Dear generous reader,
I had an unexpected gift last week. One of my subscribers upgraded to an annual paid subscriber. While that option has always been available to any of you, I made the decision to give it six months before I pondered how (or if) I wanted to push paid subscriptions. This show of support came from a friend of mine, but it was entirely out of the blue. I was deeply touched and appreciative. What was most kind about his gesture was that it indicated he valued the work without my having to solicit the donation.
There are a number of different financial models people use on Substack, including offering extras for paying members, and/or paywalling special newsletters, but I’m not going that route yet. Many popular Substack newsletters simply ask that if you enjoy the writing you consider upgrading to support the work. I’ll leaving all newsletters free for the moment, but if you like what I’m doing, feel free to upgrade and I’ll keep evolving and creating new material.
Whenever I consider the many writers asking for subscriptions these days, I’m always reminded of that scene in the musical Oliver!1, when the young hero has achieved a respite from penury and thievery, and observes the array of working class people offering wares and services. Flower sellers, milkmaids, knife grinders, bakers, and newspaper sellers petition for money.
Despite the artifice of well-toned, pretty peddlers singing and dancing, a difficult reality permeates Oliver! The musical cannot erode the hard truths Charles Dickens understood about Victorian England, which he depicted in his original serial, Oliver Twist.
In that moment in the musical, Oliver sings:
Who will buy
This wonderful morning?
Such a sky
You never did see!
Who will tie
It up with a ribbon
And put it in a box for me?
So I could see it at my leisure
Whenever things go wrong
And I would keep it as a treasure
To last my whole life long.
It’s telling that young Oliver has already realised that good fortune is transitory. Whenever we have beautiful moments — a soft bed and blue skies — we should bank it away in our memory, because inevitably travails will roll around again. And he is correct. Danger lurks nearby.
So, thank you! Your support is appreciated. But of course, coin is a plus!
There’s another reason I think about Dickens in regard to Substack, and that’s because Dickens wrote Oliver Twist (and all of his novel-length work) as serials, which were distributed as chapters in inexpensive weekly journals to the reading public. Dickens was probably the first author to truly understand the power and dreadful expectations of creating massively popular work — including the widespread pirating of his stories. Plus ça change!
It’s fascinating that people continue to love this episodic drip-feed of story, as evidenced today in TV series. Fans love chatting to friends (in person or on social media) about what’s going to happen next and furiously debating character arcs and final resolutions. It’s a bonding experience to rush to your buddy via messages or at work to rave or rant about your beloved show. In an era when streaming services have the ability to drop an entire series in one go, many small screen shows stick to a weekly release schedule. If anything, showrunners are returning to this trustworthy model. If I enjoy a series the release day becomes a highlight in my calendar. The week after the last episode airs contains a mournful void.
I think people appreciate a weekly show more than ones they consume in bulk. By the end you’re in a haze. You can’t appreciate all the nuances when you bombard your brain with a hefty narrative download.
Dickens sold his stories as serials and also as novels, but reading is different than watching a TV show. You control the rate of consumption and can slow down to savour the material in a way that doesn’t interrupt your enjoyment. Re-reading a particularly effective passage is a pleasure.
I’ll interject to note that this is one of the ways in which the best comic books triumph as a form: they are more re-readable than most text stories because you can dwell on the art and pour over visual details, as well as relishing the story, dialogue and characterisation.
I think there remains an appetite for serial fiction, and many writers on Substack are experimenting with this method of distribution. There is something oddly reassuring about an early method of connecting to an audience being revamped and revitalised for a new age.
And yet, I hugely appreciate getting access to an entire series (or three) I missed when it was first broadcast. Especially for BBC productions. This is where you must control your urge to gulp down a series without breathing.
Thus, I finally managed to watch all three seasons of The Detectorists (2014-2017), as it is now available on Netflix. (Yes, I’m aware of the two Christmas Specials.)
I’m a fan of small screen series about ordinary, likeable people and the drama of small difficulties with surprisingly high stakes. It’s a reminder that you don’t need people rushing about, shouting and threatening people to achieve audience engagement.
This utterly charming, and very English series, was written and directed by Mackenzie Crook, who also stars with Toby Jones, as Andy and Lance, the metal detectorists at the centre of the series. There is a leisurely pace to each episode and the English countryside becomes one of the other characters in the show. There are many dreamy moments of heads of barley buffeting in breezes, dragonflies floating over flowers, or magpies observing our heroes as they sit upon gnarled roots and discuss episodes of QI or University Challenge.
Andy and Lance are odd and weak characters, prone to lying to ‘protect’ people but usually to save themselves from humiliation (they only postpone the inevitable). There’s a bittersweet moment in the first series where Andy and Lance play a folk love song Lance composed for the musical showcase in the local pub, and the object of Lance’s affections forgets to attend. The song and the rudimentary accompaniment is so simple and heartfelt that it becomes sublime.
As evidenced in my discussion of The Wicker Man recently, I love folk horror cinema. There are touches of this eeriness in the series, where the past — in the form of the mythic gold that is the desire of every detectorist — haunts Andy and Lance. The show highlights the layers of history underneath our feet, tantalisingly close and sensed fleetingly. Andy and Lance desire to be remembered for uncovering a nugget of this legacy.2
Yet what they are truly seeking is connection to other people. Their hobby and their strange friends in the Danebury Metal Detecting Club gradually open up their lives and their hearts. Their love of their local landscape leads them to sacrifice their exclusive right to detect in a field (a coveted prize) to save a tree — yet that moment leads them into a deeper connection to their friends and becomes an invitation to lonely people. Their generosity is rewarded by the past finally releasing its treasures.
The series has a fantastic theme song by Johnny Flynn, which is the epitome of English folk. A piece of music like this adds a weight of tradition to the series, and its lyrics are fabulous. The song has been running through my head regularly since I watched the show.
Hopefully, you all have the treasure of a good friend you can call upon when you are in extremis or just want to talk shite with in a pub.
The book, music and lyrics are by Lionel Bart for the theatre production from 1960. The 1968 film was directed by Carol Reed, from a screenplay by Vernon Harris, with Mark Lester playing the titular character.
In true folk horror tradition, the show indicates that what is removed from its earthy grave comes with an unexpected cost.
I'm partway through The Detectorists and really enjoying it!
I love Detectorists. One of my favourite 'things'.'