Word Count Capitalism
Dream Big. But Maybe Monetize
Finally got a meeting with an agent! Said he wanted to talk about my book, Dear Mr. Paulson. Little did I know.
What I actually got was a crash course in the bookenomics.
The good news? I’m a vibe!
Possibly good news? Wellness-based. Possibly feud-driven.
My memoir? Pivoted into a “trauma-informed brand journey.”
Fragments of the conversation come flashing back.
Content ecosystems. Platforms. Pivots. Clooney-adjacent fame.
And do the math ringing in my ears.
At least ChatGPT said I was sharp, funny, fresh. But said if I could be “less me,” I’d test better.
Didn’t ask. Vibe economy’s a nightmare.
I’ll be paid in exposure. Plus, an Insta-feud with Reese Witherspoon’s people would help.
Platform scans: weak.
Enter Fred
My head is still spinning from becoming a vibe when my phone buzzed.
“Hey, Debra, it’s Fred. That’s some vibe you got. We should talk.”
Fred says he’s a producer. Loves my story: finance bros, blow-ups, reinvention.
Focus groups were going nuts.
Devil Wears Prada meets Wolf of Wall Street. So fresh. So now.
“AI already pumped out three treatments,” Fred said. “Love story. Thriller. Dystopian satire where you’re Hank Paulson but don’t know it.”
I opened my mouth. Fred steamrolled on.
“Clooney’s playing Paulson. Margot Robbie’s you.”
“Margot Robbie? Wow. That’s just…great!” I managed to blurt out.
“Margot’s playing older you. Sydney Sweeney’s young you. She’ll nail your hot-mess vibe.”
I tried to speak. Fred waved it off.
“I know, I know. Your book. You writers! You just don’t get it.”
Math Vs. Dreams
“Let’s be honest,” Fred said. “We’ve all got dreams. Yours paying rent?”
Looked down. Shook my head.
“Let’s do the math. You’ll thank me.”
He explains: “Scripts? 90 to 120 pages. Words? 15,000 max. And that’s Sorkin level”
Leaning in like he’s selling me a fake Rolex, Fred asks about my blog. “How many words you average a month?”
Brain freeze. “Seventeen thousand?” I think?
Fred stared. Vaped. Waited.
“Oh, so sure. You’re saying I could’ve written a script,” I said. “Except I don’t.”
Fred grins: “And your 80,000 word book? People lined up for it?”
“It’s not apples to apples,” I muttered.
Fred scowls.
“Don’t care if it’s fruit salad. Get an accountant, not an agent.”
The math hit me like a freight train.
Why am I chasing a book deal? When a few stitched-together blog posts might get me Netflix?
Fred jumps up.
“Wow!” he yelled. “AI pre-sold the rights to Netflix! We’re in business!”
“Without me?” I squeaked.
“You’re executive producer! Name’s in the credits! Somewhere. Maybe.” Fred’s already sprinting.
“What? Shouldn’t I do something?” Totally clueless.
“Got to go!” Fred shouted. “Sweeney just greenlit the sequel. Love your work, kid!”
Fading echo: “And don’t forget the math!”
Vibe to Viral
A vibe. And a maybe-treatment. All in one day.
But Fred’s wrong. I didn’t write a script. They just AI massaged my book content into…whatever it is.
And I got what?
Buzz.
Netflix bank deposit: $0.00.
Royalty Statement: One free month of Netflix (Ad tier.) Exposure included!
Refresh.
“CONGRATULATIONS@DebraDouglas. Streaming soon: The Debra Douglas Chronicles!
Refresh.
Entertainment Weekly: “Clooney-Sweeney AI Romance Most Human Film of the Year.”
Variety: “LinkedIn Update: Debra Douglas, Available for Content Ecosystems.”
Refresh.
I woke up.
Still me.
Unpublished.
Still need side gigs.
But not a vibe.
(As if that could ever happen IRL?)
Thank you for reading. I’m still dreaming big. Just sometimes with nightmares.
Gorge Clooney AND Margot Robbie. Now that' s dreaming big time!