How to build a writing system that survives any algorithm

Why your creative survival depends on architecture, not optimisation.

One of the best things about substack is the community aspect and the ability to make connections with new people from all walks of life. I’ve been following Jim for over a year now and on that note I would like to draw your attention to his substack - The Creative life.

The Creative Life explores the tension between making art and producing content and goes out to 2,000+ creators every Saturday.

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There’s a moment every online writer reaches where the illusion finally cracks.

You publish something you’re proud of, a piece that feels raw and honest and it actually lands. People engage with it and you feel like “finally…thank you”.

Then you publish again with the same level of care… and nothing happens. Just a flat line where the last piece rose.

It’s easy to interpret this as a personal failure, but the volatility isn’t personal. It’s structural. You’re trying to build a long-term creative life on foundations that were never designed to hold the weight of anything meaningful.

If your writing depends on the algorithm, then the results are very much out of your control and more akin to gambling than building.

Algorithms don’t care about your voice. They shift because of changing incentive structures and ultimately because platforms optimise for their own survival not yours.

This is where most writers begin to unravel. Because hidden beneath the surface of every online writing journey are three vulnerabilities that quietly dismantle a creator’s confidence long before they ever run out of ideas.

I. The Three Structural Vulnerabilities Every Writer Lives Inside

These vulnerabilities emerge from the architecture of the modern internet.

1. Algorithmic Volatility

Look, algorithms are not inherently bad. I remember when substack did not have their notes feed. There was no real way of meeting or finding new people unless you had external traffic sources or a few people who could recommend you.

But platforms behave like weather systems. They are unpredictable, indifferent to your goals and constantly rearranging visibility. The reality is that the engineers are just running experiments, they don’t always know what the results will be. and so volatility is built into algorithmic systems. It is also the nature of attention.

One week you’re carried by the wind. The next you’re dropped without warning.

2. Identity Fragmentation

Most writers lose or never manage to develop their voice because the environment keeps pulling them away from it.

When performance becomes the compass, your voice becomes reactive. You chase what might work instead of what matters and through this process your writing becomes a negotiation with potential rewards rather than a form of expression.

3. Cognitive Overload

Without a structure, your mind becomes the entire creative pipeline:

• Ideation

• Planning

• Editing

• Execution

• Analysis

• Evaluation

You’re carrying everything internally and that weight is unsustainable. Burn out is just an inevitable result of cognitive overload.

These three forces don’t simply slow writers down they dissolve them. And no amount of “trying harder” will counter vulnerabilities that are structural in nature. You neutralise them only with architecture.

II. When I Finally Understood That My Problem Wasn’t Discipline but Structure

For years, I mistook a lack of progress as a moral failure. I became obsessed with discipline and consistency.

It felt good to work really hard but when progress just never seem to come in the way I wanted it my confidence and energy levels dropped. I began looking at others and creating reactively, bending my voice toward whatever seemed to perform. There was no centre, no continuity. All that was left was the emotional whiplash of online metrics dictating my identity.

When I arrived on Substack, I hoped for stability and found confusion instead. The interface felt unintuitive; I didn’t understand how people met or how communities formed.

I wrote into a void because I hadn’t yet understood that Substack is a network, not a broadcast tool. And a network only opens when you have a structure strong enough for people to recognise.

My problem wasn’t output or commitment it was architectural. I had a practice but no system.

A writing system wasn’t something I built to become more productive. It was something I built because my identity could no longer survive without it.

III. What a Writing System Is (and what it isn’t)

To understand what a writing system actually is, it is helpful to first go over what it isn’t.

Most writers misunderstand the concept completely.

A system isn’t a schedule. It isn’t batching. It isn’t a habit tracker or a workflow diagram. It isn’t a content calendar or a productivity hack.

Those things help with execution, but they do not protect your identity.

A real writing system is internal architecture.

It is the structure that:

• Stabilises your voice

• Reduces cognitive friction

• Anchors your identity

• Clarifies your direction

• Creates rhythm without force

• Makes your writing inevitable

It’s the spine that holds everything upright when the world around you is unstable.

Without this architecture, your writing is permanently exposed to volatility.

IV. The Architecture of a Writing System That Survives Any Algorithm

A resilient writing system contains five interdependent layers. These are structural elements that support one another.

1. The Identity Layer — Your Centre of Gravity

This is where every system begins. Before you capture ideas or publish work, you must know:

• What you care about

• What questions follow you

• What emotional territory you inhabit

• What you refuse to chase

Identity is not just branding it is the basis for building coherence for yourself and others.

When your own identity is vague, your writing becomes reactive. When it’s clear, your writing becomes magnetic.

Start by setting some non negotiables. What are you unwilling to tolerate? What is one foundational belief that your world revolves around? Start there.

2. The Input Layer — Your Idea Engine

Creativity collapses when writers depend on inspiration. I know this is controversial but I have yet to find anyone who can sustain creative work without a stabilising system.

A system helps you collect ideas continuously and without pressure.

Seemingly inconsequential things like scattered fragments, personal observations or mild contradictions become the raw material. This doesn’t mean you have to read book after book or cosnume every video on a topic, it just means you need to be present and capture your ideas as they form.

Inputs keep the system alive. Without them, rhythm becomes forced.

Start by developing some form a note taking habit. If you don’t write ideas down they will get lost. When this habit is set ideas flow much easier.

3. The Processing Layer — Meaning-Making

This is the layer most writers skip. It is the process through which ideas are sorted, shaped, sharpened, and refined.

It is where identity filters noise from signal and where coherence is built.

Without this layer, everything feels overwhelming.

Commit to a weekly shaping ritual. One hour where fragments become patterns and patterns become meaning. This is were you review notes, go over old posts and start to connect dots.

This ritual is where voice forms, with it, writing becomes a form of clarity rather than confusion.

4. The Output Layer — Rhythm

A system produces rhythm automatically. Rhythm is how readers learn your shape.

It’s how trust forms and how identity becomes visible over time. Consistency is not a discipline problem, it’s the natural effect of solid architecture.

Establish a rhythm that reflects your life, not your ambition. Rhythm builds recognition; ambition builds burnout.

The system should support you, not the other way around. If trying to post one article a week is a huge effort and requires a lot of sacrifices it will lead to burnout. Set the bar low and raise it slowly over time. One to two articles per month is a great place to start.

5. The Feedback Layer — Evolution

Feedback isn’t necessarily about which posts “performed.”

It’s about:

• what resonated

• what returned to you

• what sparked conversation

• what felt aligned

Feedback shapes the system without allowing it to drift. This is how you become anti-fragile.

Review your resonance, not your performance. This is difficult to articulate and even harder to understand. If you are fully aligned then performance and resonance might almost be the same thing. It is something you “feel” more than you analyse.

Try to look for ideas that stay with you. The ones that open something. The ones that feel like home. Let resonance be the compass. Let identity be the anchor. Let the system carry the weight.

V. What Happens When You Build This Architecture

The volatility of platforms stops dictating the volatility of your internal world.

You stop writing reactively. You stop chasing trends. You stop interpreting silence as inadequacy and you stop relying on reach for meaning.

Your writing becomes:

• coherent

• stable

• grounded

• recognisable

• resilient

• your own

You move from survival mode to sovereignty. You stop trying to navigate the algorithm and start building something that outlives it.

If you want a structure that helps you build the identity, rhythm, and coherence described here, the 15-Note System is where I’d recommend you begin.

It’s the architecture I built to stabilise myself when the platforms around me kept shifting.

Take care and enjoy the rest of your day.

Benjamin