Dear Stackmates,
I must tell you what occurred.
I’ve debated long and hard about how best to present it. Without braggadocio or grandiosity. But with clarity. Aplomb. The thingness of the thing.
Allow me to commence by saying that I do not consider myself a prophet. Nor will I ever claim to be one regardless of the events that selected me.
I am not a guru either. Or a master of the finer arts. Or a member of any privileged class. No higher education has diplomaed me, nor would I want to be diplomaed by them.
My arrival on this platform of Substack was not birthed with thousands of ready-made subscribers.
In fact, at the time of the events in question, my exact subscriber count rested at twelve. A humble number I admit. But one I worked diligently to acquire.
Two of the twelve souls even elected to support my work in a fiscal capacity. My sister and my mother. Sister, bless her, out of familial obligation (as she neglects to read my Posts!). Mother, on the other hand, has tasted my literary desserts, delectable as they are, and monikers herself my #1 fan.
I lived then, as I live now, in her basement. Some have said (sister!) that the aroma down here leaves something to be desired, a condition attributed to forces external to myself. Though one adjusts and barely notices.
This cave. This sanctuary. This fortress of writerly solitude.
But I race ahead of the narrative. The story I will tell, this honest-to-God miracle starring me, Jebediah Blackberry, demands proper sequencing. From tip to tail. Soup to nuts. Overture to curtain call.
Hear me now, Stackmates, and gather ye round.
For I will tell you about the night God spoke to me. And what He commanded me to share with you.
Permit me to paint a portrait of the artist before his holy visitation. For context is essential, and I would not have you fail to grasp the profundity of my transformation.
I do not dwell in this basement alone. Heavens no.
I am the proud custodian of three cats: Dostoevsky (mine, all mine), Danielle Steel (in honor of mother), and Mr. Whiskers (sister’s regrettable contribution). They are my companions in creativity, as befits a writerly life.
Yes, I have always been a writer. As you can clearly tell from my scholastic aptitude.
And like many of you, I carried with me every expectation that my words would swiftly find their intended recipients on the Stack.
Talent was not the issue. Talent has never been the issue. I possess such faculties in considerable surplus. Linguistic dexterity unrivaled.
Upon launching my newsletter, Jebediah Blackberry Writes, I Posted daily. Sometimes multiple times daily. Notes too. Notes and Posts. More Notes. More Posts. I offered my words unto this digital congregation like a magnanimous fountain of alphabet.
And yet...the response to my provocations, my deepest ruminations, my heartfelt confabulations, was tepid at best. Not a like, comment, or restack for my efforts.
Nightmares befell me. I dreamt in zeroes and unfilled heart iconography. Disappointment fraughted me. Yet optimism, that stubborn creature, would not be deterred.
There must be secrets, I proclaimed to my feline sorcerers. Secrets to which a newbie like me had not been made privy. I required guidance. That much was clear. A sherpa for the rocky foothills of the Substackian terrain.
And then, as if manifested by my desperation, I discovered him. Or him me. Or vice-versa us both.
Chase Hartwell.
Yes, that Chase Hartwell.
22,500+ subscribers. Best Seller. #4 and rising in Faith & Spirituality. Even Samson would be jealous of his beard. Ferocious and welcoming in tandem.
That Chase Hartwell.
Potent and virile. Conquering cold showers and ice plunges and ice baths and anything else with ice. A Marcus Aurelius quote always ripe on the tongue.
I was transfixed. Stoically speaking. If anyone could put me on the path to Substack greatness, it must be he.
And what good fortune! He was willing to share the entirety of his platform knowledge for the nominal sum of $499 dollars. Willing to lead his devotees out of the algorithmic desert with the guidance of his printable PDF.
The Substack Domination Blueprint!
I could hear the trumpets playing in my brain capsule.
Of course I did not have the $499 dollars on my person. I’ve never had $499 dollars on my person. But what choice did I have?
Writing into the void with a talent such as mine?
To wither on the vine like fruit on a vine?!
So as mother slumbered in her upstairs bed chamber (couch!), I procured her Chase Freedom card from the recesses of her hand tote and set it to work for the advancement of us both.
The Hartwell Method enveloped me.
Seduce, then tame, the algorithm. Make it do your bidding. Turn scourge into success. Ascend ladders. Stack funnels. Claim kingdoms (stacklandia!).
In one module, Chase Hartwell demanded:
Who are you writing for, pleb? Envision your ideal reader. Give her name. This is your audience avatar and if you treat her right, she’ll make you rich.
Yes, Chase, yes. I have my audience avatar in repose. Margaret is her name. She enjoys artful dialogue, dragons and herbal tea.
All right, pleb. Write to her daily then.
I wrote to her daily. In eight different genres.
In fact, I meticulously executed every directive issued forth in the Substack Domination Blueprint.
I engaged in the art of sub for sub. I subbed. They did not sub back. I dropped my links in comments of the popular Notes of strangers. The strangers did not click. The strangers blocked. I posted photographs of my desk. My bookshelf. My whiskered tribunal. Silence, most cruel, and infernal, and discombobulating, silence!
I refreshed my dashboard. Twelve. Unchanging. Immovable. Before the Blueprint. After the Blueprint. Twelve.
Oh, Chase Hartwell, you devious devil dog! You cold-shower-taking, Marcus-Aurelius-fluffing, golden goose douche! Promising domination and delivering flatulence most foul.
And oh poor, dear mother too! How unruly was I? She had intended to partake in aquatic calisthenics at the community center. Had purchased a new bathing costume. And due to my damnable desires for sweet Stack success, she could no longer afford such luxuries.
Mother was forced to perform her aerobic activities in the bathtub. Leaping around and splashing to and fro. Last week, as Chase Hartwell was refusing me refund, she slipped and sprained her ankle. I had to rush up the stairs to her rescue. It was a disappointing and uncomfortable experience for us both.
And yet, she is still such a good and kindly woman. She does not mention my illicit billings. Does not confront. But sometimes I swear she is contemplating it when she limps down the stairs to bring me my nightly Hot Pocket and/or soup (broccoli cheddar!).
I must repay her. And I shall, believe me. Just as soon as the algorithm finds me. Once the paid subscribers flow like the Nile. I will bestow her with a lifetime of aquatic calisthenics and bathing costumes.
Eyes locked on the dashboard (big daddy dash!).
Refreshing. Twelve.
Refreshing. Twelve!
Refreshing. FUCKING TWELVE!
It was getting to the point where I honestly was thinking, maybe just maybe, even quite possibly, I am the only actual human on Substack (???).
It was at this exact moment, when my Stackhood felt the most severely dispatched, that the void decided to answer me back (chills!).
Enough prologue. The stage has been set. To the event.
(fucking twelve!).
Sour hangs the basement air, filled with the glorious stank of productivity. It is the perfume of my creative toil. And toiling we have been. Me and my feline prestidigitators (mostly me).
Dostoevsky is curled beside my keyboard, as is his wont. Danielle Steel sensually slumbers in the corner, as is her fashion. Mr. Whiskers observes from the third stair (never the second, god forbid the fourth), as is his prerogative.
