Design for the Inbox (or: How Not to Get Owned by the Feed)
Optimized for discovery today, built for Tuesdays forever.
The feed would like you to believe it is a benevolent river. It is not. It’s a moving walkway with a funny sense of humor and a habit of accelerating just as you find your footing. It adores you the way a cat confronts a laser pointer—fully, until the next red dot.
If you want a durable relationship with readers, design for the inbox first. Everything else is optional confetti.
Process note: As I write this, I see the irony. I’m tuning the headline and clipping a pull-quote—designing for the feed—because that’s where the most interested will pass by today. Fine. But the work still has to come home to the inbox. We should always leave room for the audience that opted in on purpose—the Tuesday readers.
The Corsage Economy
A badge that announces how many writers you pay for; applause made visible; reciprocity made awkward.
There’s a new flower-style badge that shows up in Notes, comments, and on profiles to signal how many paid publications a person supports (tiers like 1+, 5+, 10+). Gifted subs don’t count; visibility can be toggled off. Some readers like the transparency; many writers find it repulsive because it gamifies generosity.
Why it feels wrong (to some):
Because a quiet act—supporting a writer—becomes performative status. It nudges the room toward reciprocal economics (“I paid you; will you pay me?”) and shifts attention from what was said to who paid to be here.
What it means for a reader:
You can support quietly. Hide the badge or choose a digest/site-only lane. Patronage is still patronage without the corsage.
What it means for a writer:
Treat the flower as stability, not steering. Thank the support; don’t edit for it.
Set simple house rules: Support is appreciated; badges are irrelevant to discussion.
Avoid reciprocity traps. You don’t owe a paid sub to every flower. That path ends with patrons paying patrons while readers drift.
If they never open their email?
Then the badge is a tip-jar receipt, not an editorial vote. Segment those patrons to a low-noise digest; build the work for the people who show up on Tuesday.
A badge turns patronage into performance; the writing still has to survive Tuesday.
And surviving Tuesday starts with the container that actually gets opened.
Inbox First (Because Email Still Pays Its Bills)
The app feed is a casino floor. The inbox is a mailbox with a key. Design for the thing with a key.
Write for the email frame. Short subject. Honest preheader. A first line that earns the second. Assume phone, bus, mild chaos.
Make the call to action native. Replies beat likes. “Hit reply and tell me X” outperforms “go hunt this thread.”
One promise per send. Don’t shove a buffet into a postcard.
Deliverability is part of craft. Dead links, bloated images, twenty trackers = “I write for dashboards.” Keep it light.
If the app disappeared tomorrow, your email should still read like a letter.
Inbox discipline sets the baseline; now, how do people find you without wrecking the list? Enter recommendations, but use them carefully.
Use Recommendations Strategically (Audience Fit > Audience Size)
Recommendations are power tools. They can build a house or remove a thumb.
Match on intent, not genre. A small, right-fit rec beats a big, wrong-fit blast.
Give newcomers an on-ramp. Pin “Start here.” Don’t greet guests with Chapter 7.
Track downstream health. Not just subs gained—did they open three in a row, reply, and stick with it for 30 days?
Don’t overpay for attention. Rec debt is real. Say no politely and often.
Think cross-pollination, not a leaf blower. Aim for the fruit.
And while you measure that fruit, measure like a person, not a dashboard.
Measure Like a Person (Not a Dashboard)
What you measure becomes your hobby.
Track the returning reader. Opens squint; replies don’t.
Let churn teach you. Ask why people leave; edit the product, not the feelings.
Cadence is a contract. Weekly means weekly—until life happens. When you miss, say so. When you change, say why.
If your numbers make you write differently in a way readers can feel, you’re watching the wrong numbers.
Numbers also clarify something delicate: not every subscriber is a reader—and that’s okay if you treat it honestly.
The Applause Subscription (a.k.a. “I Subscribe So You Feel Seen”)
Some people subscribe because they want you to exist, not because they want more email. They are patrons disguised as readers. Bless them. Also: don’t design around them.
What it is:
A vote with a credit card attached.
Social proof for the platform.
Not the same as readership.
How to treat it:
Name it honestly: patronage, not audience.
Protect deliverability: move obvious non-openers to a lighter cadence.
Offer a low-noise lane: monthly (or quarterly) digest with the best thing you made.
Keep the door kind: silent support is still support.
Q: “How would that work if they never open their email?”
A: Their role is financial/relational, not editorial. Design for those who open; let patrons be patrons. Provide a Supporter tier that defaults to digest or site-only. Say this in the welcome note. Steer by the engaged cohort.
A tiny, humane automation (after ~60–90 days of silence):
Subject: Keeping your inbox calm (quick check-in)
Body:
“Some folks read weekly; some just want me to keep writing. Both are allowed. Prefer fewer emails? Click for monthly digest or site-only. If you’re happy as a silent supporter, no action needed. Grateful either way.”
What not to do:
Don’t run clingy “are you still there??” sequences.
Don’t let applause totals steer editorial.
All of which keeps your center of gravity away from the feed—useful, because you should use it carefully, not live there.
Guardrails for the Feed (Use It; Don’t Marry It)
The feed is a fine neighbor. Please don’t give it a key.
Treat spikes as weather. Celebrate briefly, and then go back to work.
No algorithm cosplay. Don’t adopt whatever tone the feed rewards this week.
Keep writing portable. Would this make sense as an email, a page, or a printout? Good. Publish.
A Minimalist Reader Bill of Rights
You should know what you’ll get and how often.
You should be able to leave without friction and return without shame.
You should never wonder if the writer is talking to you or the algorithm.
You should feel, occasionally, invited—not targeted.
Tape that above your desk. It’s cheap strategy and decent manners.
Hope isn’t a strategy, but it is a signal. The signal is this: small, direct circles still work. A letter that arrives on purpose, written for someone you can picture, will outlast a hundred perfect posts engineered to please a machine. Design for the inbox and you get something rare: a readership that knows how to find you—even when the walkway speeds up, the lights change, and the red dot darts off the wall.
If that post polished the surface, then The Memory Will Reflect This shows the fingerprints.
The Memory Will Reflect This is a serialized novel about Elias Rigg, a provisional nurse-tech learning how a hospital’s record—“the memory”—rewrites the hour it’s supposed to describe. It’s dry, satirical, and quietly weird: badges that name you before you are one, dot-phrases as survival, the stamp vs. the witness, and a niece who appears as weather and a yellow highlighter in the margins. It isn’t “about healthcare” so much as systems, language, and who gets to own the story.
