Long before newsletters clogged your inbox, Benjamin Franklin was running one. Poor Richard’s Almanack began in 1732 as a modest annual pamphlet, yet it quietly became one of the most widely distributed pieces of media in the colonies. For 26 years straight, Franklin wrote, edited, marketed, and distributed each issue. Turning the Almanack into an early prototype of today’s creator economy.
The format feels strangely familiar: recurring publication, consistent voice, evergreen advice, jokes, maxims, and a blend of education and entertainment.
The genius of the Almanack wasn’t the content alone. It was the system behind it.
Franklin had built a multi-city printing network across the colonies. It was one of America’s first media distribution chains. Through partnerships with printers in other towns, he could push each year’s Almanack far beyond Philadelphia. No mailers, no algorithms, just a cleverly engineered network that operated like a human-powered RSS feed.
What modern creators call distribution, Franklin called good business. He controlled the printing, the supply chain, the sales channels, and the brand. The Almanack wasn’t merely a book; it was a content product with a built-in national audience.
Poor Richard
The Almanack’s narrator, “Poor Richard” Saunders, wasn’t Franklin. He was an invented persona. A kind of colonial character brand. Richard was practical, witty, moralizing but not preachy, and full of self-effacing humor. Franklin used Richard the way creators today use a consistent voice or narrative persona.
Through him, Franklin could:
Share controversial opinions without hurting his other ventures
Deliver advice in a friendlier tone than a pamphlet could
Make jokes and moral lessons feel like they came from a neighbor, not a printer
But Poor Richard wasn’t Franklin’s only mask.
Franklin created an entire ensemble cast of characters he could write through, each with a different voice, worldview, or comedic edge. Long before authors talked about “pen names” or marketers talked about “brand voice,” Franklin was running a multi-character content universe.
He wrote as:
Silence Dogood — a sharp, witty widow offering commentary on society, education, and manners. Franklin used her to poke fun at hypocrisy and pretension.
Caelia Shortface and Martha Careful — satirical characters used to critique social vanity and romantic absurdities.
Polly Baker — a fictional woman delivering a scathing, satirical court speech about double standards in morality and law.
Busy-Body — a neighborhood gossip who shared observations in a faux-helpful tone, somewhere between satire and social commentary.
These characters let Franklin do things he couldn’t do as “Benjamin Franklin, respectable printer and businessman.” Through them, he could:
Test controversial ideas without threatening his other ventures
Criticize power structures from behind a theatrical curtain
Deliver moral lessons with humor instead of lectures
Experiment with voices, tones, and narrative styles
Make readers feel like they were part of an intimate conversation, not receiving a sermon
Franklin understood something remarkable: short, quotable lines travel.
And so the Almanack became a machine for producing them.
Many of the sayings you’ve heard your entire life come straight from its pages:
“A penny saved is a penny earned.”
“Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”
“Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.”
These weren’t random proverbs. They were strategically crafted for memorability, rhythm, brevity, parallel structure. They read like early tweet formats, optimized for spread in a world where “sharing” was done by repeating lines to your neighbors.
The Almanack was designing content for the oral algorithm.
The Almanack as a Business
Scholars sometimes forget Franklin wasn’t simply a writer; he was an entrepreneur. And the Almanack wasn’t a noble act of public education, it was the engine that powered his print empire.
Here’s the part that feels shockingly modern: The Almanack was his lead magnet.
Why?
It was cheap
Highly anticipated each year
Bought by farmers, merchants, sailors — nearly every household
Produced annually, creating recurring customers
Cross-promoted Franklin’s other printed goods
People came for the weather reports and stayed for the jokes, essays, puzzles, and advice. And once they trusted Franklin, they printed their forms with him, read his newspaper, and paid for his other publications.
By the late 1730s, the Almanack was selling upwards of 10,000 copies per edition, an absurd number given the population at the time. Adjusted for scale, it would be like a modern newsletter with millions of active readers.
People referenced it. Quoted it. Taught from it. Gave copies as gifts. It became a cultural touchstone because it served practical needs (weather, tides, planting advice) wrapped in entertaining prose.
Franklin found the exact balance modern newsletters chase:
usefulness + personality = loyalty.
The End of the Almanack
In 1758, he published his final Almanack and retired from printing by age 42.
Why?
Because he no longer needed the revenue. His print franchises, contracts, and property investments had compounded. The Almanack had achieved what every creator dreams of. Enough momentum to make its creator financially independent.
Having built an audience, a brand, and a distribution empire, Franklin stepped back and moved into science, diplomacy, and institution-building.