Letters From Haven
Dear Medium, Are You Addicted To Statistics Too
It’s A Real F*cking Problem. But fun!
Dear Medium,
I have a problem. I’m addicted to my statistics. Yes, I’m a statict.
Am I alone? Are there other staticts out there loving the dopamine rush that comes in a numbered pill conveniently located next to your profile porthole.
When I signed on to Medium, I promised I’d deny myself all data. I wouldn’t take delight in views, reads, and my professional percentages.
You’re probably asking, so what’s wrong with that? That’s what you want. The idea is to write and hoard readers like FEMA hoards PPE. And you’re right. Even fractions like 2 reads per 3 views is encouraging.
But that’s beginner’s synthetic satisfaction. As you grow, the underbelly is nagging irritation.
The trouble started when I began to wonder, “Hmmm. . . Am I growing a fan base? Is there an audience for my ‘stuff’?”
It’s hard to believe anything off the internet could make you feel this way, PornHub notwithstanding. The RSS feeds you followers who point to what you wrote well. They highlight your insight. Highlights are a momentary apex of validity that you’ve delivered on your writer’s promise.
You know, Charlie Daniels died this week. He was the country bumpkin and legendary fiddler who wrote “The Devil Went Down to Georgia’’.
The song is about a deal-seeking devil looking for a soul to steal. That devil found me enamored with my stats certainly more than anything I had written. And with that shift in my paradigm, that’s when the devil got his deal.
And man, the pressure that comes with the handshake from hell leads nowhere but to writers’ block. It’s the devil playing with your head because that’s what devils do. While you’re searching for your next damn piece, the devil taunts you for his (or hers :)).
I did everything I could think of. I walked. I breathed. I was in downward facing dog for what must’ve been an hour.
I soon learned a way out — headlines. I was terrible at headlines.
Well, sure as you know what, it didn’t take long to grow enamored with my stats more than what I wrote. And with that shift in paradigm, that’s when the devil got his deal.
I wisened to the notion that headlines, like any good drug, have formulas writers stick to and readers crave. Immediately, I stopped with the “You Can Live Your Best Life Too, Weeeeeeee” or “Let’s Celebrate Ringo’s 80th Birthday Together”.
Uh, let’s not. Not with those headlines. You party alone with your laptop and well-bound writers’ bourbon while cursing Ringo for rounding up nothing but a bunch of zeros.
Over time, I improved markedly. I got the gist of it. A few “How to do X in 5 Simple Steps” and I lured followers who I followed back down the Silk Road to hard stats.
As my headlines got better, so did my scribesmanship which led to more followers.
One dude named Bradford Chapman, a “Mexican Coffee Bean Savant, At-Home Father, and Avid Twitch Watcher” was so impressed, he highlighted a passage.
I mean, a passage? A follower. . . highlighted. . . a passage? Don’t you love that too? It’s like someone bled teale just for you. You feel your readership has more loyalty than Trump’s base will ever have for him.
Seriously, what a rush.
It’s hard to believe anything off the internet could make you feel this way, PornHub notwithstanding. The RSS feeds you followers who point to what you wrote well. They highlight your insight. Highlights are a momentary apex of validity that you’ve delivered on your writer’s promise.
That, or it was a hell of a hail mary. We knew you had it in you.
Anyhow, do you care where it all comes from? No, in fact, hell no. Facebook, LinkedIn, Reddit, Twitter. Heck, it could be from a Millennial who tripped over your headline while high at one of those catch Covid-19 parties.
And the emails. Let’s not forget the emails.
Before my promo box was mostly internet advertrash. It was a big box full of the salesy, the scalpers, the self-help gurus, and the unsubscribeable.
Once Medium shipped those emails with subjects about new followers, highlights, responses, and more, my promo box made my “primary” box secondary.
Every now and then I don’t get juiced like before. It seems that the battalion of green bars don’t stand as high and tight as they once did.
But what does it matter?
If anything, I’m clear about one thing — I’ll forever be a statict.
Thanks for reading!
Best,
Anthony C. Fireman
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