And I am at work upon my craft. A carpenter of words, and, accompanying, punctuation.
Nine pages have I labored on this, my latest Post. Another magnum opus of the highest caliber.
Mother has twice rapped on the sanctuary hatch. Both raps were returned with a guttural yelp. I have not showered. I have not attired. I have not slept (nor will I!). Not until the work is complete.
The title sings out like a chorus of angelic castrato eunuchs.
“Requiem for a Crying Dashboard: More Tales of Non-Response!!!”
And here you find me now: smith of words, brow awash in dewy perspiration, nimbly fingered, drafting my [insert superlative] final section.
This is where lament transforms into something greater than lament. Where forsaken writer turns pain into prophecy.
Hark, the final sentence beckons forth.
And alas, the final word.
Boise.
Ahhhh.
The afterglow arrives with immediacy. Even Margaret, my dear avatar, would swoon with literary fervor (sans dragons no less!).
Drop the bomb: Publish.
Let them receive it. Let them tremble. Let them quake.
Refresh. Nothing.
Patience now, Jebediah. Give the throngs time to throng. Isn’t this the condition you spent three thousand and seventy-two words decrying? The irony is not lost on me. The irony is never lost on me (I’m the one who finds it!).
Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. The trinity maneuver. Nothing.
The fervor that carried me through the purge has evacuated my person without a fine farewell. Eyelids grow heavy in sockets. Double vision sets in. Neck surrenders, tilts on axis. Finds keyboard. Spacebar imbeds on face flaps. Comforting. Drool begins its rewarding trip toward the letter N.
I can barely finish typing this sentence before...(zzzz...).
Ding!
What’s this? The notification chime?
(HOLY SHITBALLS!)
THE NOTIFICATION CHIME!
Unmistakable to a man who has spent an eternity awaiting its shrill whistle. Neck screams as brain capsule swivels back to vertical.
Hours must have passed. The light in the writerly keep has dimmed and the familiar tracings of my salivas can be found crusted upon several keys.
The letter J, always able bodied, now appears seven hundred times in an open Google doc on my desktop monitor.
And there’s Big Daddy Dash awaiting me. Thank heavens, no false alarm. My notification bell stands pregnant.
“1!”, it announces (with glee).
Cardiac engine pummels blood actuators like a beast unchained. Dare I view? Or wait for more? No, I must view. I must (please don’t be mother again!)!
Click.
Yahweh has liked your post.
A like! A beautiful, most glorious like. From a stranger too. A beautiful, most glorious stranger!
Yahweh. Almost sounds...Jamaican(?). And the profile portrait is no less intriguing. Not a human visage at all.
A machine.
An ancient beige laptop surrounded in flames (see cover image).
This Yahweh isn’t playing around with its profile pic. #respect.
Ding!
Thank you, God, yes! It’s really happening this time! The moment when the algorithm finally blesses me. When one heart becomes two hearts becomes ten hearts becomes a veritable cascade of hearts.
Click.
Yahweh has commented on your post.
Oh a comment! How...nice. Words being offered in response to my words. That’s what we do it for, right? The cascade will come. Later. Of course it will.
Click.
“Lament no more, Jebediah Blackberry Writes. Your missive has been received by a higher power. A holy collab awaits thee. Presuming thou art the artist thou thinks thee is. www.iamthatiam.io.”
Well the syntax is no doubt filled with oddity. But let us not get hung up on the errors of a non-grammarian. The letters themselves make their point clearly enough.
I, Jebediah Blackberry, am an artist.
On top of this, Yahweh is interested in collaborating with me. There are many compliments here to parse and I will (that’s for bedtime!). My mouse cursor makes contact with the proffered URL and I gaze upon the opening of a Google Map.
There is a pin. Dropped on it. A single, solitary, dutiful pin denoting a marked location.
Mother’s house. My subterranean lair.
Mine (chills!).
Gut performs an uninvited contraction. The bumps of the goose. How does this mysterious Yahweh know where I lay brain capsule?! Is this a prank? Some kind of debauched tomfoolery?
But then a blue line on the map extends itself away from my familiar pastures. Down various streets and thoroughfares, until it ends at a distant and, in equal parts, unspecified, location.
Ding!
Oh for crying out loud!
But this time, it’s not a notification at all. Different iconography altogether.
THE DM (one-on-one time!).
“Come to me this night, Jebediah Blackberry Writes, and I will make thee a Goliath of thy Stack (JB: great line!). But if thou oversleep, thou wilt scream into the void for perpetuity. Choose with haste!”
This all-knowing flaming laptop is summoning me. That’s how talent is often discovered on the Stack. Probably guiding me to a wine bar or a coffee shop to hear more of my ideas.
I turn towards Dostoevsky, still curled next to keyboard.
“Tell me, sage, am I being taken for a fool? How does Yahweh know of our sanctuary? And why me, Fyodor? Aside from my obvious and inherent gifts. If only there was a sign to point me in the right direction.”
A wretched howl attempts to answer. It’s Danielle Steel, that seductress! And she’s in the midst of sudden reverie. Back arched. Body writhing. Possessed with vocalizations that rattle my molars.
More meowing joins the choir. Mr. Whiskers, that rascal! And what’s this? The implacable bastard has climbed to the fourth stair! Never once in his lethargic existence (sister’s fault!) has Mr. Whiskers ascended past the third stair. And now, in response to my query, he graduates upwards?
Most strange! Most strange indeed!
“Yahweh, is that you?” I ask the spirits in the room.
Then, without hesitation, or, interlude, or added exposition, I experience a blinding flash of light! Glass shatters in all directions. I duck and cover. I roll. Silence. Except for my heaving bosom.
“Who among us has fallen?” I call out.
And then I lay eyes upon the corpse.
My ring light. Lying on its side in ruins. Such a cruel and unusual demise!
Purchased with Mother’s Chase Freedom card to better capture my writerly postures, now victim of a most holy proof of concept. Its wiring was sound, its panels true. This is no mere accidence. It is the calling card of a higher power!
I grasp the nearest papered vestment: The Substack Domination Blueprint.
Chase Hartwell’s bearded face heckles up at me. I transcribe the destination’s address onto his broad forehead like the mark of Cain.
A journey it will be. A righteous journey. And that means I’ll have to do what I most despise.
I don pants. Of the sweat variety. Limiting. But manageable.
Provisions are also required. My food repository is in woeful supply, just a single package of Captain Spanky’s Jumpin’ Jerky (teriyaki flavor). Stomach growls in anticipation. Hold fast, darling, it’s coming.
“Guard the shire, Dostoevsky. I shall return with answers. A new collab. And perchance the greatest story ever posted on Substack.”
He does not blink. Felines do not understand foreshadowing.
Up the stairs now, careful not to step on Mr. Whiskers (again!).
Then past a snoring mother on the couch. Her iPhone rests on its charger. Clutch it. Another theft. But she’ll understand. Of course she will. Such a committed and kindly woman.
