An Argument for Selling Out
Netflix has a new documentary on the rise of the Jerry Springer talk show at the moment. It’s good.
It follows the early days of a talk show that originally reunited lost relatives, hosted by a respectable former news anchor who had aspirations to become a credible voice in politics journalism as his career grew.
The original incarnation of the Jerry Springer show lived up to all the above. It was respectable, it was “deep,” (insofar as it’s peak moments were ones of real personal tragedy resurrected before its audience’s eyes).
But as the show neared the end of its first season, it faced a problem. These peak moments were few and far between, its core demographic were the elderly, and for your average viewer it was boring.
To combat this the Jerry Springer show did what every new grunge band, indie director, snowboard bum and “serious” author will tell you not to do: they pandered to the market.
After hiring Richard Dominick as its new producer, The Jerry Springer show picked up the threads of intrigue that it had managed to organically draw out in its standard programming and leaned into these. Their goal was to give the audience more of what they wanted. It’s entertainment after all.
Strangely enough “what the audience wanted,” was not the poignant moments of a daughter being reunited with her long lost father. No. These were the fights, the freak show guests, the nudity, the extremists being confronted by the group they’re persecuting and did I mention the fights?
During this phase, The Jerry Springer show became what we now know it as today: a window into our worst instincts, exaggerated to their most vivid ends, but also not made up.
Many judged it, but there’s a reason it surpassed Opra in the TV charts. People recognised an element of their own nature in this wildness and found it fascinating.
You should watch the documentary: It outlines how a guest of the show ended up getting murdered and delves into the special guest so extreme that they made many of the battle-hardened employees of this notorious show finally quit their jobs for good.
But for now I want to focus on the point I raised in the headline of this article, The argument FOR selling out.
Why you should consider selling out.
(Or at least give yourself permission to do it).
The anti-establishment I’m-not-going-to-sell-my-soul-for-popularity personality type is hardly a rare thing in the world of writers.
I’m on board with that. I can’t stand Luke Coombs either.
But….
In the beginning, Jerry Springer was also that “authentic” guy to a degree. He was a serious person, he made his bones as a field reporter and worked his way up to lead anchor for a reputable news station. They gave him his own serious talk show for a reason and quickly discovered that reason wasn’t enough.
The Jerry Springer show would have died in the water if there was nothing more to the character “Jerry Springer” than his serious, reputable persona—if there was no man behind the news man. The quality that made the show pop was the inherent charisma that this man had been keeping under wraps. He had a sense of humour that only came across when the show started testing the waters at the absurd end of the pool.
When the Jerry Springer show turned into a circus, the man himself did not become a clown.
All he did was exaggerate what he was already doing: He started out interviewing the most newsworthy examples of his local city, he ended up interviewing the most newsworthy examples from humanity (whether they were newsworthy for the right reasons is another conversation)
Jerry Springer worked, because as a show, it exaggerated the newsman to its most vivid end, but stopped short of making things up.
The important detail here is: Jerry Springer couldn’t help being that News Man. His show wouldn’t have worked if he was a wacky host. His straight man persona coupled with his gifted comedic timing was the ranch dressing that made the spicy chicken wings palatable.
In the context of writing, I’m not suggesting people should give up their literary aspirations and start churning out pulp-crime paperbacks, but there is something in recognizing what your baseline is.
If you’re not a sell-out by default (whatever that looks like in your head) it’s not going to hurt if you try to write your version of “entertaining.” Have a go at some of the more vivid genres. Your stories don’t all have to be wrapped up in the quiet suffering of a French Ambassidor’s barber or the interiority of a concert pianist. Throw in a fist fight, a sex scene or a murder. Trust me, the serious will find its way in there.
If you typically write the kinds of stories that are designed to make people think, you will still make people think, only, in this case it might be in the context of a graphic murder spree.
If you’re really “that guy or gal” you claim to be, you won’t be able to help but write a “literary” version of all these genre tropes and they’re probably carry a bit more intrigue than what you’re already doing.
Of course don’t stare into the abyss for too long—Jerry Springer himself eventually turned into a parody of himself—but giving yourself permission to try your hand at it won’t taint you. Thinking it will is nothing short of snobbery.
This may all seem fairly obvious. But it’s startling how many writers don’t aim to entertain their readers—particularly when their “serious” work isn’t having much success.
I think part of it is the fear of exposure.
They hide behind the word “literary” because it has a built in subjectiveness. It’s easy to claim people don’t get it. Which is fine. But if no one gets it, it might be time to reconsider whether you’re doing it right.
Try it out. Sell out. See where it gets you.