I'm Not Good For The Algorithm

This morning, I sat down at my desk, opened my laptop, and forgot my own bloody password. Me. A project manager. A person whose literal job is juggling multiple tasks, keeping things on track, and maintaining some semblance of order. I am supposed to be good at this. And yet, I sat there, completely blank, because my brain had spent the entire night spiraling over Rupert bloody Blackmore instead of doing what it was supposed to do.

Because writing this book? It is taking over my entire brain. It is devouring every ounce of mental capacity I have left after work, after life, after trying to be a semi-functional human. It is burning through my focus like a lit match in a pile of dry leaves.

I am supposed to have a Pinterest plan. I am supposed to craft Instagram content that is digestible, trendy, algorithm-friendly. I am supposed to engage with posts, network, comment, like, share, post at the right times, use the right hashtags, and somehow convince an inhuman, soulless algorithm to show my work to people who might actually give a shit.

I hate it.

I hate everything about it.

I do not want to game the system. I do not want to play by rules that change daily. I do not want to spend hours creating meaningless content for 17 views and zero interaction. This? This is draining the creative life out of me. Because I am not here for trends.

Because my brain is on fire with this story and I need to get it out before I implode. And yet, I’m spiraling. Because what good is writing a painfully funny, deeply unhinged, supernatural romance if nobody ever finds it? What’s the point of burning myself alive for this book if it never reaches the people who would love it as much as I do?

So I’m screaming into the Instagram void, trying to find the right people—the ones who get it. I know they’re out there. But I am too shit at finding them, and the algorithm is merciless.

And I do not want to fight it.

I do not want to be good at social media.

I do not want to make pointless content just to keep up.

I want to connect.

I want to talk to real people who still read full books, still listen to entire albums, still get obsessed over characters like they’re real.

I want to write my bloody book, not optimize myself for an algorithm that doesn’t give a shit about storytelling. And yeah—maybe that means I’m screaming into the void. Maybe that means my book won’t go viral. But I’d rather be unseen than inauthentic.

And to the ones out there—the ones who still haunt old forums, who still hoard playlists full of dramatic sad men, who love deep, slow-burn, folklore-drenched stories with teeth—You’ll find me.

Because this book?

It’s not for everyone.

It’s for you.