Why Building a Writer Platform is Like Owning a Lighthouse (And Your Email List is the Foghorn)

Writing a book is like giving birth to a rhinoceros. It’s painful, messy, and once it’s out, you’re legally responsible for keeping it alive. But here’s the kicker—no one’s going to notice your literary rhino unless you build it a neon billboard that screams, “HEY, LOOK AT THIS MAJESTIC BEAST!” That billboard? It’s your website. The foghorn that lures readers toward it? That’s your email list. Social media is the guy in the background yelling about his mixtape. You can nod politely at him, but your real power lies in owning the lighthouse.

Your Website is Not a Digital Brochure. It’s a Homing Beacon.

Imagine your website as the cozy, weird cabin you built in the woods of the internet. It’s got your books, your blog about the existential dread of houseplants, and a photo of you wearing a crown made of spoons (artistic, baby). This isn’t just a place to park your book links—it’s where readers come to stalk you respectfully.

Without a website, you’re that guy at the party who forgot to wear pants. Sure, you’re interesting, but everyone’s too busy side-eyeing your lack of trousers to notice. A website says, “I exist. Here’s proof. Also, buy my rhino.”

What It Means: Stop Renting Land on Zuckerberg’s Volcano

Social media is like a rowdy, ever-changing party. One day you’re dancing on tables; the next, the platform rebrands to “X,” the music stops, and you’re left holding a disco ball nobody wants. Building a website and email list is like owning the deed to your own tiki bar. No one can kick you out, turn off the lights, or algorithmically hide your piña coladas.

Here’s the blueprint:

- Your Website: The 24/7 open house where you control the vibe. No ads, no “content suggestions,” just you and your weird little corner of the internet.

- Your Email List: The VIP backroom where superfans get first dibs on your secrets, like a book launch or your hot take on why ketchup is a soup.

Why Email Lists Are the Ninjas of Marketing

Let’s talk about email. Yes, it’s the digital equivalent of sending handwritten letters in a world of TikTok dances. But here’s the magic: you own those email addresses. They’re not subject to Instagram’s mood swings or Twitter/X’s identity crisis. When you hit “send,” your words land directly in someone’s inbox—no algorithm playing gatekeeper. It’s like slipping a love letter under the door instead of shouting into a hurricane.

Plus, emails have the shelf life of a Twinkie. That newsletter you wrote about your protagonist’s caffeine addiction? It’ll sit patiently in an inbox until your reader’s ready, unlike your Instagram Story which vanishes faster than your will to live after a 3-hour “quick editing session.”

The Secret Sauce: Stop Begging, Start Inviting

Social media has you jumping through hoops like a caffeinated poodle. “Post consistently! Use hashtags! Dance in a onesie!” Meanwhile, your website and email list are over here sipping martinis, whispering, “Just tell people we exist, and they’ll come.”

Here’s how to do it without selling your soul:

1. Put a “Join My Cult” Button on Your Website (Fine, “newsletter” sounds less murdery). Offer a freebie—a deleted scene, a short story, your grandma’s lasagna recipe. Bribe them. It’s ethical, I swear.

2. Blog Like You’re Gossiping With Friends. SEO? Sure, but write like you’re explaining your latest conspiracy theory about squirrels. Google loves “helpful content,” and readers love knowing you’re unhinged.

3. Email Your List Like You’re Texting Your Bestie. No corporate jargon. Just updates like, “My new book is out! Here’s 20% off. Also, my dog ate a LEGO. Pray for us.”

The Grand Finale: Ditch the Panic, Embrace the Slow Burn

Building a platform isn’t viral fame. It’s growing a garden while everyone else is chasing fireworks. Social media is the firework—bright, loud, gone in seconds. Your website and email list are the tomatoes you’ll be eating all winter.

So go build your lighthouse. Send those foghorn emails. Let the social media chaos rage on. Meanwhile, you’ll be over here, thriving in your spoon crown, with a tribe of readers who actually care. Because at the end of the day, you’re not just an author—you’re a curator of weirdos who get you. And that’s worth more than 10,000 followers who’ll never read your book.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go explain to my email list why my protagonist’s new love interest is a sentient toaster.

Written by Liz Dubelman, who definitely checks their website analytics more than their bank account.

