​The picture to the left? That’s cash Amazon won’t be getting until they accept Chinese Yuan for USA purchases. In early January of 2020, when Glynn and I decided we needed to leave Beijing in a hurry – there was talk of a scary virus going around – this was the folding stuff that was in our wallets when we boarded our plane. A Yuan is currently going for about fifteen cents, USD, so it isn’t a lot money… but I’d like to do something with it. If you’re headed to China shortly, let us know.
 
For those of you kind enough to email and ask how we did following our second Covid-vaccination, we’re fine. More accurately, I felt a little lethargic the next day while Glynn had a fever, chills, body aches and couldn’t manage to stay awake until it was time to go to bed. The next day, we were both doing our usual things.
 
To the week’s topic, I’ve recently learned that Amazon is taking its first tentative steps into publishing serial fiction. They are way late on this. Wattpad was in the game in 2006. A much later arrival is Radish, which came along a decade later. These days, there’s a feeding frenzy of these kinds of publishers – WebNovel, Tapas, KISS, HiNovel, so many, many more – and all of them seem to be using the same playbook. They’re publishing micro-fiction for an audience that wants bite-sized chunks of story that can be read on the go. They share a lot of the same terminology, too. These short bits are referred to as “episodes”, instead of a chapter, and a collection of episodes is called a “season”, as opposed to a novel or novella.
 
I was new to all of it. I knew about Wattpad, because the Good Witch has dabbled in it, but for the rest? Not a clue. Once I heard about Vella, I did a little looking around. It surprised me to learn that Radish has its own writing staff, and that these Emmy Award-winning folks use reader feedback to produce “hit stories in a hyper-fast, data driven way.” They update their most popular series several times a day. Several times a day….  Then I learned that the most popular “Radish Original” stories are never meant to end. Really?
 
How is a writer who can’t figure out how to off-load Chinese Yuan going to compete with that, I ask you? I’m incapable of being hyper-fast in anything. It takes me half a day to write a blog and, you’ve probably noticed, the words aren’t all that polished. I’m lucky if I can update something once a day. Oh, and I won’t write a story that doesn’t have an ending. I like endings. But maybe I’m the only one.
 
So, how are things working for the Radish organization? Those data-driven super scribes are making bank. In April, it was announced that Kakao Entertainment intends to buy the company for over $350 million. There’s money in mobile publishing, which is why it’s surprising that Amazon was so slow to step in. It took them until April of this year to announce their beta program for “Amazon Vella”. They encouraged writers to create episodes, not chapters, with cliff-hanger endings. Don’t offer anything that’s already been published as a novella or novel. As I write this, there’s no date for when the program goes live, but there are hints that it might be available by August-ish.
 
If you haven’t heard, readers can read the first three episodes of any Vella serial for free. After that, future episodes will be available for 1/20th of a cent per 100 words. If I’m doing the math-thing correctly, that same reader can buy a 2,000-word episode for one penny. The writer doesn’t get to bank that entire penny, though; it’s split 50/50 with Amazon. Although, there must be something wrong with THAT math. I can see why readers would love that deal; I just don't understand why writers would want to sign up.
 
And, yet, the Good Witch says I’m missing a bet by not reaching out to this audience. She knows I’m wary about some of these other serial fiction outfits – and, if you’re a writer, you should be, too – thank you, Victoria Strauss and Writer Beware – but G.W. trusts Amazon to play it straight. She’s encouraging Glynn and I to jump in and try a romance sub-genre that we’ve never written.
 
“Stretch yourself!” she told me. “It'll be fun!”
 
Stretch myself? At my age? But… once she started talking to me, the perfect (obscene) title for a new romance popped in my head. Does Vella allow obscene titles? I was typing the title into our “Future Stories” folder when, suddenly, the computer exploded!
 
No, it really didn't. I’m practicing cliff-hangers. More next week.

I usually try to post a little something on Tuesday. I’m bumping the schedule up this week because, this morning, Glynn and I went to receive our second dose of the Moderna COVID vaccine. It didn’t go quite as smoothly as the first time. When we showed up at the vaccination spot, the doors were locked. There was a paper sign on the window, advising potential vaccinees that the location was closed and that we’d all have to go five minutes down the road to get our poke.
 
If I’d been thinking, I’d have taken a photo of the notification instead of borrowing the blog’s image from Spotify’s Burst website. I’d also have taken a cell shot of the second piece of paper on the window, the one that wanted anyone inconvenienced by this change to join in a lawsuit against the non-profit healthcare organization that was giving these injections.
 
We could have walked to the new vaccination site. The space was smaller, but lines were light and social distancing was easily accomplished. The guy wielding the needle suggested I take it in my dominant arm (if you’re new to the process, here are some other tips) and I barely felt the poke. Today was a very good day. It’s tomorrow that I dread.
 
Twenty-eight days ago, after receiving my first shot, my arm hurt. I did the windmill exercises that are recommended to lessen the pain, but who knows how effective they were? The arm still hurt, but did increasing my circulation keep it from hurting more? That was my only side effect from the injection, though. Glynn experienced the same arm pain. Ten hours later, he also experienced chills and a mild fever, but they were both gone by morning.
 
Some friends and family members tell me it’s the second dose of the vaccine that carries a delayed punch. I’ve been told it’s not today that’ll get me; it’s tomorrow that brings the surprise. The reactions seem to vary from person to person. One friend didn’t feel a thing while his wife had an unrelenting headache that settled in for an entire day. One of our relatives had a miserable muscle pain throughout her body. And then there’s my friend, the Good Witch.
 
“I couldn’t,” she told me.
 
“Couldn’t what?”
 
“Couldn’t anything. I woke up the next day, feeling as if the blood had been drained from my body. I sat on the sofa the entire morning. That afternoon, to switch things up, I laid on the sofa. For two days. You didn’t call.”
 
