Just Making Sure You Saw My Thing

Hey, there, just dropping you a note to make sure you saw my thing. It went up last week, my thing did. You may have seen it on my Web site, or in my e-mail blast, or maybe on one of the various content feeds I update regularly with my things and also short, enticing snippets of my things.

Real quick: please understand that these thing-snippets don’t do justice to the thing-wholes, but I’m hoping they draw enough viewers and entrant-tier subscribers to justify the time I spend maintaining eleven separate social-media platforms, which each has its own formatting guidelines and vibe.

But we were talking about my thing. Did you see it? As an unbiased observer, I find my thing to be unique and stirring and shareable, but not in a cheap way. I’d be happy to discuss it on your podcast.

I spent a lot of time putting together my latest thing, which is usually the case when it comes to these things. Though lately I’ve noticed that I spend just as much time promoting my things as I do making them. Part of the problem is that, many years ago, when I first started working on things, the goal was that I’d be able to place them in any number of legacy publications that, at the time, connected thing-enthusiasts and thing-creators. But, sadly, in the years that it took to become proficient at my thing-making, the majority of these outlets either went out of business or were devoured by one of the private-equity concerns running rampant in a largely unregulated market economy. Whoops!

So now I’m forced not just to make the thing but also to design, edit, package, code, distribute, and market it—all without any guaranteed payment or acknowledgment from an easily distractible public. If you’re keeping count, that totals seven jobs and 0.65 salaries. Just me and my thing and the open plain. I’m sort of like a cowboy, in that sense.

Anyway, if you’ve already seen my thing—and you’ve absorbed it to the extent that you can when it’s been flung at you alongside millions of other things that you read, or hear about, or see flashing on the lower third of a touch screen while pumping gas—there are ways you can help me maximize the reach of my thing. Specifically, if you could post it on all eleven of your social-media feeds, or just send it to a few dozen close friends, along with a personal note about how my thing is especially important in these troubled times, that would be sick.

The goal here—if you need reminding—is to manipulate the algorithm, an opaque puzzle that when cleverly prodded and massaged will yield untold riches from within its silicon vascularity. The algorithm warps and realigns daily, but I got some savvy tips from a colleague who works six part-time gigs on top of making things—I believe his things have something to do with dolls, or maybe wood?—and I’m pretty sure we’ve got it beat.

I’m starting to worry that I might be confusing you for someone who has a similar name. If that’s the case, I’m sorry, and just go ahead and let a few dozen of your friends know about my thing, too.

I don’t know why I do any of this. I feel naked right now. Cold and naked, with the eyes of the world on me, or perhaps looking through me. Sometimes I worry that I’m not there at all, not in any real sense. Make sure to also click that little bumblebee icon next to my thing, by the way. That’s an important part of the process.

My target audience: I know you’re out there, you must be. Even now, waiting for me. Even now—Oh! There’s a knock at the door! No. Just the wind. But someday, yes. So, as you read this, remember that I am out here, hustling and grinding toward your threshold. And when my day finally comes, you, me, my thing—and all things—we will be forever joined.

I exist. Thanks. ♦