Exactly one year ago, No. 1 New York Times mega-bestselling author Mark Manson of The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, which if you haven’t read then you’ve definitely seen in a bookstore somewhere, named me his Newsletter Manager.
Me, whose first job in media was becoming his Research and Content Assistant four and a half years ago. Me, whose newsletter at the time had barely 200 subscribers. Me, who couldn’t tell an automation from a sequence, who didn’t even know the difference between unsubscribing and deleting a subscriber.
My promotion wasn’t as ludicrous as I’m making it sound. For 15 months I had been in charge of sending Mark’s Your Next Breakthrough newsletter every Monday. I had been managing his inbox, shortlisting reader stories for Mark to feature in his newsletter and responding to operational queries.
At the same time, I had also been managing his website MarkManson.net. Anyone in the team wanted something published, they came to me. I was also our Quality Assurance team of one. Anything anyone wanted posted on Mark’s social media or podcast or YouTube had to survive my scrutiny, the team’s appointed Typo Exterminator.
For years I’d proven myself more than capable and earned Mark’s and the team’s trust.
But still, to be officially named his Newsletter (& Website) Manager and entrusted with a list of close to a million subscribers (at the time) felt like divine happenstance at best, a clerical error at worst.
I knew nothing
I’ve suffered from a major case of imposter syndrome ever since Mark responded to my question—so what exactly is my role now?—in our one-on-one video call with “My Newsletter and Website Manager, stupid [my addition].”
Once my initial ecstasy and incredulity at having been offered this opportunity had subsided, I became wrought with worry. But I know nothing. I had been writing Val Thinks for years but his newsletter and mine had nothing in common. No insight I had gleaned from mine could be applied to his. I didn’t even know what half the terms denoting the various backend processes in his newsletter platform meant.
And not for lack of trying. For months, anticipating this eventual anointment, I had read and re-read the help guides. With each re-read, the terms became less opaque, but still I had no clue what each of the processes did, never mind how they all fit together.
For half of my 2024, I was a bundle of nerves as I resolved to learn everything there was to know and master the elusive cogs in Mark’s newsletter machine. What this meant was responding to every development with an endless list of questions for our newsletter platform reps—I’m new in my role, could you walk me through X, Y, Z—and reading their replies as many times as it took—usually more than a dozen—for their words to become English.
It didn’t help that I chose to dive into our backend just as we had our first crisis for years. I need to be able to handle this, no better time to take over, I told myself and Drew, my senior on the team who despite having more than enough work himself with Mark’s first-ever podcast launch still repeatedly asked if there was anything he could do for me.
My bold move paid off. It was a stressful six months, but by September I felt deserving for the first time of my title. I was Mark’s Newsletter Manager. I knew what I was doing.
How much is enough?
You’re an expert! Patrik, a fellow newsletter writer, budding entrepreneur, and dear friend, exclaimed in one of our coffee sessions plotting world domination.
Am I, though?
Mark’s newsletter is thriving, your newsletter is growing. What more is there to it?
I pondered Patrik’s words. With months of experience managing Mark’s list of over one million, I was confident in my competence, and after listening to more industry podcasts than I can count, I was also fairly tuned in to trends I was previously ignorant of.
What more is there to it? Can I call myself an expert?
I’d worked on Mark’s newsletter for just under two years, another four on mine. Ridiculously small numbers to proclaim expertise in a domain where established operators boast decades.
But then how many more years do I need under my belt to be able to call myself a newsletter expert? Five? Ten? Fifteen?
Years, in any case, seem an arbitrary milestone. What about subscriber growth? Engagement metrics? Crises averted and/or overcome? Initiatives taken? Suggestions implemented? What about, simply, confidence?
What does it take for someone to be able to call themselves an expert in a field?
Call me Newsletter Queen, I decided.
Patrik chuckled. OK, Newsletter Queen. What platform should I go with to build my audience?
I sipped my flat white, organising thoughts I couldn’t have conceived six months ago, then began: These are the factors you need to consider…
What do you think?
Expert or no expert, I am finally comfortable introducing myself as Mark Manson’s Newsletter Manager. And maybe that’s all I can hope for:
Do you feel like an expert in your field? Why/why not?
Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with an expert who has more than earned their accolade.
Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,
Val
This was a great story. And a great reminder that what often holds us back (or propels us forward) is the stories we tell ourselves.
You have inspired me to do something that I’ve been thinking about doing over the last month. Thanks!
Now I just need to implement the advice!