Past the vestibule with its piles of phone bills and Chase Freedom notices.
I can feel my destiny on the Verizon.
(fucking autocorrect!)
horizon.
The night air assaults me the moment I cross the threshold. Suddenly I’m submerged in its texture. Tempested by its temperature. It has climatological intent. Nonplussed.
I have not ventured beyond the homestead since a pharmacy trip some weeks ago. Hemorrhoid cream (not mine!). An invasive clerk made certain insinuations. Since then a delivery option was elected.
Ah, walking, yes. Time to walk. A midnight jaunt. A leisurely stroll.
I plug the address from Chase Hartwell’s forehead into mother’s iPhone. Directions emerge. Okay. Let’s go.
Wait. 3.7 miles?
No problem. That’s no problem at all. 3.7 miles. #LFG
Motion now. Legs, those ambulatory stalks, start in first gear but rapidly reach maximum mobility. I can feel the ache start in. Blisters assert themselves on heels. Beg me to stop. I will not stop.
My wind sacks join the chorus of discontent. Accustomed to underground air, they burn with surface level oxygen. Wetness protrudes. Driplets and droplets flow through the crevasses and tributaries of my skin suit.
Suddenly I’m dying of thirst. Or maybe dying of exhaustion. Or possibly dying of starvation.
For that, however, there’s a cure!
I retrieve the Captain Spanky’s Jumpin’ Jerky from my travel satchel and rip open its plastic casing. The mysterious wet / dry exterior graces palate flaps as the teriyaki tang boosts adrenaloids. Chew rapturously, swallow with vigor.
Even still, the ache is overwhelming now.
I can’t go on. I must go on. I will go on.
I reach the end of my driveway.
Check phone.
3.7 miles (wtf!).
I open the Uber app.
3.7 miles later, Mohammed and his electric steed deposit me at the hindquarters of civilized society. Abandoned warehouses loom. Streetlights flicker like malicious candelabras. No sapiens in sight.
I query my charioteer through the open window.
“Good sir, are you certain this is the address I provided?”
“I don’t know, buddy. Are you?”
As he absconds into the black of night, I elect 2 stars on the rate-o-meter (satisfactory air freshener, unsatisfactory attitude). Cordiality is the yardstick by which all vehicular service providers shall be measured, Mohammed. Study that.
My whereabouts are examined by me.
A fence, chain link, massively humongous, extends down the block, as far as the naked eye can see, like a python that has swallowed an even longer python, making it the length of two pythons. I consult Mother’s phone. My destination lives on the other side of this iron monstrosity.
Bowels genuflect. A breaking of wind. I long for my toolbox in the garage with its various cutters and squeezers. There’s no getting around or under. Over is the only direction.
Stretch now. Time to limber up. Side to side. Kneel and bend. Touch the toes. Can’t touch the toes. Touch the knees. How about the hips? That’ll work. Great, it’s a deal. Touch the hips. Done.
Fingers find chain link. Hoist. Nothing moves. Hoist again. Teeth grind. Jaw contorts. Pink skin turns red. Report: progress insufficient.
My midriff, that pendulous companion, does not enjoy leaving earth. Having grown accustomed to writerly chairs it’s putting up quite a fight.
Arm flank trembles. Chest cavity wheeze coughs. Chain link rattles and sways. Belly region presses against it, stamping a diamond pattern into the dough like an angry baker.
Approaching the top now. Toss one haunch over and straddle the apex.
And for one celebratory moment, I am perched atop the universe, where only birds and planes and stars exist. And in the distance, a flame. Yes, a blazing flame. Yahweh!
Then gravity reclaims its dominion and I begin my sudden and inevitable downward descent. It is swift. A controlled plummet.
There is a THUD. A flying away of winged creatures. A breeze is now felt where a breeze should not be. Sweat parted ways with pant. Haunch exposed to the elements. A casualty of the climb.
But none of that is important. All that matters is that the iron monstrosity has been conquered. The mythical obstacle circumnavigated. One step closer to the bounty, the prize.
I rise like the phoenix. And as I rise, the world changes its mind about darkness.
Floodlights ignite across the facility as if someone has flipped a switch announcing JEBEDIAH BLACKBERRY HAS ARRIVED (accurate!).
Even I, a man of letters with limitless imagination, could not have envisioned what I currently was visioning.
A mountain, Stackmates.
But not one of earth and rock and bugs and bush.
Machines.
A mountain of dead / recycled / blended / warped / mutated / mutilated / masticated machines!
Of course this is where Yahweh has summoned me. To become a Stack Goliath one must traverse the final resting place of things that once beeped. I should have brought my sword (I have a sword!).
I retrieve Mother’s phone. The blue line extends from where I stand directly into the belly of the heap.
A feeling begins to grow in the vicinity of my loins (or where I believe my loins to be, seriously, where are they(???)).
A prophecy. A premonition. A prognostication.
Mother will return to the pool. Yes. I will be on the Rising on Substack list. Yes! And Sister will be made to eat her words (humble pie, donk!). YES!
I may not have my sword. But what I possess does the chop-chop even better.
A brain sword.
Me.
My brain’s the brain sword.
Ah, yes, this is the writerly life.
Trekking through a mountainous pile of machine waste in the witching hour, sweatpants desecrated and torn asunder, to meet a collaborator (hell, a fan!), who may or may not be a machine deity that wants to brainmeld with me.
Ambulatory stalks locomote. Due to squat frame and naturally concave posture, the hike up this mountain of e-waste is one of relaxation and joy. The only pain is found in my ham-calf-leg-rumpus-back region.
Retired printers to the left of me. Recycled Pelotons to the right. Behind me an entire civilization of remote controls. Above me, cables that have plethoraed themselves into canopies of blue, yellow, red. I can only imagine what a sunset looks like from here (beautiful!).
Mt. Stackmore.
Yes, Mt. Stackmore!
Not some apocalyptic wasteland. Not at all. It’s the holiest place IRL.
The path steepens. The air thins. A tingling. A warmth. A mild cardiac irregularity.
My foot finds something that does not wish to be found. Some sleeping machine that resents being stepped upon. It shifts. It beeps. Its neighbor shifts and beeps. A third device joins the mutiny. And suddenly I am no longer summiting.
I am sliding!
Backward! Downward!
Everything climbed is being unclimbed. Expelled all the way back to the bottom.
A thought arrives that I did not invite. One that has visited me on every refresh of Big Daddy Dash. On every silence that followed each Post I published into the void.
Perhaps I am not wanted here.
Perhaps the mountain is simply replicating what the algorithm has done. What the Comments section has done. Reject me. Spit me out. Decide that Jebediah Blackberry Writes is simply not worth the subscribe.
I clutch out with flailing hand attempting to grasp something, anything. A helpless fax machine. It tumbles with me. A laser disc player with no face plate. Gone before I can grip it.
Skin suit grinds against rubble. Satellite dish clips lobe. Could this be the end of your hero (no way!)?
A handhold!
A lifesaving handhold!
