Smart Over Loud: Notes from a Peaceful Corner of the Internet

A note to my readers and a unique offer. Interested?

Smart Over Loud: Notes from a Peaceful Corner of the Internet

By Jim Reynolds | www.reynolds.com

We’re small, civil, and unbothered by trends — a rare crowd worth protecting. A few thoughts on essays, stories, and what comes next.

A Quiet Crowd

We’ve reached 190 subscribers — all organic, no algorithms, no ads, no hype.

You found this place the old-fashioned way: by reading something that made you come back.

That’s not “growth hacking.” That’s gravity.

What’s forming here isn’t a mob; it’s a temperament.

The tone is calm, civil, curious — almost suspiciously so for the internet.

Nobody’s shouting. Nobody’s dunking. It’s a rare corner of the digital world where people seem to think before typing.

And that’s no accident.

I could boost the numbers fast — chirp into trending threads, pick fights, sprinkle hashtags like chum in the water.

But that kind of growth comes with static. You don’t attract thinkers; you attract reactors.

The energy shifts from conversation to combat — and once the mob moves in, the silence is gone for good.

So yes, I’ll take the slow burn.

Smart over loud. Peace over “engagement.”

That’s the deal here.

I’ve written roughly 150 essays in less than five months — part of a larger project to build a permanent library of cultural clarity before the fog rolls in again.

Many of these works are still waiting patiently in the wings. Frankly, it’s getting harder to keep track of them all. That’s a project by itself.

Essay vs. Short Story

What’s the difference? How to tell when the mind’s driving vs. the memory.

People sometimes ask how I decide what to write — or how I know whether something’s an essay or a story.

The difference is subtle but crucial.

An essay is a thought unfolding. It’s me walking around a problem, testing the walls, listening for hollow spots.

It’s reasoning done in public.

A story, on the other hand, is an event remembered. It’s driven by time, tension, and consequence — a memory that earned its rhythm.

The sweet spot is when the two fuse — when an essay borrows the skeleton of a story.

That’s when truth starts to move. That’s when the page starts to hum.

You can feel it when it happens.

It’s magic.

A Modest Offer

You pick the topic. I pick the fight.

For my paid subscribers, I’m opening a new door:

if you’re one of them, you can request one essay on the subject of your choice.

Any topic — political, personal, moral, or cultural — as long as it passes the “worth saying out loud” test.

It can be as general as the deep blue sky or as specific as a rusty tack hiding in the back of your screwdriver-and-pliers drawer.

Maybe you’d like to know how Andy would feel about a current event.

Or how Mr. Ed might opine to Wilbur if confronted with our modern world.

Or why the Left seems to have misplaced its sense of humor.

Or why my generator refuses to start — and it’s only a year old.

Or how our performative California governor managed to run the most beautiful state in the union straight into the ditch.

That’s the spirit of this experiment — a kind of open-mic improvisation for essays.

I’m reminded of Steve Allen, the original host of The Tonight Show, who used to stroll into the audience and ask for random song titles.

He’d take their suggestions, sit at the piano, and invent melodies on the spot while the band followed his lead — no charts, no net, just brilliance in real time.

Then there was Tom Hatton, who hosted the Popeye cartoon show on KTLA when I was a kid in Los Angeles.

Between cartoons, he’d invite children to draw a wild, unrehearsed “squiggle” on his easel.

Tom would glance at it once, grin, and turn that chaos into a complete picture — right before your eyes.

And of course Jonathan Winters, the great free-form comic, who’d walk onstage, grab an unfamiliar prop, and spin an entire character from thin air.

Give him a hat and you’d get a life story.

That’s the energy I want here.

You hand me the topic — the song title, the squiggle, the prop — and I’ll build the essay.

I can’t promise agreement, but I can promise clarity, velocity, and a little magic in real time.

We’re small, but the silence here feels electric — like a jazz trio tuning up before the downbeat.

Something’s alive in it.

If you know others who still believe in reason, humor, and unhurried thought — bring them in.

Quietly.

For all of you that have done this already, I thank you for your sincere effort.