One Equals One Thousand
An Artistic Manifesto
A couple of months ago, I posted a note about audience size that went semi-viral. Then, I expanded the idea into this post, which was first published by the generous folks at . I think an every-once-in-a-while refresher is important, so I’m republishing it as a full post on Attempts To Tell The Truth. Enjoy!
Last Friday, I took my wife to a small local theatre to see a comedy. Since we weren’t familiar with the place, we didn’t know what to expect, and the tickets had been uncommonly expensive. All this to say that we began the night already anxious. When we got there and saw that, of the nearly thirty seats that rose from the floor into the far darkness to the left of us, only ten or so were filled, I immediately thought, Oh, no. Have we been scammed?
The play began. The second the first actors stepped onstage, you could feel it: the magnetism, the charisma, the seeming effortlessness of a good actor. Because, dear reader, these were good actors, without a doubt. The play itself was delightful. With only four actors and one location, it managed to stir our bellies into staccatos of laughter. In truth, it was one of the best comedies I’ve ever attended. We left the play feeling satisfied, mirthful, and relaxed. But as I got home, a question started bugging me.
How did they do it? How could the actors play so well, despite seeing that there were only ten people watching? Didn’t they feel like the effort was disproportionate to the potential reward?
It didn’t take me long to understand it, though.
I was reminded of all the useful advice I received and read when I started my Substack publication, one of those being: “Write as though you’re writing for 1000 people from the very start” .
In other words, be consistent.
No matter how many people are watching us, we need to do our best. We owe them our best because they showed up. Which means they want to receive what we’re giving. The actors understood this principle perfectly. They had likely ingrained it into their very being. They were consummate artists and professionals. Numbers did not matter to them. All that did was their performance.
Which brings me back to us writers.
If there are five people in our audience, or twenty, or one hundred, or one thousand, does it really matter? Are those twenty people any less valuable than the other 980? Clearly not. Which means we should be giving them, and anyone else who shows up, no matter how many or how few, nothing less than the greatest work we can produce in that moment. We owe it to them, but most of all, we owe it to ourselves. We’re artists, for Heaven’s sake!
This piece of advice has been crucial to growing my newsletter. To be fair, I came here already boasting a certain measure of confidence in my writing, as I’d been published in a few literary magazines, and had shared my writing to several trusted people in my life.
But I started out with 10 subscribers. Still, I gave them my all. And in time, my audience grew, largely through word of mouth.
My publication, Practice Space, is being recommended by 33 others, which is where nearly 20% of my subscribers come from.
In closing, let me share a few memorable analogies of the above principle from people who replied to my note.
From Danielle Shelton Walczak: “My husband and I have had the conversation about creating for a limited audience before. He, having done flight training, always uses this analogy: ‘The pilot uses all their skill and flies the plane just as well for 2 passengers as they do for hundreds’. I’ve never forgotten this.”
From Kadence: “I used to teach fitness classes and some months I had classes packed out with people working out in doorways and hallways other months I had 2. Two. As awkward as my brain would try to make it, my soul would guide me into full-out energy for those 2 loyals. And you’re right. I moved half a country away and they still remain loyal followers even online.”
From Mike Mills: “Steve Martin did an interview where he described doing his act in a bar for only his relatives. He still worked his heart out. How many actors are loved for the films that few people saw but they still gave their all? Or singers? I bet you can name a few.”
From Jennie (Substack Unknown): “All those decades ago when I was in radio school, one of the gems that stuck was that while you may have an audience in the hundreds or thousands you are only speaking to one person in their lounge room or travelling with them in their car. And even though the technology has changed, the premise holds for any medium of creativity, doesn’t it?”
From Bill Adler: “My girlfriend is a Twitch music streamer. During the height of the pandemic, her stream was filled with people, but now, not so much. Sometimes, as few as ten watch her show. But the joy she feels is the same for ten or hundreds of viewers.”
My friends, being consistent really matters.
It’s probably the only thing about your work you can really control.
So every time you write, give us your best. Show us your most vulnerable, artistic, committed, contemplative, skilful, cerebral, funny, authentic self. Sooner or later, it will become a reflex.
I was once the only audience member at an improv comedy show. I made all the suggestions.
Right before the show began, I looked around and wondered whether they would cancel but no, they did it just for me! It was great.
Afterward, they invited me to their cast party.
I like writing so I'd do it for one reader. Heck, regardless how many subscribers I have, it's possible that only one of them closely reads the thing every week. In the end, the commitment is to the readers and to myself. But I spend all day (and night) with myself so keeping commitments is important.
We forget this so much as artists and creatives. In a world obsessed with numbers, we also fall into that trap. But, we can always bring ourselves back to the reminder that "one loyal audience member is worth a lot more than a hundred disinterested people who're just there but aren't even looking at you."
Your essay wonderfully reminds us of the same. It felt great to read this.