“I did call,” I said. “The phone went to voice mail.”
 
“You think I was going to get off the sofa to answer the cell phone?” she asked.
 
If she's well enough to nag, it can't have been that bad.
 
 

​My sweet sister-in-law tagged me in a Facebook post, knowing I wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to see what was written. What I saw was wrong and twisted. It shouldn’t even exist. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
 
Let me back up. At the end of our “Anne Glynn” stories, there’s a note about the author. It reads:
 
A collector of vintage Barbies and younger boyfriends,
Anne Glynn currently resides in the American Southwest.
 
If you’re here, you know the notice isn’t entirely truthful. “Anne Glynn” isn’t one person. Of the two people who share that pen name, one of them has never had a younger boyfriend. The one who had younger boyfriends no longer collects them. And, although I continue to be fascinated by vintage Barbies, I’m far from being an obsessed collector. Yes, Glynn claims that I have every Barbie reference book that’s ever been printed, but I don’t own any of the expensive dolls and all of the outfits I’ve found are in less than mint condition. I think I’m fairly balanced, hobby-wise, when it comes to Ruth Handler’s creation. For example, even though I had all of the supplies necessary to bake a cake, I never suggested that my friends and I celebrate Barbie’s birthday on March 9th. I may have made her a card, but it's not like I sent it.
 
(Yes, I’m aware that Ken’s birthday falls two days later on March 11th. No one celebrates Ken’s birthday.)
 
Which brings me to what happened the other day. Laurie tagged me on that Facebook post. When I followed up on it, I discovered it was an article about Margaux Lange and her mad Barbie jewelry. If you follow the link, you’ll find that Margaux hasn’t cherished her Barbie dolls. She hasn’t traveled across the state to find the parts to rebuild a plastic yellow ’70s Dream House to give them a place to stay. (It’s the very coolest Dream House ever.) No, M.L. takes new Barbie dolls and... cuts them up.
 
Their plastic eyes go into brooches. ($800.) Their “twin mounds” become necklaces ($250) or earrings ($130 and sold out). Their smiles become pins ($90 – sold out) and earrings ($160 – sold out) and pendants ($240 – sold out). If she’d used Ken dolls in her abattoir, I might have understood. Might even have approved. But Barbie?
 
Glynn caught me staring at the screen. Leaning over to see what held my attention, he said, “Whoa, that’s different.”
 
It was so different that I was speechless.
 
“They’ll probably have the jewelry in stock again by your birthday,” he told me. “Interested?”
 
“You monster,” I said. 

You know you have a good life partner when the two of you can write books together without killing one another. So, going forward, understand that I appreciate the man who shares my house. Not that he is without flaw. For one thing, he’s a sucker for the “World’s Best” ... anything. If he passes a roadside sign that reads, World’s Best Pancakes, he wants us to try them. Immediately. Because what if that particular corner gas station just happens to actually serve out-of-the-world hotcakes? He has to know.
 
Food-wise, Glynn’s tried the World’s Best pancakes, hot dogs, burgers, salads, tacos, and fudge. He’s yet to find the best of anything. Each time, he’s vowed never to make that mistake again – and he hasn’t, not at the same location. He’ll make that mistake again at the convenience store with the broken plate glass window … because what if that particular convenience store with the broken plate glass window has the most amazing flapjacks? He can’t chance missing out.
 
Glynn’s also hard on socks. (Stay with me. This will all come together at one point.) During this COVID-19 year, staying at home and possibly more aware of little things than usual, I noticed how often those big box store socks ended up with holes in their heels. I mentioned it, more than once. What I should have said was: nothing. Those socks cost maybe $12 for six pairs. Each pair lasts a few weeks. In hindsight, not a terrible deal.
 
As unlikely as it seems, these two bits of oddness – my guy’s fascination with all things “Best” and the destruction of his hosiery somehow became intertwined and it ended up running us $71.52 for two pair of socks. Yes, you read that sum correctly. I was astonished when I saw the receipt.
 
It happened like this: I complained about the latest sock casualty and, this time, Glynn heard me. Going online, he typed in “Socks that last a lifetime” and up popped an ad for Darn Tough Socks of Vermont: Socks Guaranteed for Life. He read the reviews, then placed his order. Afterwards, he shared with me that he’d soon be receiving the World’s Best Socks.
 
They have to be. They last a lifetime – guaranteed!
 
If the Boston Globe is to be believed, Cabot Hosiery Mills was on its last financial legs twelve years ago when most of their big retail customers shifted production to overseas factories. Focusing on a high-quality product, creating their own brand, and giving away their socks to runners at the Vermont City marathon, they somehow hoped to stave off bankruptcy. And it worked. It more than worked; their revenue has soared. (If you follow the link to the Globe, know that one part of the article isn’t to be believed. Should your pet put holes in your Darn Tough socks, too bad for you. Cabot Hosiery Mills isn’t going to replace that footwear.)     
 
 
As far as I know, Cabot Hosiery Mills have never referred to their product as the best in the world. They do offer to replace their socks if and when they wear out, but how many people are going to go through the hassle of doing that, really? Glynn will, that’s my lifetime guarantee, because he paid seventy-one dollars and fifty-two cents for two (2) pairs of over-the-calf black men’s socks.
 
The day the Darn Tough box arrived, Glynn put the first pair of socks on. I was watching as he looked down at his feet and wiggled his toes.
 
They didn’t look all that different from the big box assortment. I asked, “How do they feel?”
 
“Like socks.”
 
“Like amazing socks?”
 
“No,” he said, and a little doubt crept into his voice. “Just regular socks.”
 
Darn Tough of Vermont, you’d better not disappoint my guy.