Hey y'all!
Some years ago, I was on a road trip with some friends, and we eventually began talking about music. And because the car was filled with multi-generational folks, there was not a lot of overlap.
Because of the wonders of streaming and Bluetooth, we shared songs over the car's speakers that were important to us. Often, each song had a story to preface it: This was our first dance, this was the song on endless repeat after my first breakup, when I was alone and in another city up north, this song felt like home.
That last one was me, by the way. I remember being in Philadelphia in my early 20s, so far from home, feeling all alone, and listening to Good Ole Boys Like Me sung by Don Williams, over and over, on a cassette, on my Walkman.
And I love that song, and so, after listening to other folks' songs, I finally played mine, after telling that story. It was a gift, a small offering: a piece of my life, given to them. Here is a thing I love; I want to share it with you.
It's been 11 years this week since I began sharing links in this newsletter. I've told the story before, but the short version is I was in a dark place and needed to be reminded that beautiful things were out there. I know myself, and I am far more likely to keep at something if other people are watching, so I started collecting links to things I found beautiful and then sending them out each week.
This newsletter is still an essential part of my self-care regimen, and I love sharing links to things that fascinate and enchant me. I love writing short essays that delight people. I love that this newsletter impacts so many people.
But I have a problem, and I need your help.
I've written over 500 issues of this newsletter, and so some of them are great and some of them were not. But what I know is that when I have time, I can do this very well. And every minute I spend on this newsletter is time I am not doing something else that makes me more money. This is why, beginning in 2017, I've had micro-patrons who have provided the funding to keep it all going, including my time. And honestly? That system works great.
But the way things work is that the number of patrons is always about 7% of the number of free subscribers. Those are industry numbers, and are pretty consistent, no matter who the publisher is. Oh, you might get up to 8 or 9% conversion if you are a genius, or lucky, but you won't get to 50%. The only way to grow your paid subscriber amount meaningfully is to grow your free subscribers.
I am at a place in my life where I have to make some serious income decisions, and if I am going to keep publishing this newsletter, I need to increase the number of free subscribers. It's hovered around 5% either side of the same number for the last four years.
So, I am asking for your help. I know forwarding this newsletter to other people you think will like it always helps. Sharing a link on social media helps some, but social media is iffy. (It helps the most if you link to the web version of this email-see the link at the top). Word of mouth is always the best way, however you do it, and the people who sign up that way stick around.
I don't really know of other ways. If you do, I'm eager to hear them. Just hit reply, or shoot me an email at [email protected].
Thank you so much for letting me share things that matter to me with you for the last 11 years. It means the world to me.
Five Beautiful Things
This short (~13 minute) Academy Award nominated animated film Forevergreen is just lovely and beautifully done. I might have wept at the end.
By now in the year, you may have given up on some of your resolutions. Oliver Burkeman suggests we prioritize pleasure as a starting point.
This is the first televised performance of Linus and Lucy, performed by the legendary Vince Guaraldi. The moment I hear this, I'm 8 again, sitting on the floor in front of the television.
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
