They Can't All Be Hits

And maybe that's a good thing.

Once upon a time in a previous life, I worked as an acquiring editor at a publishing house.

On my first day, my new boss welcomed me with a one-sentence summary of my role: “Your job is to make hits.”

The statement was simple. The sentiment was not.

How does one make hits? The answer is anyone’s guess. (If someone tells you otherwise, they’re likely peddling snake oil.)

There are no shortage of ideas, strategies, and ingredients that have worked before: A fresh new voice. A “marketable” personality. A large social media following. A strong concept, catchy idea, or clever hook. A well-designed package. But at the end of the day, it’s a bit like when supermodels cite their beauty secrets as “water and sleep” and business moguls say the path to success is paved with “hard work and perseverance.” Results may vary.

If there were a surefire formula for transcendence, everyone would follow it. But there’s also a bit of magic required. Luck, timing, some je ne sais quois. A perfect storm. By its very definition, a hit is an outlier. Something that broke the mold, shocked the system, fared better than all the rest. The stuff of Avatar and the Harry Potter franchise and The Eras Tour.

“Do you think they knew this would be a hit when they recorded it?” I ask, frequently, when a hit song comes on the radio. Because I really do wonder. And just as frequently, I wonder how many had the opposite experience, recording a soon-to-be-sensation that never took off?

We may never be gifted with a glimpse of the “worst-sellers list” or a round-up of work that narrowly missed making a splash. But we know they’re out there. And we also know that statistically, they happen a lot more often.

Whenever I sit down to write (this newsletter included), I remind myself, “they cannot all be hits.” I say this not to discourage myself, but so that I can actually type something. Because if I start off with the pressure to say something profound and hilarious and wonderful and amazing, I promise you, nothing will come out.

Pressure is the enemy of creativity. (And also inner peace.) I speak from experience when I say focusing on the end goal is a surefire way to stifle your process and ruin your life. If that sounds dramatic, well, so am I when I’m standing in my own way.

But really, how is good work meant to grow amidst that kind of pressure? It’s like screaming at your garden with the fury of an NFL coach whose team is down at the Super Bowl. Your garden needs water, not ire. Encouragement, not anger. And people are the same way.

So instead, I try to approach the day with a beginner’s mind. I remember the way it felt to write stories when I was a kid. Or when I decided to join a random fiction writing group when I was twenty-two, to distract myself from a job that I hated. Or how it felt when I typed up the first issue of this newsletter with no plan for what came next. I attempt to come at it from a place of curiosity and interest and fun — the opposite of pressure. (It doesn’t always work, but it does always help.)

The best part about being a beginner is that you’re not aware of the knowledge you’re lacking. You can’t see the possible stumbling blocks. You don’t know if you’re setting out on an impossible task. You’re not yet focused on making a hit—you’re just trying to make something. And when you’re learning and experimenting and seeing what works, a lot of good can come out of that.

Sure, you can dream of the end goal, if that’s an exercise you find motivating. But when it comes to the process, the only way anything happens is step by incremental step, gradually building on what came before it.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar is among the bestselling books of all time. Until this moment I never noticed the caterpillar is wearing six rather haphazardly placed little boots.

They cannot all be hits. That’s just basic math.

A “hit,” after all, is a very narrow definition of success—critically acclaimed and commercially successful. And sure, that sounds like a dream. But trying to reverse engineer one is like trying to make a meteor shower or a thunderstorm—really not our business.

It’s been many years since that editor job, and my former colleagues and I still muse that none of us knows the recipe for making a hit. But some of them now have multiple hits to their names, the natural outcome of time, experience, hard work, nurturing mentors, and investing in projects they believe in.

The world can feel close to bursting—the endless scroll, vying for our dollars, attention, and time. Perhaps it’s more important to feel good about the work you’re doing, the way you are contributing, whatever form that may take. (And if it amounts to accolades or sales or acclaim, it can be a welcome bonus.)

How about making work that matters? Work we care about? That speaks to someone and provides connection and perhaps brightens their day? Something helpful. Something useful. Something kind. Something true.

