In Pursuit of the Almighty Nickel (or whatever)

What do we make per read? Who knows? Who cares? (Not me)

For most of us, I imagine the goal (to be read is one reward, certainly, but the ultimate goal) would be to make some money off this site. I read again and again: “I hope to make a part-time income here.” A few already do, and are overjoyed to tell us about it.

My goal is to publicize books that I will eventually publish. Money doesn’t figure into my strategies in any way.

I’ve never looked at my stats. I pay attention to claps, and to comments. Some of my shenanigans have done fairly well. Some have bombed. I aim for one post a week. I write fiction. Fiction takes time.

The people who produce two, three, four articles a day, how do they do it? Except by churning out ‘Five-Quotes-By-So-and-So’ and the like? I don’t write that sort of nothing-much, and I don’t read it.

I go for political. Foofaraw has written some thoughtful commentary. He’s well worth a read. Lauren Martinchek, she’s another one with something to say that I want to hear. Umair Haque, The Atlantic, both good. These are the names that come immediately to mind. There are others.

I read about the craft of writing. But I’ve been writing for forty years. I have my methods. I’m looking to tweak, not to overhaul my style.

I jump on anything to do with punctuation. I’m in a fog regarding quotation marks and italics. And commas, those little rascals. Read a bit of my output, you’ll see it immediately.

Another thing I don’t read: self-improvement. At seventy-four I’m as improved as I’m ever gonna be. And: endless versions of ‘The Secret of my Medium Success’. And: anything with ‘Spin’ in the title.

How do I choose what to read? By topic, for sure. Also by title. If the title doesn’t make me say, “I’ve got to see what that’s about”, I pass on it. Choose your titles well.

I’m guilty of so-so titles myself. ‘She Came to Prominence as an Actress, but Her First Love Was Dance’ did me no favors. I debated that one. My thinking was: it’s absolutely fine for a chapter in a book where, a direction established, a straight-faced headline furthers my joke in a delightful way.

Chapter one of ‘Maisie in Hollywood’ (She Came …) has gotten few reads, probably because of a less-than-arresting title. But I liked it. I still like it.

I’ve written a thing that may appear to be legit, even a few paragraphs in. No! It’s a flat-out goof.

I’ve tracked down the NYT obit of Louise Brooks, published forty years ago. I’m going to mess with it, like I mess with everything, to put together my sounds-totally-reasonable (off and on) look at the career of one Marcelline Mulot, an early queen of the silent screen. She’s a mouse!

I dig out real-life details to add plausibility to my goofball plot. I’m stealing right and left, from Brooks, from Gloria Swanson, Florenz Ziegfeld, W.C. Fields, Walter Wanger (the storied producer). His sister Beatrice, an important figure in modern dance . . . she, my friends, is a find.

I hopped onto Google, looking to unearth (or invent) a Wanger relation, also connected to moviedom (I figured, possible, it was an artistic family), who could perform a specific task for me in L.A.

Walter had stayed behind in Queens to shut down the Paramount operation in Astoria. East coast production was being moved west to take advantage of a gentle climate and easy access to a wide range of picturesque locations.

When I stumbled across Bea, I laughed my head off. She solves a whole bunch of problems for me. She’s ten times better than what I’d hoped to get hold of.

I’m not here to make money, Thank God, or I’d be down-hearted. I am down-hearted, but it’s from exhaustion, from writing my complex, research-intense pieces that get few reads. (They’re long. That’s a drawback here, I know it.)

I’m creating illustration. That wears me out. I pronounce an image done, I feel great, for half an hour. I start the next one, I’m wiped out all over again.

Who’s read Beryl Bainbridge? I wanted to know why she won a Booker Prize. I read ‘The Bottle Factory Outing’. I thought, fun, not extraordinary.

Touches of zany accumulated until a critical mass was reached. I saw the light, finally. Reading on my dinner break at work, I stood up and yelled, “I was wrong! The woman is brilliant!”

My stuff is not that subtle. My broader silly, overlaid with a shit-load of halfway reasonable minutia, I hope it has some of the same charm.