Digital Marketing for Creatives

Hey. It’s me. So. I was talking to a comic the other day – young guy, very online – and he’s telling me about his “Discord server.” And I’m like, “Great, you’re into medieval role-playing? LARPing? Cool.” And he just stared at me like I’d asked if his dial-up modem was working.

Turns out, it’s not just for gamers shouting about headshots anymore. It’s… a thing. A real thing. For people who make things. Artists, writers, musicians, people who talk into microphones in their garages for a living. And I’ve been poking around in this thing, and… okay, I get it. I’m reluctantly, against my better, more cynical judgment, kinda getting it.

See, for years, the deal was this: you make your thing, you throw it out into the void of social media, and you hope it sticks to somebody’s wall. Instagram, Twitter—it’s like yelling into a crowded, algorithmically-controlled plaza. You’re screaming about your new painting or your book chapter, and everyone else is screaming about politics and cat videos, and the plaza manager keeps changing the rules so only the people who pay get heard. It’s demoralizing. It makes you feel like a digital panhandler.

Discord… it’s different. It’s not a plaza. It’s the back room of the bar after the show. The good one, where the chairs are kinda sticky, but the conversation is real. You can actually talk to the people who care.

Here’s the deal: You create a “server.” Think of it as your own private clubhouse. You don’t own the building, but you make the rules. Then you invite people in. Your patrons from Patreon. Your readers who actually email you. The folks who buy your prints. The 50 people who genuinely want to be there, not the 5,000 followers who scroll past.

And then you build rooms in this clubhouse. Not physical rooms, digital channels. And this is where the magic—or, you know, the useful, non-soul-crushing utility—happens.

• You make a channel called #sketchbook-live. And instead of just posting a finished painting on Instagram, you go in there and you stream your drawing process for an hour. People pop in, they say “hey,” they ask what brush you’re using. It’s not a performance for the algorithm; it’s a hang.
• You make a channel called #chapter-ideas. You’re a writer stuck on a scene. You type: “Okay, my detective has to find the missing cat, but the only witness is a paranoid parrot. Too stupid?” And your community, the people who love your weird brain, they chime in. “The parrot only speaks in advertising jingles!” “Make the cat a former internet meme!” It’s a brainstorming session with your most invested fans. They become collaborators. They feel ownership. And you get unstuck.
• You make a channel called #sound-check. You’re a musician. You post a 15-second clip of a new riff. “Does this synth sound like a dying robot or an enlightened toaster?” Real feedback, in real time, from people whose taste you trust.
• You make a voice channel called The Couch. You just get on, live, and say “I’m fighting with my taxes/this clay/this protagonist for the next 20 minutes if anyone wants to work silently together.” It’s body-doubling for creatives. The shared, quiet misery and triumph of making stuff.

It flips the script. Instead of you, the creator, begging for attention on someone else’s platform, you’re the host of a space for your people. The value isn’t just in you broadcasting at them. It’s in the connections between them. They start talking about your work with each other. They become friends. They share their own art inspired by yours. Your clubhouse becomes a living, breathing artifact of your creative universe.

Is it work? Yeah. It’s community management. You gotta set some rules, maybe get a mod to help, keep the trolls out. It’s not a “set it and forget it” thing. It’s a living space.

But for an artist or an author – jobs defined by isolation – it can be a lifeline. A direct line to the “why.” To the people who get it. It turns the lonely act of creation into a shared, semi-private experience. It’s the anti-algorithm. It’s the digital equivalent of the notes you used to get in your P.O. box, but everyone can see them and add to them, and it’s happening right now.

So, I’m not saying run out and do it. I’m just… observing. The kids might be onto something. This isn’t about building an audience. It’s about building a tribe. A weird, specific, wonderful tribe around the specific, weird thing you do.

And if it all goes south, you can just delete the server and pretend it never happened. The ultimate power move.

Alright. I’m gonna go see if there’s any coffee left in this pot. Talk to you next time.

Discord can be found here.

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