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Creative NonFiction

By Liz Dubelman

Lights, Camera, Almost Catastrophe! A Tale of Trains, Tape, and Too Much Caffeine

Let’s talk set accidents. Too many people have been killed making entertainment - Sarah Jones, Halyna Hutchins, Vic Morrow, Renee Shin-Yi Chen and Myca Dinh Le to name a few. While my heart ached, my brain immediately launched into a very personal slideshow of my own near-misses from my time as a camera assistant in the ‘80s and ‘90s. Spoiler: I survived, but only because I’ve got the reflexes of a caffeinated squirrel and the luck of a lottery winner who only wins free keychains.

Let’s rewind to the late ‘80s. Picture me, a 5’3”, 100-pound human pretzel, lugging a 60-pound Panavision camera onto a rickety platform attached to a moving steam train in rural Pennsylvania. Why? For an insurance company commercial, of course. Because nothing says “trust us with your safety” like filming on a deathtrap held together by duct tape and crew members’ existential dread.

The shot: an actor in a powdered wig waving farewell from the train. Our genius plan? Attach a camera to a modified handcar towed by the locomotive. First take: smooth. Second take: chaos. Someone yelled, “Go back to one!”— film lingo for “Let’s redo this!”—but trains don’t U-turn like golf carts. They reverse. Violently. Cue the handcar exploding into toothpicks, and the crew leaping like Olympic gymnasts (if Olympians screamed expletives mid-air). Miraculously, we escaped with bruises and a killer bar story. The first assistant, clinging to the camera like Gollum with the One Ring, nearly became a pancake. Me? I was too busy questioning my life choices to “protect the art.”

Ah, the glory days of union life! I was a legacy member of Local 644 I.A.T.S.E. (aka “The Camera Mafia”), thanks to my dad, a director of photography who once dangled off the Golden Gate Bridge for a Rice-a- Roni commercial. At 18, I became the local’s first female camera trainee—a title that basically meant I got to fetch coffee while men twice my size debated lens filters. My big break? Working on Woody Allen’s Radio Days, where I learned two truths: 1) Film sets smell like desperation and stale bagels, and 2) Nothing goes fast enough except the waiting.

Movie crews are a special breed. We’re like pirates, but with more sunscreen and fewer parrots. The camaraderie? Unmatched. The jargon? Absurd. A “best boy” isn’t a prom nomination—it’s the electrician’s assistant. A “Montana” isn’t a state; it’s a boob-level camera shot. (Hey, the ‘80s were a lawless time.) And don’t get me started on “hazard pay,” which basically translates to, “Here’s $50. Try not to die before craft services.”

Celebrity encounters? Sure. Bruce Springsteen once sang me “Happy Birthday” on set. Correction: he mumbled it while tuning his guitar, but I’ve rewritten that memory to include a key change and confetti. Most of my dreams (and therapy bills) still involve being chased by a rogue dolly grip or losing a lens cap in a sandstorm.

Here’s the thing: Film sets are glorified playgrounds for adrenaline junkies. We operated under “cinematic immunity,” a delusion that normal rules didn’t apply. Need a shot from a helicopter with no doors? Sure! Climb into a speeding car’s trunk with no seatbelt? Why not! Catch hot shell casings down your shirt? Just part of the job! Hazard pay was our producers’ way of saying, “We acknowledge this is stupid. Here’s a Starbucks gift card.”

No one should risk their life for a blooper reel. Yet safety often took a backseat to budgets and ego. The real villain? Turn-around time—the measly 10 hours between wrapping and your next call time. After commuting, you’d be lucky to shower and nap in a broom closet. I’ve seen crew members mainline espresso like it was IV drip and drive home so sleep-deprived they mistook traffic lights for UFOs.

Leaving the industry in ‘91 for the internet felt like swapping a lion’s den for a mildly irritated house cat. Sure, Wi-Fi’s a nightmare, but at least I’m not dodging trains.

Sarah Jones’ story hit hard, but let’s honor her by fixing the real issues. Better safety protocols. Less “we’ll fix it in post” mentality. And let crews sleep. Because if we’ve learned anything, it’s that no Oscar is worth a eulogy.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to ice my shoulder from that one time in ’89. Damn you, Panavision.