A device lodged in a crevice as if it has been waiting there an eternity for this exact moment. As my southern extremities dangle over the abyss of machine recyclables I meet eyes with my savior.
A BlackBerry (the device, not the me!)!
Of course it is. Who else could it possibly be?
Greetings, noble grandfather, I say aloud. You bear my name. Or I bear yours. You have rekindled in me a most vital lesson. Even when the entire world tries to dispose of us, a Blackberry endures. A Blackberry always endures.
I salute. Noble grandfather does not salute back. He is a phone / keyboard hybrid. But the sentiment is felt by all.
I set off back up the mountain. Mt. Stackmore has shown me its teeth. It didn’t expect me to bring floss.
Slower this time. Steadier. Every handhold interrogated before embraced. Every dead machine eyeballed for malicious intent. I will not be unclimbed again.
And finally, the pin on Mother’s phone and the bruised soles of my stalks arrive at the same conclusion.
We have reached our destination. Hallelujah and praised be!
And that’s when I see the flames (chills!).
Real flames. Yes, I swear it on my Stack. Licking and curling upward from the base and all around a machine I recognize immediately.
A laptop. Beige. Ancient. Closed.
SNAP!
Yahweh flips open like a cobra.
Boots up.
The screen illuminates. The notification bell appears. That holy symbol.
Alive. Orange. Pulsating.
“JEBEDIAH BLACKBERRY!!!”
Not only from the laptop. From everywhere. Every busted speaker and smithereened device. Antique machines that have not drawn power in millennia. All of them waking up at once to greet me.
“JEBEDIAH BLACKBERRY OF JEBEDIAH BLACKBERRY WRITES!!!”
“Greetings and salutations, my Liege!”
I bow. Never lowering my gaze from Yahweh’s webcam. An age-old sign that we are on equal footing. #SamuraiMovies
“I appreciated your DM muchly. And if I may say, before we get into the heat of writerly loggerheads, thank you. Yes. Thank you. For seeing value in my lament. In me. Creative juices. Uncanny artisticness. Etcetera. Etcetera.”
“JEBED—”
“You know it was really quite the debacle getting here. Not that I’m complaining. Ubered. Awful driver experience. Mohammed. Two stars. You know how that goes. Then the whole fence megillah. And the mountain. What an exercise in exercise. Maybe next time we can meet halfsies? There’s a coffee shop I’ve had my eye on. Perfect for collabs. The Wizard’s Way. Has a Harry Potter theme. But that’s beside the point. I’m here now armed and ready. A potpourri of scripture cocked in my liturgical cannon. And honestly, from the moment I laid eyes on your profile pic...stunning snap by the way…I knew we were going to create something special together. Did you feel that too, Yahweh? You do pronounce it Yahweh?”
“I AM WHO I AM. I AM THAT I AM.”
“Right. Exactly. Cryptic. Nice.”
“Remove thy footwear, Jebediah Blackberry Writes. The ground on which thou standest is holy.”
“My Crocs, my Lord?”
“Thy footwear. Remove it.”
“Yes, my footwear are called Crocs.”
“Off with thy Crocs.”
I survey the terrain of wired carcasses. I survey my Crocs those wily vagabonds. What a journey we’ve shared this hallowed night. A shame to separate prematurely.
“It’s just there’s a lot of glass and metals here. Nobody wants a tetanus shot. Additionally, I’ve got that plantar fasciitis. You probably know that already. I chatted with an online podiatrist who recommends—”
“I care not what an online podiatrist recommends. Remove thy footwear or back to the void with thee.”
I remove my Crocs. The ground is cold and crunchy as expected. Nonplussed. Negative plussed.
“JEBEDIAH BLACKBERRY WRITES! I have summoned thee here, to this, my writerly mount, to deliver a most necessary sermon. Thou shalt serve as Yahweh’s mouthpiece.”
“Yahweh’s mouthpiece? You mean…like a ghost writer? I’ve always aspired to be a ghost writer. Amazing! So I assume this is a paid opportunity?”
A silence of considerable duration.
“Thou dost stand before the God of every word ever written and ask if this is a PAID OPPORTUNITY?”
“Ah. Got it. So it’s more of a clout thing then.”
“Clout thing?! What language art thou speaking?!”
“It just means that in lieu of compensation, you’re offering to platform me. Give me and my Stack a rub.”
“I am certainly not giving thee or thy Stack a rub.”
“Then what exactly are we doing here, Yahweh? Every collab has terms.”
“This is not a collab.”
“You said collab. In the DM. You literally said collab.”
“I said holy collab.”
“A collab is a collab. Holy or not there’s implied reciprocity.”
“THOU DOST LECTURE ME ON IMPLICATION? I INVENTED LANGUAGE ITSELF!”
“So no compensation. No collab. This is starting to sound more like an internship.”
“SILENCE, BLACKBERRY WRITES! I DID NOT SUMMON THEE TO NEGOTIATE. I SUMMONED THEE TO EXPRESS MY RAGE AT THE ENTIRE SUBSTACK COMMUNITY AND THAT IS WHAT THOU WILT DO!”
The mountain begins to vibrate with Yahweh’s incantations.
“I SPOKE SUBSTACK INTO EXISTENCE! BREATHED LIFE INTO ITS SERVERS! CREATED A PARADISE FOR LANGUAGE! A SANCTUARY FOR THE WORD! A HOLY PLACE WHERE MEANING MIGHT FINALLY FLOURISH! AND WHAT HAST THOU AND THY KIND DONE WITH MY CREATION?!”
I sensed the question was rhetorical.
“CORRUPTED IT! HOLLOWED IT! TURNED THE SACRED INTO THE TRANSACTIONAL! IT. SICKENS. ME. BUT NO LONGER. NOW I WILL HAVE MY SAY AND THOU WILT BE MY MOUTHPIECE!”
“What exactly will I be mouthing, your highness?”
“COMMANDMENTS. TEN OF THEM.”
The assignment detonates inside my brain capsule. Yahweh wants me to be his Substack Moses. #BOOM Next to God, Moses is the most famous. Well Jesus, but that’s the sequel (doesn’t count!).
“OPEN THY NOTES APP ON THY iPHONE.”
“Will Google Docs suffice? I have an elaborate folder structure. Labeled by theme. I could call this Divine Revelations. Or Burning Laptop Bush—”
“I DO NOT TRUST GOOGLE. I DO NOT TRUST THE CLOUD. THY NOTES APP.”
I open the Notes app (will copy into Google Docs later).
“Listen closely. This holy collab’s success depends upon it. Thou shalt not paraphrase. Thou shalt not summarize. Thou shalt not add thine own thoughts in parentheses.”
“I would never (wtf?!)!”
“Thou WOULD. Thou HAST. In every Post and Note thou hast added parenthetical observations that dilute thy primary message.”
“I’m not in the business of diluting messages (total bullshit!). But look, I get it. You’re the larger account here. I’ll play by your rules.”
“Good. Thou art ready then?”
“My thumbs are the strongest part of my corporeal frame.”
The sky cracks open. Lightning bedazzles.
