I Wrote My Top Earning Story When I Was Fourteen

Why can’t I replicate this success today?

That title isn’t clickbait. I really did write my top earning story when I was in ninth grade, but it’s not a success story of childhood genius. No matter how I slice it, it seems to be a fluke.

Let’s rewind.

When I was fourteen, I started participating in National History Day, a competition for middle and high school students that spans a broad range of topics and categories. It’s similar to a science fair, but with much more varied opportunities for presentation. Since writing was always my favorite subject in school, I entered the essay category with a 2,470-word paper about Noah Webster. (The word limit was 2,500. I have never been what one might call succinct.) The paper won first place at my regional competition, third at the state level, but didn’t qualify for the national finals. Bummer.

Fast-forward to this summer. (I need to find some new figures of speech for when videotapes become totally obsolete. Or has that already happened?) Full of quarantine inspiration and intoxicated by the sight of dollars stacking up in my Stripe account, I was furiously attempting to write an article a day.

I did not, in case you are wondering, succeed in writing an article a day. I did still have a job.

But in my eagerness to churn out more content and get my byline under as many eyes as possible, I acted on a whim and dusted off an old high school essay. I trimmed the fat, added some headings, picked a new title that might generate more clicks, found a relevant image on Unsplash, and clicked publish.

It was a long read, and I couldn’t include all of my original citations without having a huge bibliography at the end that might scare readers away. I opted to hyperlink online references where I could, kept my list of books handy in case anyone commented to ask about a particular fact, and crossed my fingers hoping that would be enough. (Cite your sources, kids.) To date, no one has attempted to fact-check any part of the article, but since I’m not the president, I’m actually prepared with backup if they do.

Within 24 hours, the piece was curated into the Language and History tags. And, very slowly, views started to accumulate. And, to my surprise, full reads did, too.

To date, the article has earned over $50, which is significantly more than any other single piece I’ve written. For a writer with a very modest following and an inability to fabricate anything akin to a trending topic, this was exciting indeed.

But I’ll admit — it’s now making me feel pretty stupid.

I have put a lot more writing practice under my belt since that essay on Noah Webster in the ninth grade. I’ve written countless papers, articles, and blog posts since then. As an adult, I like to think I write better than I did at fourteen.

And yet not one of my other published stories has come close to the success of that essay from the ninth grade.

My highest-performing article is a fluke.

Did I really write my best piece before I got my driver’s license? Did I peak as a writer in my first year of high school? Am I doomed to a lifetime of slow downward spiral and gradual loss of talent until I am stuck “writing” collections of Kardashian gifs for BuzzFeed?

These, and other thoughts, occupy my existential-crisis showers (not to be confused with my worrying-about-the-state-of-the-world showers, generalized-anxiety showers, and when-was-the-last-time-I-washed-my-hair showers).

Analyzing this article’s success and what I’ve learned from it has given me three takeaways.

No matter how good or bad of a writer you think you are, you are probably not nearly as humble as you should be.

I really didn’t think this was a problem for me. I’ve struggled with impostor syndrome and feelings of inadequacy since I started printing stories on construction paper back in first grade. (My mom probably still has a copy of my huge-lettered, wobbly edition of The Three Bears tucked away in a box somewhere. Hmm, maybe the impostor syndrome derives from the rampant plagiarism I enjoyed as a child. Who knows?)

But anyway, seeing those views stacking up on my stats page gave me a giddy feeling that was hard to ignore. Maybe I was a better writer than I thought I was! Maybe my skills in ninth grade were enough to land me a freelancing job! Maybe my next byline would be with The New York Times! The sky’s the limit!

Then, of course, the gravy train choo-choo’ed to a grinding halt, and I was left with the realization that I may have just had a one-hit wonder. Oops.

Formulaic repetition isn’t a guarantee of the same result.

Delighted by the success of my Noah Webster essay, I scrounged around for another that I’d written for the same competition two years later. Ironically, though I wrote this one in eleventh grade and had more writing experience and a better understanding of historical research, and though I tried to “jazz it up” a little for 2020 readers, this essay tanked online and has only reached about 25 views to date. Ouch.

(I mean, if you want to change those stats, you can check it out here. Not that that’s a hint or anything.)

Served me right, I guess. There’s no such thing as a free lunch, and there’s no such thing as a copy-paste consummation of a creative career.

Pragmatism will get you further than pride or pouting.

I’m so alliterative. And proud of it.

(Wait, that’s not taking my own advice, is it?)

In the best-case scenario, I am an undiscovered genius who wrote brilliantly from a tender age. Clearly, this did not pan out. In the worst-case scenario, I peaked early, will never see that kind of achievement again, and am doomed to a life of writing the blank-inside cards for Hallmark. This is, perhaps, a tad extreme.

But in the practical scenario, I simply had a nice little lucrative fluke. It was neither an end or a beginning — just an interesting blip on the radar. I can write pieces that do better, and I can write pieces that do worse. Ultimately, I can improve.

And that’s the goal, right? For any writer who wants to actually do a good job, looking at past successes and failures and figuring out what worked and what didn’t — and practicing, practicing, practicing — is the way forward.

After all, I’m not here just to make money or “go viral.” I’m here to become a better writer. It’s going to take hard work, but that piece in ninth grade took hard work back in the day, too.

So, here’s to hard work and lots of rewriting.

But just for the record, I wouldn’t object to a few future flukes.