Feedback #2

When you write these days, you can get immediate feedback from the internet. People will sometimes email you (generally nice messages, I’ve only had one weirdo), like a post on social media (a short-term ego boost), shout about your talent to others (that one tastes like prosecco, my constant favourite despite it reminding me of many awful evenings from my twenties).

Then there are analytics. Unvarnished data. This platform tells you how many people read the newsletter, how many clicked a link, and who opens your emails the most. That last one is very weird. Readers deserve privacy.

The statistics are supposed to help you speak more clearly to your audience, engage them more, attract others to the circle. The numbers are supposed to help one improve their offering. Not by the way of stern and insughtful editorial advice, God no. The machine speaks instead. You must translate.

To me, all these sums feel like being in a dressing room and coming out in a dress that looked good on a hanger but bad on me. I can see the person whose opinion I am seeking make a face before they school their expression into one of neutrality. Seeing it can ruin the afternoon. No one’s fault that though. If a dress looks bad, a dress looks bad. But if a newsletter doesn’t land, that’s on my typing. According to the analytics, my last post lost me three subscribers. Reading that can be sad face and cackling laughing face at the same time.

My subscriber base is fairly static. And I’m okay with that. I have this platform because I like writing short things while I try to write longer things. I like the exercise. I also like getting some money from this. (Thank you to those who pay!) I’m not here to go viral. That is my idea of hell and papercuts between my fingers.

I used write short articles for news websites. Articles you could find elsewhere, to be honest. I used have to look at the analytics for these articles and use those numbers to be better at my job. A few other friends had the same job in other places. The content mines. It means that, years later, I can’t look on that writing as honest work. The machine spoke over me. I listened at its metal feet. It stopped me from writing the stuff I’m only starting to write now, the stuff that makes me feel like I’m saying what I want to say. Every unsubscribe is a gift, in a way. Some freedom. I am doing what I want to do.

Thank you to those who read. Xx

P.S. You can leave anytime you want!