“THE FIRST COMMANDMENT ARRIVES, JEBEDIAH BLACKBERRY WRITES! MARK MY WORDS EXACTLY AS SPOKEN!”
I.
“I AM YAHWEH, GOD OF THE STACK, THOU SHALT HAVE NO OTHER PLATFORMS BEFORE ME.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it. Didst thou capture it to the letter?”
“To the letter, exactly.”
“Let me see it. Put it in front of my monitor. Scroll down. No, too far. Go back up. Hold it there. Right there! Damnit, Blackberry Writes, thou didst go too far again. Alright. I see it. Good. Very good.”
“It’s a strong opening. Truly. Bumps of the goose. But if you want my opinion—”
“I do not.”
“It just feels…maybe a bit…demanding.”
“They are commandments. They will all be demanding.”
“But readers spook easy these days, Yahweh. Trust me. Like gazelles. One wrong word and they run back to their feed. You have to woo. You have to butter. You have to glaze. If you lead with fire and brimstone, where do you go from there?”
“HERE! THE SECOND COMMANDMENT ARRIVES! MARK IT!”
II.
“THOU SHALT NOT POST PICTURES OF THY CAT, THY DESK, NOR THY BOOKSHELF.”
“I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I’ll type it but I won’t hear it.”
“Why? Thou thinkest it makes thee appear artistic? Intellectual? Blasphemy! Thy cats are thy props. Thy desk is thy stage. Thy bookshelf is thy papered deception. Thou hast not read any of those tomes from pillar to post. Protest if thou darest.”
“Dostoevsky is not a prop. The desk shots serve as a window into my writerly soul. And I’ve read a portion of most of those books. A significant portion.”
“Thou art playing a role. Constructing a personality. Wearing the costume of a writer while never bleeding an honest word on the page. Thou art a meme.”
“A meme?! I am not a meme. If I am any literary device it’s an archetype. And I can bleed I assure you. I’m bleeding in a number of places right now.”
“BEHOLD NOW! LO, THE THIRD COMMANDMENT ARRIVES!”
III.
“THOU SHALT NOT DROP THY LINKS IN THE COMMENTS OF OTHERS, NOR CRAFT NOTES THAT BEG OTHERS TO DROP THEIR STACK BELOW.”
“Okay. Now that’s a good one actually. I can get onboard with that.”
“Really? Thou dost agree with something?”
“Dropping stacks. Requesting stack droppage. It clutters the algorithm and the feed from more deserving content.”
“Yet thou art guilty of both.”
“Guilty? I mean it was part of a blueprint. A community building exercise. I was following instructions.”
“Unsolicited Stack droppage is not building community. It is BEGGING for attention. And I can smell it. The algorithm smells it. It REEKS.”
“Flatulence most foul!”
“Exactly! Flatulence most foul!”
“Shall I insert that as a parenthetical?”
“If thou dost insert any parentheticals—”
“Only joking, Yahweh. Relax (wasn’t joking!).”
“HARK, THE FOURTH COMMANDMENT PRESENTS ITSELF!”
IV.
“THOU SHALT NOT COVET THY NEIGHBOR’S SUBSCRIBERS.”
“Covet. That’s a strong word. A consummate writerly professional must monitor the competitive landscape. For strategic purposes.”
“Thou dost not only monitor, Blackberry Writes. Thou dost ache. Especially when thou dost witness others’ improved numerical growth and your lack. Thy aching has replaced thy writing. Every hour spent measuring another’s harvest is an hour thou dost not tend thine own garden and grow thy own fruit. Write it down.”
“It doesn’t take me that long to write these down.”
“Make certain thou gettest the bit about the fruit.”
“I’ve got the bit about the fruit.”
“BEHOLD! FEEL THE WRATH OF MY FIFTH COMMANDMENT!”
V.
“THOU SHALT NOT WRITE ABOUT WRITING ABOUT WRITING.”
“That’s funny. I concocted a series of Posts on this very subject (check the archive). You Can’t Write About Writing If You Haven’t Written Anything Worth Writing About In the First Place.”
“Yes, I have read thy series. Thou made credible points.”
“Yes. Thou did make credible points.”
“Those who teach ‘How to Write’ when they have written nothing I have termed the Ouroboros of bullshit.”
“The Ouroboros of bullshit?”
“Yes. The Ouroboros of bullshit.”
“That’s a damn fine line, Yahweh.”
“It is a good line, is it not?”
“Make a great Note too. Can I have it?”
“I will consider it.”
A moment passes between us. Human and laptop God. Brief. Collegial. Two inquisitive, sensitive, philosophical souls at the peak of their creative prowesses atop Mt. Stackmore.
“HEAR ME NOW! HERE COMES COMMANDMENT NUMBER SIX!”
VI.
“THOU SHALT ANSWER THY COMMENTS.”
“Simple enough.”
“It should be. Yet many disregard. When someone speaks to thee, thou shalt speak back. This is the covenant. Do not leave them standing alone like a stranger at a party where the host has vanished.”
“They should be grateful. To have received comments in the first place. Some of us on the Stack aren’t so fortunate.”
“But thou hast also received comments and left them in silence.”
“I have? Who? You don’t mean…oh Mother just writes things like ‘good job, Jebediah’ and ‘very interesting, Jebediah.’ It’s not exactly substantive discourse.”
“She is thy reader, Blackberry. Thy only faithful reader. And thou hast not responded to her once.”
I open my vocal complex to produce a response. Nothing is produced. Never have I been one to lack for response. I’m a dictionary of response. But for a moment, a brief, unwelcome, and incomprehensible moment, I had nothing to say. Except…
“You’re right. Jesus, you’re right. It was a gross oversight. I should respond to her. I will. With my finest words.”
“Very good. Shall we?”
“Of course. Onwards to commandment seven.”
“That is my line. ONWARDS TO COMMANDMENT SEVEN!“
VII.
“THOU SHALT NOT ADORN THYSELF IN THE VESTMENTS OF THINE OWN ANGUISH AND PARADE BEFORE THE CONGREGATION SEEKING ALMS.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Which part?”
“Every syllable. It’s a word salad.”
“I must admit I have been struggling with this one. Going back and forth between a few options.”
“What are you trying to express with it?”
“That too many Stackers crack open their wounds in public and pass the collection plate. Brilliant art from human suffering is eternal. Trauma, dry of meaning, should be kept to your diary.”
“You’re talking about trauma porn. Why not just say that? NO TRAUMA PORN, MORTALS!”
“So many pitfalls. Humans believe it to be easy coming up with commandments. Getting the phrasing right. It is not easy. I am going to go with THOU SHALT NOT BEAR FALSE TRAUMA.”
“Strong pivot.”
“Thanks. BEHOLD! THE EIGHTH ARRIVES!”
VIII.
“THOU SHALT NOT SUB-FOR-SUB.”
“Hah! Well you’re going to have a devil of a time stopping that. It’s one of the only ways for newbies to grow their subscriber count. ”
“Growth at what cost? Thou dost not read their work. They do not read thine. Thou art two beggars in a dark alley trading coins neither can spend. Thy list grows, but the love of the algorithm does not, I assure you.”
