How to Share Your Writing Online Without Feeling Cringe
How to share your writing online without feeling self-promotional or fake.
There’s a moment a lot of writers hit right before they post something online.
You hover over “publish.” You reread your caption three times. You wonder, Who do I think I am? Then you delete it.
We get it.
At The Write Kit, we work with writers who are talented, thoughtful, and (often) wildly allergic to self-promotion. You don’t want to be annoying. You don’t want to “build a brand.” You want your work to speak for itself. And maybe—just maybe—you don’t want to turn your grief, dreams, or line breaks into a content machine.
But you also want to be read.
So let’s talk about what it actually means to share your writing online—and how to do it in a way that feels human, not humiliating.
Make it about the reader, not the algorithm.
Instead of “What should I post today?” ask:
“What would help someone like me feel less alone?”
You don’t need to go viral. You just need to resonate. When you reframe your posts as offerings—notes passed between people who care about the same things—you stop chasing visibility and start practicing connection.
Some prompts we love:
A quote from your piece that stopped you as you wrote it
A one-line reflection on what you’re learning as a writer right now
An image or playlist that inspired your current project
A short “note to self” that doubles as a note to your audience
You don’t need bells and whistles. Just a little honesty and a little craft.
Give your work a doorway.
Your newsletter, your website, your pinned post—these are the entry points to your world. They don’t need to be elaborate. But they do need to exist.
Think of it like this: if someone reads your Instagram poem and wants more… can they find you?
Your job is to make it easy for them to:
Read more of your work
Know what you’re working on next
Support you (buy your book, subscribe, pre-order, donate, etc.)
A few gentle steps:
Add a “Start Here” highlight or page to your site
Create a simple Linktree or Carrd with your top links
Write a pinned tweet or IG post that introduces your writing and where to find it
Your doorway doesn’t have to be fancy. It just has to be open.
Use your voice the way you use it in your work.
A lot of writers freeze when switching from poems/essays/stories to captions or bios. You go from “I have something to say” to “How do I sell this?”
But your platform doesn’t need a different voice. It just needs the same voice, speaking to a slightly different question: How can I invite someone in?
If your writing is funny, be funny.
If your writing is vulnerable, be vulnerable.
If your writing is experimental, let your newsletter be weird too.
Platform-building works best when it sounds like you.
Start small. Really small.
If you’re overwhelmed by Substack, BookTok, or newsletters, pick one place to start. One format. One rhythm. One space that you control.
Maybe it’s a monthly Substack roundup with writing updates and a short reflection.
Maybe it’s a TinyLetter just for close friends and early readers.
Maybe it’s a public Google Doc with your recent work and a PayPal link.
You don’t have to do everything. You just have to do something consistently enough that people know where to find you.
You’re not annoying.
You’re not too much for sharing your work. You’re not “cringe” for having a voice. And you’re not alone if it feels hard.
The world doesn’t need more creators performing.
It needs more writers telling the truth, on their terms.
That’s why we’re here.
A fiction break
Pattern Recognition
by Liz Dubelman
It was 3:17 AM, and Kelly's brain refused to power down. She'd tried everything—prime numbers, Fibonacci sequences, even converting milligrams to liters to tablespoons like some demented math teacher. Nothing worked. The wine had worn off hours ago, leaving her wide awake next to Jeff, who slept with the profound innocence of someone who wife wasn't fucking his fertility support group member's husband.
Kelly had gone to bed early, fortified by a bottle of Chardonnay. White wine—red made her sneeze, health benefits be damned. It was her first drink in months since starting and spectacularly failing at doctor-assisted conception. She knew Jeff would want to talk, so she'd preemptively armed herself with wine, cheese, and Italian Vogue, pretending to read despite speaking no Italian. When Jeff tried conversation, she'd held up the magazine like a shield.
Now she lay there wanting a hot bath—deep, claw-footed tub filled with oils that smelled like expensive guilt. But hot baths were on the pregnancy no-no list, along with wine and aged cheese. Ironic, since she was free to enjoy these pleasures now but couldn't risk waking Jeff. He had zero ability to pretend to be asleep—one of marriage's crueler discoveries.
Her thoughts drifted to Steve, to fucking him in her Kia in the underground parking garage. Her breasts in his mouth so he couldn't talk. She fell asleep with morning creeping in.
Jeff woke early and went running. He made a breakfast she refused. They hadn't discussed the details since Kelly announced they'd wait until after the holidays to resume fertility treatments.
"Should we still go to the group?" Jeff asked.
Kelly hadn't considered this. She liked the secret thrill of being in the same room as Steve and his wife, Susan. The confessions made her feel slimy—Why do you want a child? Does it have to be biological?—but these were her people now. Steve and Jeff worshipped her. Susan tried to strip away her security (good thing she was screwing her husband). Danny was funny, Diana insightful. The lesbians were hip. Rose remained mysterious. Angie and Michael were the parents she never had.
"Yes," she said, surprising Jeff. "I like the group. Should we bring wine or would that be rude?"
"That would be rude."
Kelly had gone to Amherst College to escape Beverly Hills' relentless seventy-degree perfection. She traded sunshine for weather that averaged freeze-your-ass-off and gloom. Her parents were New York transplants who'd achieved California's standard 5.5% happiness rate boost, roughly equivalent to New York's good weather days.