I may never know how to make a hit. But I’d like to make a difference.

When Emerson wrote, “To be great is to be misunderstood,” he was not focused on developing a blockbuster, nor was he trying to appeal to the masses. But he was speaking a lot of truth.

Sometimes you’ll be ahead of your time or the joke won’t land or the recipient of your email won’t give you the time of day. Sometimes you’ll be the runner up. Sometimes you won’t even be in contention.

Every successful comic has bombed.
Every quarter cannot yield a stellar review.
There will be days, months, even entire seasons that do not go our way.
And that’s okay.

How liberating to accept that a project’s success ultimately isn’t up to us—only its quality. You can pour your heart into it. You can give it your time and attention. You can leave it all on the page. But how the world (or audience or boss or family) reacts is very much not up to you.

Whenever I finish an essay or manuscript or newsletter, I do my best to let it go, releasing it to the world to whom it now belongs.

“Good luck out there!” I think, as I press send. (Sometimes I say it out loud.) I’ve done what I could; my job ends there.

I hope it finds that special blend of magic. But this, like so many things, is out of my hands.

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Attention paid subscribers: There was a glitch with this past Wednesday’s newsletter and a number of people didn’t receive it.

If the robots ate yours, a) I’m sorry, and b) you can read it here. (Or give me a shout and I’ll happily forward you a copy.) I particularly loved this one and really don’t want you to miss it. ❤️

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Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring the Prisma Visions Tarot by James R. Eads

I recently read something that said social media is like being a duck, floating around a pond gazing at all the other ducks. From your vantage point, they all look like they’re floating placidly along. Meanwhile, there you are, peddling wildly beneath the surface. Because you can’t see everyone else’s little duck feet manically struggling, you assume you’re the only one. Loneliness and frustration ensue.

That’s the energy of the Eight of Pentacles. You’re trying hard—so hard. And you might be feeling pretty burned out by it. Perhaps you’re wondering why it hasn’t amounted to more than this. Perhaps you’re wondering if you’re the only one whoo feels this way.

Well, this card would like to confirm that you are definitely not alone. Far from it. There’s a whole world full of burnt-out little ducks who feel the same way. But since this reading is for you, your task for today is to take stock of the fruits of your labor. (Even if they aren’t readily apparent, or you haven’t accomplished all your goals, or you’re in a holding pattern.)

What have you accomplished this week, this month, this year? How have you grown? What are you proud of?

The Eight of Pentacles arrives when you’ve been working (and working and working). You’ve been trying and toiling and learning and laboring and it feels like it won’t let up. But the Eight of Pentacles promises that you’ve made progress. And it encourages you to acknowledge that.

Perhaps you just set a boundary that would’ve been unthinkable at a previous time.
Perhaps your word count is higher than it was yesterday.
Perhaps you’ve built it, and hot damn, they’ve actually come.
Perhaps something annoying happened and you let it roll off you like water off a duck’s back. (Sorry, that one wrote itself.)

The point is, progress comes in many forms. And you—yes, you—have something to acknowledge.

Whenever we plant a seed, we do so with optimism and trust. We believe in the process—that the seed knows what to do, and with the proper variables, growth will follow. Why don’t we afford ourselves the same level of trust? Why don’t we allow ourselves to relax and follow the process?

Featuring the iconic Smith-Waite deck, with art by Pamela Colman Smith

All too often, we may find ourselves toiling and wondering what it’s all for. But we operate from a limited vantage point. You may not see what’s going on beneath the surface—you may not be aware of the feedback circulating, the audience forming, the progress taking root. You may not see your own talent. You may not be aware of how much you are loved. Or admired. Or respected. Or how much you are capable of. But this card wants you to know that it’s happening. It wants you to trust in your worth.

It’s human nature to keep looking ahead, to keep our sights trained on the next mile marker, the next obstacle, the next goal. Of course there’s nothing wrong with forward motion, but when our eyes are set in one direction, we can lose sight of how far we’ve come.

You are on your way. In fact, you are closer than you know. Keep going.