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Enough to make a living. Not to get rich, per se, but enough.Take that, haters.One or two viral write-ups, and I’d be well on my way to foraging my own media empire.Yes, yes, and more yes.
I waited for confirmation that the email was on its way before I shut down my computer and pushed back my wobbly desk chair. My makeshift home office had a view of busy Vine Street and the bustling neighborhood below that had become Over-the-Rhine in the last decade. Restaurants, bars, boutiques, art galleries, and fair-trade coffee shops spiraled out from here, getting denser each year as developers rehabbed and renovated once dilapidated storefronts and apartment housing. Growing up in Cincinnati, I never considered living in OTR, but when I decided to move back to the city from NYC, it was the first place I chose. This neighborhood came closest to having the melting-pot quality I loved about my former city. You could take the girl out of the Big Apple, but you could never take the Big Apple out of the girl. Not once she got a real taste of city living.
Also, from my new condo, I only had a short drive to Spring Grove Cemetery. It was the final resting place for my parents after a horrific car accident took their lives during my senior year of college at Ohio University. I could see them any time I wanted, and it only took ten minutes to get there.
I glanced at the clock on the wall adjacent to the windowed one where I’d set up my workstation. Just after four on a Friday. Not bad—I was done with edits, and the weekend was about to start. Over the next few minutes, subscribers across the country would open my latest, a five-thousand-word wrap-up of a conversation with Tanner Vance, Hollywood’s biggest movie star. He was in the middle of a press junket for his latest action film, a thriller set in Positano, but my profile focused more on his life with his wife, Brie, and his lifestyle away from the big screen. Paid accounts would get a separate podcast rundown with my detailed analysis of his latest work. And maybe a few of them would share the newsletter, leading to a handful of new readers.
It was all a writer could really ask for these days.
I stood from the chair and crossed into the small living room that united my home office with the rest of the unit. It wasn’t large, but it had floor-to-ceiling windows and a small balcony. The space opened to the galley kitchen, and my bedroom was on the other side. I took my jean jacket from the closet, pulled my brown crossbody purse from the hook on the door, and looked at myself in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. Brown hair tumbled down my shoulders in thick waves, green eyes, and a heart-shaped face. My reflection was makeup free and I looked tired, but I didn’t care. I took my phone from its wireless charger and slid it into my bag. After a few days toiling on the profile, it was time to get some fresh air.
And by fresh air, I meant getting a drink at Freeport Coffee and Wine Bar, the outfit that operated in the street-level space below my condo.
The spot opened a few months before I bought the place, and my realtor used it as a huge selling point, saying it was a neighborhood amenity I’d use all the time. She was right; I loved it, stopping in for a morning coffee or a late-night glass of wine more often than I wanted to admit. When I arrived that afternoon, I took a place at the far end of the knobby sculpted wood bar.
“Let me guess,” Olivia Shreve said from behind the bar when I slid onto my usual stool, a weather-beaten one I suspected was prematurely aged to give the place a more established look. “Since it’s Friday afternoon, you’re looking for a glass of the usual.”
“You know it.” I hung my brown leather bag on a hook underneath the bar. “Merlot. Large pour.”
“We just got one in from a small vineyard in France I think you’ll love.” She wiped her hands on her denim apron. “I take it the latest newsletter went out?”
“Yep, it’s in your inbox and I think you’ll love it. Tanner Vance was very candid.”
“Can’t wait to read it.” Olivia had been one of my earliest subscribers, signing up a day or so after I finished moving into the building. She let out a satisfied, dreamy sigh, a serene expression crossing her face, the one I often saw when people talked about Tanner Vance. I couldn’t blame them, he regularly ranked atop lists of Hollywood’s sexiest and most powerful men. “I hope you included some good photos of him too.”
“Only the best for my readers.” I grinned. “You’ll have to let me know what you think.”
“I absolutely will.”
Olivia moved away to get my drink, and I took my phone from my purse. With a few clicks, I checked on the newsletter delivery stats, making sure the email was moving into global inboxes. So far, so good—a fair number had opened the piece, and one or two comments registered on the main site that held the archive of all my work. I shared the post on a few social media sites before locking the phone again when Olivia returned.
“Nicely done.” I placed my device face down on the bar and smiled at my friend. Olivia had poured what looked like half the bottle into the wine glass. “I can always count on you to take care of me.”
“Well, I figured you aren’t driving anyway. So, cheers.”
“Cheers to walking home.” I took the glass by the stem and raised it to her, even though her hands were empty. “And cheers to another edition ofAmerican Profile.”
Olivia clapped her hands in agreement, but once I sipped the first taste, she screwed her mouth to one side, an expression she often wore when she was about to share a big idea that might not necessarily work. I braced myself for what I suspected was coming. “Hey, I was thinking about something.”
“What?”
“You have a decent readership, don’t you?”
“More than most national magazines and newspapers.” I shrugged. My reply wasn’t a humble brag, I didn’t know how to truly gauge my readership. A newsletter and a newspaper weren’t equal, no matter what I told myself. That truth was a reality that bothered me, even as I saw my readership improve. Would I ever measure up to my own standards? “The newsletter has a great open rate. Almost eighty percent.”
“But you could still get more readers.”
“Couldn’t everyone?” I cocked my head. “Why do you ask?”
“Well...okay, hear me out.” She braced her arms on the bar. “Have you ever thought about doing a profile on Landon Sparks?”
I recoiled at the name, shocked, her question coming basically out of nowhere. Of all the places I might have expected the conversation to go, this wasn’t one of them. A profile on European royalty, sure, or maybe a discussion on a literary luminary, but... “Landon Sparks?”
“Yep. Landon Sparks. The billionaire. You know who I’m talking about, right?”
“Yeah,” I replied. Was there anyone on Earth who didn’t know who Landon Sparks was? His fame was about as vast as his fortune. “But...why him?”
“Why not?”
