d like to do, the writing I want to build my life upon, as Rilke would say, is a buffet. I want (and, since the inner critic looks away, I have the background and ability) to write about biology and technology and culture and psychology; I want to write literary and speculative exhortations as a rebellion against despair.

A lot of advice tells you to follow your gut, heart, or passion and not restrict yourself to one niche if you don’t want to. There’s also this pesky thing called reality. I don’t know if I can square the two. Unless… I take the trickster’s advice and allow the two to coexist — the dream and the reality. It does not have to be a zero-sum game. Question mark?

The trickster reappears, as if he steps straight out of the shadows. He pulls a playing card from the narrow sleeves of his pencil-striped charcoal suit. The joker. Of course.

Here are Subtle Sparks’ two new tricks. Don’t run away yet; life and language are games, so there are cheat codes.

First, the sections are gone. Forcing my writing into labeled boxes didn’t help me as a writer or you as a subscriber — too much friction, technology researchers would say.

Next, the writing formerly known as Jungle Writing will be for paid subscribers only ($10/month). This was a tricky decision. I've read so many posts about people going paid fully, partially, or never, and they all make sense. For me, when I post a more introspective piece, I (understandably) lose subscribers who are here for science, culture, and technology. Don’t worry, those essays will proceed as usual⁷. The paid offer will be a more personal, literary side of me. Perhaps reflections on writing (professionally and recreationally) and, you know, life. There are a few other vague ideas (thoughts on books?). But mostly, paid subscriptions support all of my writing. This way, I can offer you something extra if you choose to do so.

More importantly: I’m curious to hear what (if anything) you’d be interested in.

Cheat code 1: If you're a fellow newsletter writer who already recommends Subtle Sparks, I’ve done some abracadabra behind the scenes to give you full access. Call it karma.

Cheat code 2: I know, everyone is asking you to pay for a subscription and everything is expensive these days. So, if you are interested in the jungle writing but can’t afford a paid subscription, let me know. You’ll get six months for free, no questions asked.

All this is basically me trying to hunt down my white whale, which has grown two heads, a non-fiction and a fiction one. Evolution is weird like that. And yes, the answer is to stop overthinking it and keep swimming. But there is a point where persistence becomes wilful blindness and I worry that I’ll miss that point when I float past. Oddly, I often feel as if I’m too much and not enough⁸. Shouldn’t I have been a real writer™ by now? Is it a lack of talent or grit? Or too much me?

Did I just compare my writing to a two-headed whale? Yes. Yes, I did. Honestly, in which other newsletter would you find that?

Thanks for tagging along. I don’t know where we’re going, but I’ll try to make it interesting.

1. Gould is also known for his excellent popular writing skills. Both he and Lewontin were vocal critics of genetic determinism and they challenged several assumptions of evolutionary psychology, which, in Gould’s eyes, was particularly guilty of making up just-so stories.

2. This isn’t entirely correct (also, Gould and Lewontin were likely referring to pendentives rather than spandrels, which, obviously, Gould had a response to), and the Spandrels paper is not without its critics. The more nuanced position lies somewhere between rampant adaptationism and spandrels everywhere.

3. Two fairly recent examples that illustrate this are Susan Cain and Sam Harris. When they set up their Substack newsletter, they had thousands of subscribers within days. In a few weeks, tens of thousands, many of them paid. Harris doesn’t show his subscriber number, but given that his paywalled posts often get a number of likes that strolls close to, or into, four-digit territory, let’s assume he’s doing very well. There’s nothing wrong with this, of course. I might envy them, but I do not begrudge them their success (envy does not equal jealousy).

4. I have no idea where that image came from. Suitably dramatic, though. (Also, Bell concludes by encouraging experimentation and being your weird self. Message duly received.)

5. Story of my life.

6. On the one-in-a-million chance that you’re an editor who feels otherwise. Hi, nice to meet you. Let’s talk.

7. Up next: Mozart’s Spaceship and Female Genius.

8. Crap, the inner critic got out of his penalty box. Run!