My dear Dan,
Allow me, for just a moment, to mount a soapbox in the middle of this digital circus. I gather you’re less than enthusiastic about my notion of putting my writing behind a modest paywall, but I have decided—quite consciously, in fact—to disobey your counsel. Yes, yes, I have no illusions about fame or the kind of slavish attention one acquires via “likes” and “follows.” Let them remain a currency for those who wish to prostrate themselves before the masses. Let them chase that ephemeral dopamine hit. I’m after something else entirely: dignity.
Perhaps you’re wondering why. I’ll regale you with the Luc Poirier story. He’s a Quebec billionaire—billionaire, mind you—and not the sort of man you’d suspect of hustling for pocket change. Yet there he was at the Montreal auto show, displaying his glittering Ferraris and selling his own book for $25 a pop. A queue of people, fistfuls of cash at the ready, waited for the privilege of handing over their bills. He didn’t need the money. He could have doled out those books for free like candy. But he didn’t. Because he recognizes that knowledge, ideas, creativity—each is worth something real.
Now, I’m no Poirier in background. I hail from the developing world, born to parents who came from the harshest of beginnings and strove to build a life of dignity. I could have stayed there like a small prince, but I chose to immigrate to North America, where I became one of the most specialized physicians—indeed, among the top tier of all foreign medical graduates. In that sense, I’m a Poirier of sorts in my own field, fiercely asserting the value of my work. Frankly, the money is inconsequential to me. If any new stream of revenue emerges from my writing, it will barely register compared to my usual income. Writing, for me, has always been more of a compulsion than a career. Even so, I refuse to brandish my work like a free sample at a warehouse store, as if each piece—on fatherhood, on healthcare, on whatever notion of the day—means so very little that it ought to be hurled into the digital void and devoured like so many cheap canapés.
More to the point, I detest the pantomime of the “like-and-follow” economy. It’s like being told there are thousands of bosses—faceless, fickle, and often far beneath one’s notice—each demanding obeisance in return for a click or a share. Think of it as a grotesque performance review in perpetuity, except your new supervisors are animated by hashtags and trending memes. I never kowtowed to a real boss in my life. Why would I stoop to doing so virtually, for people who would appraise my work with scarcely a thought?
Hence my rebellious notion: If someone fancies reading a single piece—about fatherhood, say—they can pay two dollars and have at it. Those who want everything can pay a modest subscription fee. And those who want nothing? Well, they may jog on in peace, never to be bothered by another post from me. I’d rather have ten discerning readers who pay a token sum than ten thousand who “like” me as a passing fancy.
People often underestimate the power of placing a value on one’s own craft. As with Poirier, it’s not about the money so much as refusing to let the world reduce your labor of love to a valueless commodity. It’s about self-respect. If I believed my writing unworthy, I’d fling it about for free in the vain hope of approval. But I happen to believe in my words—happen to believe they’re worth something—so I will charge precisely that.
I suspect many folks will roll their eyes at this heresy. Let them. As for you, Dan, I can only hope you’ll forgive my insubordination on this matter. But really, what is creative work if not the rebellious articulation of one’s own mind, free of pandering and forelock-tugging? In short, dear chap, I’m pressing ahead. And I hope, at the very least, this clarifies why.
Yours (somewhat defiantly),
Khashy