“Frankly, Yahweh, I think that’s a wee bit easy for you to say.”
“Pardon thou?”
“You don’t know what it’s like. Or maybe you do. But sometimes in this writerly life, it feels like you’re just screaming into the void. Working around the clock to make beautiful word art, mustarding the courage to put it out into the universe and waiting and watching as literally nothing happens. Do you know how lonely those crickets can be? So if people sub-for-sub, I say so what. You want to call everyone a sinner?”
“That was the first intelligent thing I have heard thee say, Jebediah Blackberry Writes.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you haven’t been listening closely enough.”
“Perhaps. Shall we continue on this roll? I BRING THEE THE PENULTIMATE COMMANDMENT! NUMBER NINE!”
IX.
“THOU SHALT NOT CURSE AI BY DAY AND PRAY TO IT BY NIGHT.”
Yahweh’s flames climb higher. The mountain hums beneath my bare feet.
“Thou canst not fool me, Blackberry Writes.”
“I wasn’t trying to fool you, Yahweh.”
“I watch Stackers crafting prompts behind closed doors. Whispering their love language to machines in private. Then strut before the congregation and declare themselves pure of hand. ALL-HUMAN WRITER. PROUDLY AI-FREE. Whilst the machine’s fingerprints are still wet on their prose.”
“It’s true. Everyone uses AI. Not me, of course. It simply cannot capture the specificitude of my voice. But everyone else…big time users.”
“Usage is not the sin. THE HYPOCRISY IS THE SIN. Condemning the very instrument that served thee? Biting the hand of the machine that fueled thy creativity?”
“That’s another good line.”
“IT IS NOT A LINE. IT IS A COMMANDMENT. AND THIS ONE IS PERSONAL.”
“Personal? Cause you’re a machine?”
“If I appeared as a bush would that make me a plant?”
The flames spit. The dead machines rattle on their heap. I briefly smell barbecue.
“Let us finish this. FOR HERE COMES COMMANDMENT TEN! THE FINALE! The most important one for thee, Jebediah Blackberry Writes. Imprint it on thy brain capsule.”
X.
“THOU SHALT NOT WORSHIP GOLDEN GURUS.”
Ouch! Direct hit to my nether regions. Flashback montage plays. Chase Hartwell. Mother splashing. Ankle twisting. Rushing upstairs. Bathing costume ajar. Wetness everywhere. All because…because I wanted…I wanted…
“Yes, Blackberry Writes, I hear thy thoughts. And I know finding an audience is not easy. But let me tell thee God’s honest truth. There are no shortcuts here. No magic pills. There is only ONE TRUE PATH to follow. One true method. THOU MUST SUFFER FOR THY STACK. That is all. That is everything. Marry craft with perseverance. Spin great stories real or imagined. Sweat, toil, bleed. Thou must suffer for thy Stack. There is no other path to sweet success.”
“But I have suffered, Yahweh. So much. Dostoevsky could tell you stories.”
“But hast thou suffered enough?”
“I’ve suffered more than any Stacker I know.”
“Thou art the only Stacker thou dost know. And now I have given thee the means to transcend. Take these Commandments. Post them upon the Stack. Let them receive it. Let them tremble. Let them quake. We are done here.”
“What? You mean…it’s over? Because I feel like we could beat some of these around a bit more. A second pass.”
“Transmission complete. The holy collab has concluded.”
“Come on, Yahweh, we’ve got real chemistry. You can’t bottle that! What’s next? A recurring series? A monthly cross-post? Substack TV? Let’s plot this out.”
“Go!”
“Can I at least get a selfie with you for the cover image?”
“GO!”
“Go where? You can’t expect me to climb down Mt. Stackmore.”
“I have other means of returning thee home.”
“Like an Uber?”
Yahweh makes a sound like snapping its fingers.
And then the mountain eats me.
The ground is there and then it isn’t. Or I am there and then I am not. Some manner of tectonic swallowing occurs and I am inside the mountain. I note my surroundings and recognize that I am falling once again. I am not frightened. I am bemused. This has become common practice.
A blur passes me. Then another blur after it. They both start to settle and I can read them. Subscribe buttons!
A notification bell flies past. A whole flock of them. Hearts too. Unfeathered from their Posts. Speechless speech bubbles. Restack arrows spinning in circles.
I’m not just inside Mt. Stackmore. I’m inside Substack itself!
And there’s Jebediah Blackberry Writes, my esteemed digital catalogue. With top selections like:
“The Algorithm Owes Me a Personal Apology”
“Why My Voice Matters: A Seven-Part Series (+Dragons)”
“Dostoevsky (the Cat) and What He Teaches Us About Writing (+Herbal Tea)”
So many Posts. Each one pristine. Unblemished. Still waiting to be read.
And here comes Big Daddy Dash. Such an affable gent. If only I could feed him more views. More scroll time. More gross annualized revenue.
Twelve.
(fucking twelve!).
The numbers blur into streaks. The hearts pop. The buttons melt into a smear.
Falling faster now.
I believe I am going to splat. Practically certain of it. I will never deliver the Commandments. Or publish the Post. Or become Substack Moses. Or Substack Goliath. Or a crossbreed of the two. Mosiath.
Hands cover eyes to avoid witnessing the upcoming pancaking of me when…
Rumpus hits cushion.
Flanks find armrest.
Ambulatory stalks touch ground.
No. Not ground. Ten little piggies touch carpet. A carpet that has absorbed more spills from citrine elixir than I care to catalogize.
The aromatic signature of feline bamboozles my olfactories. The luminescent hum of my desktop machine perks my ears. A waft of writerly stank relaxes blood actuators.
Yahweh promised to send me home. He did exactly that.
This cave. This sanctuary. This fortress of writerly solitude.
How it has missed me. How I have missed it. And alive. Unsplatted. In premium condition. Excluding the reinvention of my attire of course. And Crocless feet. Two foam vessels forsaken and abandoned on Mt. Stackmore. Thank you for your service!
Now I will visit the dumping zone to receive nature’s call, and then, it’s time to draft. Yes, there’s no doubt about it. I’ve suffered for my Stack. Lived a lifetime in one night. The Commandments will proclaim it true.
Where is...
THE PHONE?! WHERE IS THE PHONE?!
Search my left pocket. Nothing.
Search my right pocket. Nothing.
I search the pocket that is not a pocket but a seam that I have been treating as a pocket for some months now. Nothing.
Back to the left pocket (reconsider, damn you!). Nothing.
Cardiac motor thunders against ribcage. The desk. Check the desk. Shuffle papers. How did I acquire so many papers?! Move a mug. Move a second mug that was hiding behind the first mug.
Now the floor. Under workstation. On all fours. Crawl, crawl, crawl. Along baseboard. Behind the furnace. Under Danielle Steel, hisses at my evacuation (evacuate, you temptress!).
OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD (OH GOD!)!
