This missive may be one of those interesting to read but not interesting to write. Crammed with content (emphasis on the first syllable), it prompts authorial discontent, because words resent being treated like workhorses, harnessed to practical purpose, forced to drag sense into light. My words are thoroughbreds, dammit – so they imagine – whose very cantering in the meadow induces delight! So does the sorry frump envision herself belle of the ball.

Today’s topic is changes in the presentation of these missives, the reasons thereof, a glimpse into the mainspring, rotating weight, and gears behind the watch face – in other words, a report to my bosses, what I’m up to and why. I write for you – as a cook cooks – these six-hundred-word daily biscuits – and no ingredient or arrangement is happenstance. Deliberation need not equal delectation, alas, as any chef knows – the harder you try, the likelier you’ll flop – but doesn’t the attempt itself denote endearment? So what that this billet doux is clumsily constructed and crayoned, isn’t it “the thought that counts”?

I’ve been dispatching these quotidian morsels for more than a decade, not a day off, which must set some sort of record – for dogged persistence, at any rate – not unlike that of Joseph Jefferson (1829-1905), the famed American actor who played Rip van Winkle for over forty years. I write to you as I cook for Jane, to show I care, however lame my cuisine. You reward me – munificently! – with your regard – I can hear you “clicking through,” bless you. Our subversive sodality more than amply sates my psychic needs.

But the thought occurs – age seventy-three – what will my beloved kids to do with my remains? Six million published or perpetrated words, give or take, is a mountain to shred, and shredding parents is no fun, merited or not. Words too – my other children – plead to persist, merited or not. Don’t we owe our descendants a tidy exit no less than a kindly presence?

The more readers I attract, the greater my odds of outfoxing death. So far my readership has grown by personal encounters and word of mouth; now I’m testing whether organic growth can be ignited by strategies. In other words, I’m selling myself to souls I’ve never met, attempting to transform intimacy into an industry. Yuk, say I.

My partner in this hare-brained endeavor is a capable, amiable, charming individual whom I will one day meet in person. She guides my words toward the attention of strangers who might enjoy them, navigating the labyrinthine Web using tactics that have aided others. She pairs my writing with pictures—tasteful and humorous, I must say—and affixes headlines that are (take a deep breath, Carll) "SEO-friendly." SEO stands for Search Engine Optimization. The idea is to snag the flighty attention of Web-goers with clever tricks, like peddlers' reachy fingers in a souk.

Will this work? Too soon to say but early signs are promising, mirabile dictu. If this really starts to work, I’ll invite you to help me subsidize this exploit, for marketing takes time and talent, which must be paid for. Might my present hundreds of readers proliferate into a million, securing me a share of our nation’s literate attention? Stranger things have happened. We elected as President, for example, a depraved orange orangutan by means of malevolent and misleading marketing. How about, as antidote, a nutritious or at least emetic six-hundred-word daily dose? Worth a try?