A Paid Tier, A Secret Writer's Group And What You'll Find Inside

Plus, a true story of flying through fire, because we writers? We are.

The sun is blood red this morning. Woke up and flung open the back door to let fresh air come in through the screen door like I do every morning all spring and summer and there it was. A giant red ball hanging in the sky.

The sun isn’t really red, it’s smoke from the wildfires battering the prairies. Some days the air is so acrid the weather channel says don’t go outside without a mask. Because the smoke particles are so small you’ll breathe them and they damage your lungs.

Standing there staring at the blood red sun reminded me of a taxi driver I met a few weeks ago. I’ll take that man’s story to my grave.

This will make sense shortly, okay?

A few weeks ago I took a taxi across town, which I rarely do. So I hop in the cab and casually say I sure hope we get some rain soon, because the news was full of fires burning the country to the ground. So bad the smoke drifted into America.

He looks at me in the rear view mirror and says I was up there.

What? I say. He said when the fires were raging worst, he was evacuating people.

What? I say. So he tells me a story I’ll never forget as long as I live.

To give you a little perspective, the worst of the fires were two hours north of me. The city I live in is where the evacuation centers were for people in the fire zone. They were bringing people here, to gymnasiums and civic centers. To sleep on mats thrown on the floor while their lives and homes burned to the ground a few hours away.

So anyway, he says when they were evacuating people from the fire zone, the fires were burning so hard and so high they couldn’t get people out fast enough. Didn’t have enough emergency vehicles. So they called taxi drivers to help.

Sent them out in twos. Two cars. Drive into the fire zone and get people from the hospital. Bring them here, to the hospitals in my city. I was stunned silent. I had no idea that ordinary civilians like taxi drivers were in there rescuing people.

He said the car he drove up there with, his partner vehicle, his safety buddy, he turned back. When he saw fire shooting into the sky he said sorry I can’t do it. And turned back. So my cab driver said he sat there a minute. Watched his safety buddy’s tail lights. But he couldn’t leave people there. In a hospital surrounded by fire.

So he kept going. Alone. Without a safety buddy.

Got to the hospital and loaded his van with passengers. And when they were driving back he hit a point where fire was raging on both sides of the highway as he raced down the road, an old woman crying in his back seat.

At one point, the fire jumped the road so he swerved onto a gravel road, told his passengers he’ll get around the fire, he’ll keep them safe. And he did. Took back roads until the highway was clear. He kept saying that. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you safe.

Then he looked at me in the rear view mirror and said he was so scared.

He said he did that for twenty one hours. No sleep. No food. No breaks. He just kept going back for more. Praying like crazy the whole way. I told him he’s a hero.

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I think of him at random moments. When the sun is red. Sometimes, when I sit down in front of a blank page to write. Which maybe sounds melodramatic but sometimes that’s what it feels like trying to make a living in a world where AI can do everything I can do and faster, and it doesn’t ask for a salary and it doesn’t need a break.

Feels like I’m racing down a road with fire raging both sides of the road and I don’t know if I’m going to make it out alive. I don’t. Last week I wrote about an author who suspects many of the top writers here are using AI and he makes a compelling case.

My whole life is writing. I am not a bestselling author and I don’t have a book. But I’ve been writing since print magazines. I’ve worked in the publishing industry, wearing more hats than one person ought to. Reading acquisitions, marketing words, editing books and designing covers. An entire life built with words as the North Star.

I’ve spent weeks wondering if I should continue. What’s the point? So many people don’t know the difference between AI and human writing. It makes me afraid.

Watch Ai writers rising to the top and wonder what else I could do if I stop writing. I used to be a programmer. Built one of the first shopping carts on the Internet back in the late nineties. Got featured in the NYT for my marketing skill. But so? AI is taking those jobs, too. It can code faster. Write faster. It can do everything I can do.

That’s what I was thinking this morning, staring at the red sun.

What do you do when fire is raging both sides of the road and you don’t know if you’ll make it out alive? Pedal to the metal, because what else is there to do?

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So I’m starting a paid tier. It’s going to be a secret writer’s group. And I wanted you to know because it’s going to be as hidden as I can make it. If you’re not a member, you won’t get the emails. It won’t be on my Substack home page. It’ll be hidden like some secret door in the garden that you don’t even see if you don’t know it’s there.

It will be on my archive. I can’t hide it there. But everywhere else? Hidden.

Here’s why I’m doing it that way. Because I hate when people send me an email and partway through there’s a paywall. Oh, you can’t read this, sorry. I know that’s considered good marketing. But it feels ick to me. Don’t want to do that.

I only want you behind that secret door if you want to be in there with me.

Here’s what I’m doing behind the secret door.

I’m going to do my damndest to help get everyone safe in a world where AI is the fire raging at the side of the road. I know writing like nothing else. And if you love words like I love words, it’s where we grow together. Every Tuesday I’ll publish a tutorial to help writers who are trying to build an audience and build a life made of words.

There will be tutorials on how to make Substack work better. What you’re doing wrong and what to do better. Submission guides with places that will pay for essays and poetry. And not peanuts. I don’t write for twenty dollars and you don’t need to either. There will be help with writing and publishing. Tips on book marketing and promoting yourself as a writer without all the ick. An ongoing writer’s retreat.

So you know, I’ll start gradually. Leave the door open so writers can find us. For the first few weeks, Tuesday tutorials will be free and unlocked for 24 hours. And then one day? They won’t. One day, they’ll be hidden from everywhere except the archive.

If you’re interested, all subscribers will get an invite. That will happen some time next week. If you’re not interested, you’ll never even see it and my Friday letters will continue as they have for years. Free, as always. Hope you’ll join me inside.

there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep. I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be sad. Then I put him back, but he's singing
a little in there, I haven't quite let him die
and we sleep together like that
—Charles Bukowski