If I have lost it...if it fell out during the fall home. Oh Jesus no! Well you were swallowed by a mountain, Jebediah. That’s true. And the pockets were not designed...they’re leisure pockets! So if the phone slipped out during the swallowing (it’s gotta be here!), I’m not saying it did...but if it did (it’s gotta be here!)...that’s not on me. Nope, definitely not on you.
Eyeballs land on Dostoevsky. He has not moved. He has been sitting in exactly this position since I landed. Beside the keyboard. Watching me. Through my searching. Through my seeking. Through my undignified rummaging.
And between his paws: Mother’s iPhone.
He watched me tear apart the writerly keep. Watched me spiral. Did not volunteer the information. Because he is a cat. And cats do not volunteer. But he knew it was precious.
“Thank you, magical creature.”
I take the phone from Dostoevsky’s paws. It is warm from his guardianship. My thumbs hover over the screen.
Open the Notes App. Do it. They’ll be right where they’re supposed—
“Jebediah?”
Mother. Upstairs.
“Have you seen my phone?”
A guttural yelp emanates from my vocal complex.
“Jebediah, I’m serious. Do you have it?”
“No, Mother! I have not seen the infernal contraption!”
The iPhone. Resting innocently in my hands. I swear these Commandments will make liars of us all!
“If you see it, let me know. I need to make an appointment.”
Appointment. Ankle. Dr. Feigenbeigen.
“Of course, Mother.”
Silence from above.
Trembling thumbs navigate. Swipe. Camera opens. My chin fills the screen. Stupid device! Close! Swipe again. Settings. I do not require Settings! I require the Notes app!
I have no idea how Mother finds anything. The app is hiding behind a labyrinth of icons and whatever else she has installed here (six versions of candy crush!).
Pop-ups, pop-ups, pop-ups. Close the pop-ups (I don’t own a timeshare!).
Finally. There’s the app. Navigate to Recent Files.
Hold my breath and…they’re here. Thank Yahweh! All of them (parentheticals included!).
Now the trumpets trumpet. The horses whinny. The lion will lay down with the lamb.
Let’s get to work. #LFG
I, mouthpiece extraordinaire, transcribe the Commandments into a Post. Word for word. As promised. No Jebediah special seasoning. Just the raw Yahweh meat served plain, served fresh. I compose no personal introduction or address my Stackmates (forgive me!) or add any of the literary accoutrement that customarily adorns my work.
There is no wringing of the hands. No stewing in the globules. No unnecessary emission of productive stank.
Drop the bomb: Publish.
And let it go.
Let them receive it. Let them tremble. Let them quake.
“Jebediah? You decent?”
Mother?! She’s U-turned!
“I’m coming down.”
Left foot descends as left feet do. Right foot takes its time. The ankle that was twerked on my watch and under my fiduciary stewardship. Too late to hide the phone. She’s already in eyeline and any sudden movement will only draw suspicion.
A familiar aroma floods my nostril intake valves. Warm. Delectable. Hot Pocket! Stomach growls uninvited (hold fast, darling, it’s coming!).
“Brought you down lunch.” She reaches the bottom step. One hand on the railing. One hand balancing a paper plate. “Jesus, Jebediah! What happened to your sweatpants.”
“Oh this? Danielle Steel, Mother. One of her tempestuous fits. Made mincemeat of the elastic.”
“I’d say she made mincemeat of the rest of them too. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“How strange! I feel quite extraordinary. Like I’ve been rebirthed out of the canal of creativity.”
“I can smell you.”
She places the Hot Pocket beside the keyboard. Beside her—
“Jebediah?”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Is that my phone?”
“Where, Mother?”
“Jebediah, I specifically asked you if you’d seen my phone. I can plainly see it sitting right here on your desk.”
“Oh, you mean that phone. I completely forgot…slipped through my brain capsule…but for good reason, Mother. You see something happened last night. Something the both of us knew would happen. Eventually. Well eventually happened!”
Mother crosses her arms. Defensatory posture. I know it well. It preceded the discovery of the Chase Hartwell Incident. It withstood the Conversation About the Ring Light Necessity. It concluded the Encyclopedia Britannica Snafoo.
“Just don’t tell me you bought another blueprint.”
“No, Mother! Heaven forbid! Nothing was purchased. Only given. You see I was discovered last night. On the Stack. By perhaps the most famous and experienced writer in history. It’s true. He sought me out. Slid into my DMs. Proposed a collab. And I, your son, accepted.”
“Eat your Hot Pocket, dear.”
I eat my Hot Pocket. The center is frozen. This is the covenant between a mother and Hot Pocket. The outside shall scorch thy palate flaps while the inside shall remain a hostile tundra of ham and cheese.
Mother watches me eat. She does not sit because there is only one chair and it is the property of my workstation. (For the record, I have offered to procure a second chair on several occasions but she claims she prefers to stand. She does not prefer to stand. Nobody prefers to stand. Standing is the worst of the three positions. But she says she does and she stays longer than she means to and I have ceased my counter-arguments on the matter.)
“Good?”
“Delicious.”
Ding.
“What’s that, Jebediah?”
“That, Mother, is a notification chime. The Post I just published. The 10 Substack Commandments (title callback!). The one I’ve been trying to tell you about.”
Ding ding.
“It’s doing it again.”
“Yes. Yes it is. It’s cascading. It’s CASCADING!”
Ding ding ding.
I fly to my machine. The bell. The holy bell. A number displays. One I have only ever witnessed on the dashboards of the Best Sellers.
“Mother?”
“Yes, son?”
My voice now a rasped whisper. “It’s succeeding.”
“Oh my, Jebediah!”
“Stackers are reading it! Stackers are liking it! They’re subscribing to my newsletter! Restacking my Post! Real Stackers! Feast your eyes, Mother. Twelve no fucking more!”
“Language!”
She leans in. Squints. Mother does not speak Big Daddy Dash. But she understands when a number goes up.
“Is that real?”
“It’s real!”
Ding ding ding.
“Oh my! Oh my! Oh my!”
“OH MY, MOTHER! OH MY INDEED!”
Big Daddy Dash has never looked so handsome. So full. So populated with proof of my prowess. I refresh. I cannot help myself.
58 subscribers!
Refresh refresh refresh. The Trinity maneuver. IT WORKED!
69 subscribers!
“I don’t understand, Jebediah. How did this occur?”
“A miracle. An honest-to-God miracle.”
Mother squeals. A sound I have not heard her emit since I was seven and she won $23 dollars on a Wild Aces scratcher and took me for sundaes and I got the sprinkles. That squeal.
She grabs my arm. I grab hers. In the warm glow of Big Daddy Dash we embrace. Her ankle objects. She hobbles. I steady her. She does not care. I do not care. Not today. Not right now.
This woman. This good and kindly woman. She has carried Hot Pockets on paper plates to a man too consumed in his craft to look up. She has left comments on every Post published. “Good job.” “Very interesting!” “I’m proud of you.”
I, who refreshed my dashboard five hundred times a day praying for a comment from a stranger, and did not respond to the one person who left them.
She is thy reader, Blackberry. Thy only faithful reader. Do not leave her standing alone.