Her parents collected art to feel superior. They owned land so they could own art. Kelly's older sister was a successful copyright attorney in Century City, which took the heat off Kelly. She didn't have to be perfect, just undetectable.
Kelly was “raised” by a psychologist named Gwen, along with half her elite private school classmates. They traded Gwen appointments like baseball cards—Kelly once bartered homework, edibles, and Adderall for two weeks of sessions after her boyfriend dumped her in senior year. Gwen thought she'd fostered a caring community. Gwen was well-paid and delusional.
Kelly dreamed of being an artist but had no aptitude and hated learning new things. It made her feel ungainly. She preferred feeling beautiful. She did have a gift for numbers—unsexy but useful. She'd hide her ability to recognize patterns to avoid advancing in math, finding Fibonacci sequences soothing as lullabies.
She met Jeff at a frat party first month of college. He was also from LA but Larchmont—his father was a mechanic and caretaker for his mother, who'd died of cancer when Jeff was young. Jeff studied environmental science, convinced his mother's death was caused by window caulking chemicals. He never wondered why no one else in the house got sick. Kelly never pointed this out.
It was one of those perfect weather nights when they met. The fraternity was throwing a blowout before the college banned them. Kelly wore tight jeans, boots, and a low-cut sweater. She saw Jeff immediately—he looked like home, radiating Pacific Ocean and palm trees. She wanted someone dangerous and unfamiliar, from the East or South. But the guys at the keg were more interested in each other, not sexually but athletically. They competed over who could drink more beer and recite team rosters. Unlike her small private school world, no one noticed her.
She hated beer—like drinking a loaf of bread. She liked tequila and pills, but mostly pot. She liked the full-body feeling and that she could resist the munchies, which made her feel in control. She went searching for it, following the smell.
She found Jeff with a vape.
"It sucks you can't get a license here," Kelly said. Back home, everyone — even underage — had medical marijuana cards, plus fake IDs. Dispensaries treated you like a customer at Chanel—budtenders asking BuzzFeed-style questions (head high or body high?) before recommending Purple Haze or Vanilla Kush. Swipe your debit card and you're free.
"You're from California," she said.
Jeff nodded, zipping his Uniqlo down, bouncing in his Uggs. "Want some?"
"God, yes."
They never went back to the party. Despite wanting that elusive, dangerous boyfriend, Kelly only had a few hookups in four years at Amherst. She always ended up smoking with Jeff.
The night Jeff proposed, Kelly dreamed about making a zoetrope—a spinning cylinder with slits that creates the illusion of motion by showing only parts of the whole picture. The dream made her sad. She could see everything, but the illusion depressed her. She decided to get married anyway.
Kelly's father got her the Wells Fargo job. She advanced quickly due to her pattern recognition skills. They joined the fertility group because Jeff talked to one of the lesbians, who said if you've been trying for three years, you need intervention.
Steve was attracted to her instantly. At the first meeting, he passed around a contact sheet for everyone's information. Susan thought it was sweet how interested he was in the group. He texted Kelly as the leader read support material:
Hi. We should meet.
Sure
Tomorrow after work at the Liquid Kitty 6:00
Sure
They met the next night. No pretense—this was about sex. They talked little. The first time was in his car, her skirt hitched around her hips. Steve felt seventeen. Kelly wasn't unhappy.
The affair was salacious intrigue without emotions—a cheap, easily procured drug. When they met, she planned outfits for easy access. He kept a secret phone. Susan was always suspicious. Jeff was just happy basking in Kelly's light—he'd rather not know because knowing meant he'd have to act.
Steve's first affair. The fertility process was fucking painful—always nominated, never winning. He wanted to feel something elating. Kelly had had many hookups. She felt young and hot, and soon she'd be fat with a baby, then have a kid. She was going to act like a teenager as long as possible. It made her feel cool and on-trend. It was hot with Steve because they didn't worry about pregnancy or STDs—they were both tested.
Three years ago, sex with Jeff was exhilarating, like good Wi-Fi. She remembered her high school reunion—her hair perfectly undone, wearing a black dress with strategic panels that made Jeff think of a sexy widow needing comfort. They made love on the beach while her classmates drank dry martinis and discussed private schools.
Now Kelly looked at Jeff in the bathroom's greenish light, wondering if they'd ever have a beach moment again. Her mind twisted to Steve. She still had pure moments of sex with him. It had become so fraught with Jeff now.
Kelly checked her phone—a Snapchat from Steve. She glanced at the mirror reflecting the closet door mirror to see how far Jeff was in his ablutions. Time for a few seconds of dirty abandonment. Only she didn't feel so good. Maybe the gin martini at lunch. Or maybe not. Her stomach churned with a familiar queasiness she'd been ignoring for days, the kind that made her crave saltines and ginger ale. She pressed her hand to her abdomen, doing the math despite herself.
When was her last period? The irony wasn't lost on her—all those fertility treatments, all those careful calculations, and now this. Just sex, she'd always told herself. They'd never talked about just sex. Not her fault if Jeff made assumptions. They didn't have to tell each other everything. That would be so boring. But some things, she realized, her body would eventually announce whether she wanted to tell them or not.
Yet another excellent story!