Building the Authority of a Critic Online

Perhaps looking toward literary criticism and its commandments can help Substack with its own "copying" crisis.

"Molière Reading Tartuffe at Ninon de Lenclos's by Nicolas André Monsiau, 19th century. At the time, French salons provided a space for the social exchange of ideas and were a key factor in the spread of Enlightenment thought.

Discussions around “copying” in writing have surged across the Internet in recent months—writers copying other writers, AI copying writers, and even AI copying itself. As technology becomes more adept at replicating human creativity and skill, the boundary between inspiration and imitation grows increasingly indistinct, raising anxieties for many creators.

Amanda!

, the writer behind Certified, recently captured this frustration in her viral series, “Steal like a Substack Writer:” “Don’t get me wrong, [Substack] is definitely a place to be inspired... But maybe that’s just me. With so much information available on social media, we all want to stand out, we all want to write the next most original thing... but not everyone can be."

Amanda’s concerns reflect deeper questions that creators face in the online writing age: How do we maintain originality? How do we protect our work?

For many writers like myself, Amanda, and others, copying isn’t just an abstract crime—it’s personal. “You’re not stealing from a huge corporation that doesn’t care if you live or die, you’re stealing from a human being,” she writes. Plagiarism strikes a particularly painful chord in spaces like Substack, where posts often feel intimate. But perhaps the problem isn’t just about theft or a lack of creativity. Perhaps it’s about how we approach writing itself.

What if, instead of clinging to the notion that writing must be inherently original, we embraced the idea that all writing is part of a larger conversation? The French literary theorist, Roland Barthes, argued in his famous essay, “The Death of the Author,” that a text is not the product of a singular genius but a tapestry woven from multiple sources and influences. A text, he claims, only comes to life through the reader’s interpretation, making them an active participant in creating meaning. The French philosopher, Michel Foucault, builds on this idea with his concept of the “author-function,” suggesting that authorship is not an individual trait but a social construct shaped by the culture surrounding a text.

In other words, authors don’t exist in isolation—whether in academia or on platforms like Substack. Their authority is shaped by how their work interacts with the world, and by how they respond to, critique, and build upon what has come before. This is especially true on the Internet, where ideas are constantly shared, retweeted, and reblogged—writing is inherently part of an ongoing exchange. Ideas are, thus, constantly also reshaped, refined, and pushed forward. This process isn’t unique to the Information Age; it’s the fundamental movement of human intellectual history, the very essence of literary criticism and academic inquiry.

This was emphasized to me recently in a seminar led by Professor Alice Staveley (hello, Professor Staveley! Thank you for reading!), the director of Stanford’s English honors thesis program. She introduced me and my cohort to the scholar, Mark Gaipa, and his essay, “Breaking into the Conversation: How Students Can Acquire Authority for Their Writing,” which outlines how writers of all levels and backgrounds can participate in critical dialogue. Its content is modeled after the approach Gaipa took with his undergraduates at Harvard for almost a decade, who, like me, are often reading and writing criticism for the very first time. I have long wondered: Who gets to be a critic? What is their importance and relevance?

Perhaps that is why Gaipa is quick to emphasize that authority in writing doesn’t come from being the most original voice in the room, but from how well one engages with others. As Gaipa puts it, “authority is less a characteristic than a relationship that a writer has with other authors.” This shift in thinking is especially relevant in digital spaces like Substack, where credibility is built not through formal qualifications but through meaningful participation.

Writers gain authority by leaning in—by actively responding, critiquing, and building on the work of others.

However, the structure of Substack lends itself to a unique challenge. The platform is primarily home to blog posts and newsletter entries, which makes sense given its format. But when cultural space starts to feel limited and authority becomes a form of social capital, as Amanda points out in her essays, it’s crucial to understand how true authority is established—not through social or cultural means, but through the writing itself.

I believe that every piece of writing I produce should stand alone, regardless of whether someone has read my previous work or not. This approach makes my work more accessible and shareable, and thus a powerful growth engine. It is also good practice for me—while I hope to publish in the academic world, my primary interest is writing for the public, whether in magazines or social media forums.

So, how do we actually start doing this? Fortunately, Gaipa outlines several strategies for engaging in critical conversation. For instance, there’s the all too familiar strategy of “picking a fight,” where a writer confronts a critic’s argument head-on, dismantling it to make room for their own. This approach can be thrilling but risky—especially if the writer is up against a more formidable critic. At the other end of the spectrum is the “ass-kissing” strategy, where a writer aligns closely with an established critic, essentially borrowing their credibility. While this can lend legitimacy, it can also stifle the writer’s own voice.

Gaipa offers a more balanced alternative: “piggybacking.” Instead of simply agreeing with a critic, the writer extends the argument, pushing it in a new direction. This allows the writer to contribute while respecting the work that came before, which is the strategy I am employing with this very essay. In general, though, one of the most effective and common strategies is “leapfrogging,” where a writer praises a critic’s work but identifies a gap or flaw that only their argument can address. This tactic, both collaborative and critical, is particularly useful for writers engaging with timely cultural or political debates. By pointing out what others have missed, a writer can position themselves as both insightful and critical.

“Crossbreeding” is another key strategy, especially in the digital space where interdisciplinary thinking thrives. This approach involves injecting new perspectives into a conversation, often by drawing on other fields or offering fresh takes on familiar issues. Substack, with its wide range of topics, provides fertile ground for this kind of innovation. Writers who “crossbreed” ideas from various disciplines not only expand the conversation but also position themselves as thought leaders. I suppose I am a bit biased toward this strategy because interdisciplinary methods are always at the heart of all my writing, from my ongoing thesis to the very blog you’re currently reading. My background in both English and linguistics shapes how I approach texts of all kinds, allowing me to see intersections between language and literature that might otherwise go unnoticed if I were familiar with only one discipline. I try to let my audience into both fields and aspire to offer them richer takes because of it.

Gaipa also introduces other strategies, like “playing peacemaker” (resolving conflicts between critics) and “acting paranoid” (arguing that everyone is wrong). Each of these strategies encourages writers to situate themselves in relation to other voices, acknowledging that authority is built not by standing apart but by thoughtfully responding to what has come before.

I personally have yet to have any issues with copying—I am honored anytime someone even “restacks” (the Substack version of reposting) a piece of my writing. I want to be part of the—or really, any—conversation. And honestly, I think anyone who writes on Subtack does so because they are drawn to the socialness of this platform. Writing is lonely. But writing is not a solitary act—it’s built on relationships between texts, writers, and ideas. Understanding writing as part of a conversation allows us to move beyond the anxiety of copying or imitation and embrace a more collaborative, fluid approach to creativity.

It is this engagement that gives writing its lasting power.