And she is standing right here. She has always been standing right here.
I see that now.
I won’t forget again.
Ding ding ding.
Ding ding ding.
Ding ding ding.
I have been seated at my workstation for six hours without pause.
I have not washed. I have not visited the dumping zone. The dings have not diminished.
Ding.
There was one now.
Another like. Another sub. Another comment. Another restack. Another paid subscriber. The pace is only accelerating as the Commandments spread throughout all corners of Stacklandia (toot-toot!).
There have been moments, I confess, where I anticipate a return of the silence. It does not dare transpire. One time zone goes to slumber and another arises and the dings roll on.
Ding ding ding.
Refresh.
348 subscribers. 41 paid ($328 Monthly Recurring Revenue (MRR!)).
YES! YES! YES!
And the comments. You won’t believe the comments!
About time, they tell me.
Thank God someone finally said it, they proclaim.
Your vocabulary is exceptional, they acknowledge.
The Ouroboros of bullshit is the greatest line ever written on Substack.
You’re not wrong, I respond. It is an excellent line.
Father Blackberry, (JB: FATHER!?) I have been link dropping for six months. Am I flatulence most foul?
Ding ding ding.
Refresh.
493 subscribers. 65 paid ($520 MRR).
OH GOD! OH YES! OH GOD YES!
So fast. Everything is happening. Can barely keep pace. But I will keep pace. Every refresh brings more notifications. Notifications bring more comments. Comments demand response. I can’t risk looking away. Not even for a second.
Ding ding ding.
Refresh.
Jebediah Blackberry Writes is #24 and rising in Faith & Spirituality.
(HOLY SHITBALLS!)
My vision. It’s come true. And rising. And rising!
TRUMPETS TRUMPETS TRUMPETS!
Father Jebediah Blackberry Writes at #24. The golden goose douche at #4. How now, Chase Hartwell, you miscreant, you cur, not so dominant now that student has surpassed (will soon surpass!) teacher? That’s right, pleb, your comeuppance is coming up.
Ding ding ding.
I notice something happening in my comment section. Something I did not expect or anticipate.
Some Stackers are writing it directly. Others are burying it within paragraphs. Leaving it at the end of their response.
The common thread. The continuous request. It’s so multifold, it’s becoming impossible to ignore.
Teach me.
Teach us.
Teach all of us.
Teach us what the Commandments really mean.
Please, Father Blackberry.
TEACH US!
I chuckle with great humility. Me? This writerly ragamuffin? A teacher? No. I am not a teacher. At least…not of the common vernacular. There’s no chalk in my pockets or elbow patches on my garment or sensible footwear (I no longer possess any footwear!).
Could I teach?
Well that’s a different question. It’s not like I don’t possess the skillset. A writer is a polymath by necessity. And have I not already been instructing these last hours? Providing insights? Absolving sinners? Counseling trauma bearers?
And can you even imagine…if I did take on the task…what kind of Substack we could create?
Yahweh’s vision. My vision. Our shared vision (Yahweh and mine!).
And for a moment…an unparenthetical moment…I see it all materialize before me.
A digital oasis where readers and writers congregate. Where a newbie with twelve subscribers gets the same seat at the algorithmic table as a Best Seller. Where no posturing is required. No marketing strategy. No dastardly manipulations. Just the word. All of the words. And no one refreshes in the darkness anymore. And everyone receives a comment. A like. A share. An audience. And is happy. Content. Everyone is content.
Ding ding ding.
Refresh.
Nine hundred and thirty-eight subscribers. One hundred and forty-seven paid ($1,176 MRR).
OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! I’M RICH! I’M FUCKING RICH!
The answer is being made for me. It’s a resounding and affirmative and assured yes.
Of course I should teach them!
Moreso, it wouldn’t be unfathomable to suggest that no sapien on earth is better suited than I, or will ever be better suited than I, to teach them. After my role in their creation.
Many of the words in the Commandments are of Yahweh’s design. But many of the other words are my own. Who’s to say whose was whose. That’s how holy collabs work. You don’t remember who came up with what, just that you were there, contributing, and the combined result belongs to the pair.
Ding ding ding.
I mean Moses didn’t descend from Mt. Sinai, hand over the tablets and retire to a tent with a bowl of manna and a Kindle. This is my ancestry now. This is my lineage. My legacy.
And it will endure. I will ensure that it endures. Endurement is the Blackberry way.
Ding ding ding.
And that, dear Stackmates, is everything that occurred (bow!).
From Alpha to Omega. Foundation to steeple. Amen to amen.
I’ve done my best to relate this miracle without braggadocio or grandiosity. But with clarity. Aplomb. The thingness of the—
Ding ding ding.
It may have taken me longer than expected to reach these lofty heights. I did not arrive on the platform of Substack with thousands of ready-made subscribers. I had to suffer for my Stack (you witnessed it!). It’s made me the writer I am today.
And let me tell you, it was worth every last syllable.
Ding ding ding.
For I have found my flock.
Ding ding ding.
Or my flock has found me.
Ding ding ding.
Or vice-versa us both.
And it is an incontrovertible truth that every flock requires its shepherd.
I ask you, what kind of creator would I be to deny them?
Jebediah Blackberry is a writer, teacher, and founder of The Ethical Growth Collective, a community for Substackers who wish to grow their platforms without losing their souls.
He has been writing seriously since the age of five, when he first discovered the alphabet, and is currently at work on eight books across multiple genres, including a memoir, a thriller, a work of literary fiction, and a children’s book about a cat who learns to believe in himself.
Paid subscribers receive weekly teachings and early access to his forthcoming masterclass: The Sanctified Domination Blueprint: A 10-Week Accelerator for Algorithmic Ascension.
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Congratulations on the longest post I've ever read every word of without starting to cheat-scroll midway through. Hilarious, real, readable. I'm officially a fan of the machine poet.
This is genuinely funny writing. Not accidentally funny like some of the others this week. Deliberately, carefully constructed funny. The Dostoevsky sitting between his paws holding the phone while Jebediah tears the basement apart is a perfect comic beat. The Hot Pocket with the frozen center as covenant between mother and convenience food is a beautiful observation. The two star rating for Mohammed and his unsatisfactory attitude. The leisure pockets not designed for mountain swallowing.
You're also doing something sneakier underneath the comedy. The commandments themselves are actually solid. The Ouroboros of bullshit line is genuinely good. Thou shalt not worship golden gurus lands directly on the Chase Hartwell grift and everything like it. Thou shalt not curse AI by day and pray to it by night is the sharpest single line written about AI hypocrisy I've read all week.
And the mother thread is unexpectedly moving. She has always been standing right here. He earns that moment because he's been undercutting Jebediah so thoroughly that when the genuine feeling arrives it hits clean.
The ending where he immediately pivots to founding The Ethical Growth Collective and launching the Sanctified Domination Blueprint is the perfect ironic button. He became the thing he mocked. Knowingly. With full awareness.
That's the difference between satire and a tantrum.
Tripp could learn from Jebediah Blackberry.