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You heard me.

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No one reads what I write here—well, except you. Thank you. But hardly anyone else. So why should I bother even using real words?

It’s not like I’m after millions of readers, or even thousands. Just a core group of, say, 50? Is that too much to ask for?

What? It needs to be better, you say? . . . I know! Got any ideas?

Maybe I should try some clickbait.

“9 Reasons Why Your Shampoo Is Making You Stupid”

“Man Bites Dog. Dog Too Busy on His Phone to Notice.”

“Hollywood Celebs Like You’ve Never Seen Them Before! They’re in Ohio!”

Nope, that makes my stomach hurt.

I struggle to come up with topics on here, because my day-to-day feels so drab. I wish I had a well of blog topics to draw from, and all I would have to do is put on my sandals, traipse out to the edge of the yard, lower the bucket, and pull up the day’s glassful. “That Time in Paris” Oooh that’s a good one. Thanks, well!

[Turns out there is no story about Paris. The well gods seem to have mistaken me for someone else. I did have a funny encounter in Nova Scotia once, at a fish fry? Does that—? Oh. No. The well says that doesn’t count.]

Writers complaining about writing are like the rich carrying on about their spare Tesla. Shut up! the poor readers reply. No one wants to hear about that.

I want writing these posts to feel like revealing a clementine. A few deft moves and there she is, a natural plump beauty, in all her golden juicy glory. And no seeds.

Instead, today is like peeling a mango. I’m working hard, and I can see something beneath the surface, but it’s all coming apart in my hands. What’s left is one giant inedible wet pit.

As the great George Saunders once wrote: A cardinal zinged across the day. Look at that sentence. What a peach.