WRITING

Crime Pays

Comedy and poems, not so much

Medium has been a godsend. I can earn a few greasy dollars each week as a writer. Praise be.

There’s just one small problem. I make pennies for essays, comedy, and poetry — yes, even comedic poetry — and hundreds of dollars for crime stories.

So, who says crime doesn’t pay?

Incest, murder, rape, mutilation and dismemberment. Vanished people. Molested children. Spree killers. I could go on, and I have.

In the business of true crime writing, the more deranged the criminal — see The World’s Most Prolific Serial Killer or The Fastest Execution — the more people want to read all about it.

The old saying goes: If it bleeds, it leads.

My new saying: If there’s cannibalism, there’s an audience.

Poetry vs. Crime

When poetry goes up against crime, it’s like Biblical David with that sling and rock looking up at Goliath, fully armored and wielding a sword.

I’m not complaining. Far from it, I love that people read poetry on Medium. Good grief, where else are those of us who love doggerel and free verse going to find any audience?

Most poems take a few seconds to read and may inspire someone to jot down a sonnet or fashion an inspired limerick.

But a 32-second poem doesn’t measure up to a 7-minute story in which the reader is dying — pun intended — to know the killer was caught and punished. A few verses about the virtues of falling leaves is wonderful, but who doesn’t want to see how the scumbag gets punished, with a photo of his guilty face?

Stories on the death penalty seem to do well. Is it because the subject of state-sanctioned murder is controversial? Justice denied, revenge exacted, or in the case of the state of Alabama — executioners who can barely tie their shoes, much less dispatch death row inmates without botching the job.

The old saying: Poetry is what’s lost in translation.

The new one: Murder speaks in every tongue.

Personal essay=lead balloon

Is this an essay? I dunno. If it is, you’ve already stopped reading. The only piece of writing that tanks harder than an essay is the Personal Essay!

Maybe I should speak for myself. My personal essays drop like lead balloons tied to a fast-sinking Titanic.

My opinion on topics ranging from presidential bravery to why I can’t sleep through the night is about as interesting as a bowl of oatmeal — you know the kind — healthy oatmeal: boiled in water, zero raisins, sans brown sugar, without the tiny pitcher of cream.

Apparently, I am a bowl of high-fiber gruel. I’m neither famous nor notorious. Some people I know would argue for all three.

If I were Meryl Streep or Michael Cohen or the ghost of Truman Capote then my opinions about blood sugar would incite delirious loyalty and tens of thousands of followers!

The old saying: Everyone will have his 10 minutes of fame.

The new saying: You’re not that interesting, girl.

Worse, I question the depth of my authenticity. I’m no towering intellectual but I speak my truth. Or do I? Now I wonder, is my sincerity covering up a perilous pretense of pernicious precociousness?

The bottom-of-the-barrel line

Geez, but I know a lot about serial killers and child molesters.

The bonus for writing about vampire killers and slaughtered families: had I not read tomes of murderer biopics, I would be as naïve as every other poet/humorist.

It’s possible my knowledge of humanity’s most depraved impulses has saved my life.

I definitely don’t pull over at abandoned rest areas, for example, or walk alone without a weapon — pepper spray, a knife — or camp solo without setting up a perimeter. I am highly suspicious of lone men sitting in pickup trucks at parks. As an aside, can someone explain this phenomenon?

I’ve looked up all the local child molesters on my state’s sex offender registry. You should, too.

My poems will keep flowing. I will surely write a sequel to Attack of the Fall Leaf Blowers now that fall is on the wane and I’ve successfully brandished my rake against the whine and roar of neighbors who blow.

Despite my encyclopedic knowledge of spree killers and pedophile rings, I remain unjaded. The world is mostly full of wonderful people just trying to make their way through, in the words of Prince, “This thing called life.”

RIP, the artist formerly known as Prince. Your poetry added sparkle to this world. You stayed true to your art. As far as I know, you never penned a true crime story.

Tried-and-true writing advice: Write what you know.

New advice: Write what you know, and if that happens to include horrible crimes — someone will pay you for it!