Late last year, out of curiosity, George Saunders, Booker Prize winner and author of Lincoln in the Bardo started a Substack newsletter in the hope that he might directly touch base with a few of his more enthusiastic readers. But instead of the trickle of feedback he expected, his initial post received several thousand comments. A dialogue began. Saunders talked back to his fans and they to him. A year later, Saunders’ Story Club is one of Substack’s most successful newsletters, with thousands of subscribers. Other high-profile authors have joined what was originally a new tool for journalists and hobbyists – including Chuck Palahniuk and Salman Rushdie. “The point of doing this is to have a closer relationship with readers, to speak freely, without any intermediaries or gatekeepers,” Rushdie wrote in his inaugural missive. “There’s just us here, just you and me, and we can take this wherever it goes.” Rushdie went on to serialise a novella, The Seventh Wave, on the site. As well as posting updates on their work, the writers on Substack try to offer a platform for giving tips and feedback about writing, for the growing army of people who want to become novelists themselves. As a novelist, I am very much at the other end of the publishing food chain to Rushdie and co, but after being approached by the head of the UK Substack operation to try it out for myself, I started to consider whether it might be worth it. After all, some smaller fry, such as the writer Elle Griffin (who is currently publishing on her Substack The Novelleist, a “utopian novel”) has built a considerable following. Like Charles Dickens when he started out, she publishes her work in episodes that build towards the final work. The key technical difference between Substack and other online platforms is that people sign up by email . It doesn’t sound revolutionary, but it offers writers the opportunity to establish an intimate community of followers that has the potential to grow exponentially – and globally. Furthermore, once they see what a writer has to offer, followers are sometimes prepared to pay for the privilege of reading what they produce. It is far more than a blog – it feels as if it could be a paradigm shift in the media economy. I was dubious about starting my own Substack: it seemed like an awful lot of work for what could be negligible reward. However, I decided, rather half-heartedly, to give it a go. I called my newsletter “Tim Lott’s Writing Boot Camp”, reflecting what I saw as my back-to-basics approach to writing. Seven months later, I’m addicted. Substack occupies most of my writing time. It offers a new opportunity for writers like me, who have hitherto been condemned to the Siberia of what publishers call the “midlist”. I soon realised how much potential there was for an ageing writer who was still bursting with ideas but had nowhere to put them. I posted three times a week and gained hundreds of followers in the first few weeks (partially spurred, admittedly, by friends such as David Baddiel and Jonathan Coe who gave me a plug on Twitter.) I started with essays (like all my posts, these were simultaneously delivered as an email and posted on my Substack website). My followers shared my work, so I got more followers. I recorded podcasts with Irvine Welsh, Sadie Jones and Jon Ronson, and they were picked up and distributed by Apple Music and Spotify. Still more followers. I did a reading from my new novel. I threw out discussion threads. I made videocasts. People submitted their writing and I offered help – as did the other subscribers – because this form of writing is not just a top-down thing, it’s a participatory democracy. Before I knew it, I was at the heart of a small but lively community based around my writing and teaching. What do my subscribers get in return for signing up? Anything I want to give them. I have total freedom. There are no editors or advertisers telling me what to do. Independence isn’t without its downsides. You have to learn to sell yourself, you have to understand how online media works and you have to be self-disciplined and dedicated. No editors, no agents, no marketing department. You’re on your own. But we novelists know how to be on our own. Now we have the chance to be multi-media publishers as well. It’s a steep learning curve, but there’s at least a chance you’ll end up where you knew you always belonged – hand in glove with your cherished readers. And, with any luck, getting paid for it. Tim Lott’s Writing Boot Camp can be read at timlott.substack.com. Now We Are Forgiven by Tim Lott (Simon & Schuster, £16.99). To support The Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.