I’ve never been paid to write. On the contrary, I’ve spent lots of money to write. I’ve paid for conferences and paid someone to edit my memoir draft. Before I moved to Patheos, I paid for a domain name for my blog. And lets not forgot all the money I spent in grad school so that I could write paper after paper that no one other than my professor would read – one of whom told me that my writing was telegraphic.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Mom died. Stop. Come home. Stop.”
True. Stop. $2000 advice. Stop.
When I moved my site to Patheos, I thought I might finally earn my first dollar from writing. If I get fifteen thousand hits in a month on my Patheos site, they’ll send me a $50 check. That might not sound like a lot of money, but it would be my fifty dollars, and I would have earned it by writing.
The problem is that I have never come close to getting fifteen thousand hits. To do that, I would need to promote myself more.
Which stinks. Stop.
I hate posting my own stuff on Facebook. “Read me. Read me,” I ask my friends. “Hey you, the one who knew me when I had braces and Farah Fawcett hair, I’m really deep and witty now. Won’t you please agree? And tell your friends to agree as well?”
I should learn more about how to write Google-worthy titles, and how to chose the right tags, and how to Twitter in ways that get reposted. So many ways to promote my site, so little chutzpah.
Still, I want that check. Call it a bucket list item. Call it an identity crisis. Whatever it is, I’ve decided to come clean about it; I want to get paid. I’m even asking you to help: visit often for the rest of the month. If I get the check, I’ll post a picture of it here. And if you live nearby, you can come by and I’ll buy you a slice of pie.
Shameless bribery. Stop.