Journalists Became Personal Brands. That’s Not Necessarily a Bad Thing.

At the very start of the second Trump administration when multiple explosive news stories were breaking every day, I got a scoop that changed the course of my career. When I received the tip, there was no editor to run it by; no legal team to consult. I had to decide in a moment of sheer terror and exhilaration what my next move should be. Then I hit publish — and scooped all of the country’s biggest news outlets by reporting that the federal government planned on freezing all funding for grants and loans. The move caused such an uproar that the federal government walked it back, and my work as an independent journalist saw unprecedented attention. 

One of the most drastic changes in journalism of the last 25 years is accountability to readers. In the era before digital media really took off, journalists would write and publish stories and maybe receive an occasional letter or email in response to their work. Now there is an invisible umbilical cord between writers and readers. When I broke the federal grant story, I did so on Bluesky, and hundreds of people immediately responded, expressing outrage and disbelief that the administration was exerting such a heavy hand so soon into its tenure.  

This inextricable connection is no coincidence: With the rise of social platforms like YouTube and Instagram that highlighted individual creators, the need to sell one’s self along with one’s work became essential. Just before graduating journalism school in 2009, my senior seminar professor had us all sign up for Twitter accounts; while that arguably set me up for the circuitous path to where I am now, it also encouraged me to emphasize not just the political but the personal. My thoughts on The Bachelor were stacked on top of reporting about the Affordable Care Act — and people could read and react to every single one. 

This hyper-awareness of not just how your writing is perceived but how you are perceived creates something of a petri dish for narcissism. And it’s a bit of that same narcissism that is required to launch your own news outlet. When newsletters first became popular a few years back, readers were forced to completely rethink who was giving them their news, and they had to be convinced that paying for it was a good investment.

Why should you be the one they invest in? Each piece I publish on my newsletter, The Handbasket, is an attempt to answer that question. And I do that by only publishing pieces that I think actually provide value. That way, when an issue lands in someone’s inbox, they can at least be confident I gave it a lot of thought — even if they don’t agree with what I write.

Relatedly, when asked what the best part of my job is, my response is usually that I can’t be fired tomorrow because, ultimately, I work for my readers. This can of course be said of small business owners or independent contractors in any field, but right now in journalism it feels even more powerful; the idea that I am not beholden to the stock market, venture capital and/or the whims of right-wing billionaires who’ve been central to the downfall of modern journalism is certainly an enviable position. As most people working in media understand at this point, it sucks to get fired. But what started as hedging my bets turned into a necessary lifeline, allowing me to practice journalism in a way I didn’t even know a few years prior was possible.

The Handbasket first launched on Substack in June 2022. The country was still not totally out of the woods with the COVID pandemic, the Supreme Court was about to overturn Roe v. Wade, and despite the fact that Donald Trump had failed to be reelected, it was impossible to forget what we learned about some of our fellow citizens in the aftermath of the 2020 election and January 6. In many ways it felt like we were on the road to hell — in a handbasket. 

At first I treated it more like a LiveJournal than a business, posting infrequently and for free, writing whatever I felt like and mixing personal essays with news and interviews. Looking back, I was laying tracks for a train that was not yet built. Most big newsletter writers at the time had either come from a large news organization or were successful freelancers or had published a book. I was a middling freelancer with a decent Twitter following, and every time I pitched a story, it felt like building from scratch. Editors simply did not have the faith (or the budget) to invest in me, which naturally made me feel like I was unworthy of investment.

I stuck with my newsletter in order to stay in journalism. I didn’t have any other marketable skills. I had to keep writing to make sure I could keep writing. And I really had to earn my stripes by delivering breaking news and fresh insights via both social media and The Handbasket. Without a built-in audience I had to — and continue to — hustle, promoting everything I publish incessantly, engaging with the people who enjoy it, and at times being utterly shameless. 

The thing about going it alone — on journalism as a personal brand — is that there is no one to hide behind: The buck starts and stops with you. If you screw up, it’s your reputation and your livelihood because the product you’re selling isn’t just words; you, for better or worse, are the product, as well. There are many who might find that prospect horrifying — and there are certainly days when I wish I lived in a cave with no Wi-Fi — but in the end I’d rather answer to the regular people paying for my work.

The beauty and joy of being independent is that I’m working counter to, rather than in concert with, institutional power, and so I never have to apologize when I come for it. That became especially clear when I spearheaded a campaign in late 2023 called Substackers Against Nazis, which implored the platform’s founders via an open letter to answer a simple question: Why are you platforming and monetizing Nazis? More than 200 Substack writers published the letter via their own publications.

When the Substack founders finally responded as a result of public pressure, their priorities were made clear. Writing on behalf of him and his two co-founders, Hamish McKenzie published a note that said: “I just want to make it clear that we don’t like Nazis either—we wish no-one held those views. But some people do hold those and other extreme views. Given that, we don’t think that censorship (including through demonetizing publications) makes the problem go away—in fact, it makes it worse.”

From my perspective, the only thing that had gotten worse was the company’s appeasement of right-wing extremism, and that’s when I knew it was time to leave. I naturally wondered if I was making a mistake by moving to beehiiv, a Substack competitor, and whether the familiarity and ease of Substack would be better for my success in the long run — even if they took 10% of every paid subscription. But again I realized that if I’m going to write about certain values, I have to live them as well. And if a Nazi wants to share 10% of revenue with you, perhaps it’s time to ask yourselves what about you and your philosophy makes them think they are safe here. 

It was a risk leaving the comfort of Substack, but one that ultimately paid off. It also underlined how important it is for independent journalists to define themselves separately from the platforms they use. Change in media is inevitable, and your supporters will respect your ability to adapt. It’s the ultimate sign of independence that your readers will stick with you regardless of platform.

In a recent piece reflecting on coverage of the Trump administration, author and journalist Andrea Pitzer wrote, “Vietnam, too, was misleadingly covered in much of the press for a long time under an unspoken gentlemen’s agreement to give the leadership the benefit of the doubt.” Those Americans who followed independent and alternative journalists knew how the war effort was foundering years ahead of those who read and watched only major outlets. “Now, as then, independent journalists and everyday people can sear awareness of the truth into the public consciousness.”

And so I continue to sear while I’ve still got something to say and people still want to hear (and pay) for it.