The Internet Used to Be About People

Over the weekend, someone reached out to me about my writing via Substack DMs. This is someone I recognized. We’d crossed paths on Notes before, and I'd even interacted with a couple of her posts. But she’d also always scanned a little too much like a LinkedIn hustler who accidentally wandered into a creative space and decided to “network,” so I was instantly wary.

Her message opened with effusive praise (because doesn't it always). She’d just discovered one of my posts and was blown away by how personal, authentic, and easy to connect with my writing was. (Always a good sign when someone finds you “easy to connect with.” That’s code for “marketable.”)

She didn’t mention which post, mind you, let alone what about it was so mindblowing she just had to message me because of it. Or, really, any details that might indicate she’d actually read past the headline.

She sure had that pivot ready to race, though.

She had some tips for me — ways I could “build deeper engagement” and really “boost visibility," especially on Notes. She closed by asking how things were going for me on Substack so far, signing off with the online equivalent of a practiced smile and an extended hand.

Barf.

Honestly, it wasn’t the fact that she wanted my money that annoyed me. (I'm in marketing, too, so I get it.) It was the whole performance of it — that tone of forced chumminess, that “Hey, creator-to-creator!” energy. She wanted to sell me something, but she needed me to believe her message was actually about friendship first. And it got me thinking.

When did the internet stop being about people and start being about positioning?

When the Web Was Still a Neighborhood

I’m old enough to remember when the internet still felt like a messy, beautiful neighborhood instead of an airport terminal with hordes of would-be influencers sprinting for the boarding gate.

You’d log onto message boards, webrings, LiveJournal, early forums, whatever, and find people who were actually on there because they wanted to say something. To connect. To post unflattering photos of their cats with captions written in Comic Sans. You know. The good shit!

Every corner was full of wonderful weirdos and writers and insomniacs with crazy, niche thoughts to share. And yes, there were trolls, too, but at least they were human trolls, not corporations cosplaying sincerity with “relatable” social media managers tweeting in all-lowercase. (I really hate that lowercase shit.)

But these days, the internet’s largely nothing more than a talent show judged by algorithms. We’re all out here performing sincerity like it’s the world’s longest audition, knowing we need to get people engaging with us as quickly as possible so the robo-judges don't simply pass us by.

We're no longer really interested in each other (or sometimes even what we're putting out there). And it sucks.

The Age of "Proven People"

On today's internet, you have to be “somebody” before anyone even sort of cares what you have to say, and that's been the case for years now. My best engagement rates still come on platforms where I've accumulated enough of a follower count over the years to matter to the rest of the collective on there.

Alternatively, people may have the impression I've got clout of some kind that I can leverage in their favor.

For example, people sometimes find me on Quora or Medium, see that I'm a professional writer, and think I can help them break into the business or get something published. Or back when I still moderated a massive AI art group on Facebook, people thought kissing my ass and trying to befriend me would give them some sort of visibility advantage or maybe immunity from the ban hammer.

Years ago, I would sometimes even get people in my inbox who knew my husband was in horror movies or music and thought befriending me was a smart way to get something they wanted from him.

But back in the good old days? All you had to do was post a banger of a poem or an essay, and total strangers would actually find it and read it because it was written well. Now people read bios first. They want to know your reach, publication history, and which platforms have validated your existence before they decide whether you’re “worth” their time.

We’ve all also become our own marketing departments, and it’s exhausting. You can’t just share something anymore. You have to optimize it. You can’t just be curious about someone. You have to decide whether taking a few seconds to engage will “boost your reach" or potentially put money in your pocket.

The real irony is that the same people lamenting the death of genuine community online are also the ones scrolling past lesser-known voices to leave fire emojis on posts by the already-famous. And we’re all complicit, even if we don’t mean to be.

Even I'm dead guilty of not engaging "enough" or picking and choosing new people to engage with for reasons beyond genuine interest in what they put out there.

It's Not (Just) the Algorithm's Fault

Algorithms are a lot like the weather. They're annoying and they're unpredictable. And they can ruin whatever it is you're trying to do, while being entirely impersonal about it.

They also only amplify what we reward.

If people rewarded curiosity, nuance, or heartfelt conversation, algorithms would reward that, too. But most of what they see us clicking on these days is spectacle — hot takes, outrage, and piles of recycled advice about “ten ways to crush your goals” written by people who’ve never crushed anything but a LaCroix can.

Sometimes I think it’s not that the internet lost its soul. Maybe we just stopped feeding it anything worthwhile. Garbage in, garbage out, and all that jazz.

How to Reconnect (Without Selling Your Soul)

So, now that I've gotten that out of my system, let’s talk about what we might collectively do about it. Because if you’re a writer or other creator trying to find meaning in this attention economy, I get it.

It’s hella lonely out there.

Don't confuse visibility with worth

Sometimes, even I have to remind myself not to do this. A post underperforming doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t good. Often, the right people just haven’t seen it yet. Or maybe they read it quietly and didn’t comment, which happens way more than people think.

Remember the small-scale conversations

A thoughtful comment. A DM that doesn’t end with “I have a package you might be interested in.” A shared laugh over something super dumb in a thread. Those things are the modern campfires. Pay attention to them, and build around them when you can.

Resist the urge to brand every interaction

Not everything has to be “on brand” or even on point from a messaging standpoint. You’re allowed to be a full, messy person online. You can talk about your garden, your cat, and your half-baked theories about ghosts in coffee machines without the internet police showing up to arrest you.

Don't fake warmth to make a sale

People can smell manufactured friendliness a mile away, and they don't have to be marketing professionals like me to do it, either. It’s fine to sell things — your writing, your art, your ideas, your latest digital resource. But do it from a place of honesty.

“Hey, I made this, and I think maybe you’d like it,” goes a lot further than pretending you're looking for your next best friend just to get your foot in the door.

Find (or make) spaces that feel alive

They do still exist. They’re just (sadly) a lot smaller and more niche now, tucked away in newsletters, comment sections, Discord servers, and tiny creative corners where people still talk. Be part of those, and protect them when you do find them.

The Campfire's Still Burning Somewhere

I like to think the old internet isn't entirely gone (or at least not yet). It is buried under a lot of noise. Some of that original warmth is still there if you know where to look, though.

Every so often, someone writes a comment that feels like a real conversation starter instead of just another networking attempt. Or someone shares your work because it actually moved them, not because they saw your follower count and hope you'll return the favor. Sometimes, someone reads quietly, thinks deeply, and follows up with a small note that says, “This meant something to me.”

Those are the embers I think are worth tending.

Ultimately, I still believe in an internet that’s about people, curiosity, connection, and talking just to talk. But maybe the trick is to stop waiting for it to come back and start building it again ourselves, one sincere message at a time.

That said, if someone messages you with fake enthusiasm and a thinly veiled sales pitch today, you completely have my permission to snort in their virtual direction, close the app, and go light a candle instead. At least the candle’s not out to monetize you.