Being Your Number One Fan

I’ve been on the internet for several years — when my parents allowed me to play more than just the original Rollercoaster Tycoon with its pixelated NPCs wandering around the map before I flung them to their dooms, I was given the liberal useage to browse the endless slew of websites and social media outlets. I was a child unhinged and ready to strike my way into the world as the next digitized form of sliced bread— however that manifested itself, no matter how it did so. I was also (slightly) disillusioned with the notion of popularity and gaining a cult following.

But I knew I wanted it. Being recognized for my creative achievements is something I‘ve craved since I did acting and singing, and that hasn’t changed much since I’ve decided to take up writing to a larger degree. However, with it, comes being comfortable with shouting into the dark.

I don’t care too much for networking or endlessly soliciting for likes or reviews in a freemium space, considering that’s what most general solicitations are; with that comes the acknowledged responsibility that I may be alone in a sea of other people, but at least I’m aware of it and no longer waiting with baited breath for a publisher to pick me up out of the blue and demand that I instantly submit my work to be on the New York Time’s Bestseller’s list. Instead it’s a matter of chasing that high when I get a new hit, a new comment — and ultimately, the acceptance letter for publication in a magazine or elite and selective medium.

In the meanwhile, it’s a matter of being at the grind. Understanding what it means to like your own work, because you will be looking at a lot of it. It’s no different than rereading it until you’re sick of it and hate the piece and being exhausted with editing, but that’s when you know it’s right. You’re not going to love everything you churn out. I look at some poems I’ve submitted and would rather I hit the backspace button and throw my laptop straight into the trash. But I submit it. And I like it anyways.

Everything that touches the internet that I put out gets liked by myself. I subscribe to myself on Twitch, Youtube— every method in which I can turn that zero into a one as a means to acknowledge that I myself have put something out into the universe — for better or for worse. I have the right to give myself that little boost in the algorithm (as much as it is a drop in the metaphorical social media bucket of course) and there’s almost a mechanical acknowledgement that as soon as it hits the internet, I’ll be the first one to see it.

It’s an act of self love that I can afford myself as an artist, knowing that I will be my biggest critic because I know every word I could have used instead of the ones that made the final cut, and constantly looking at it in retrospect, unable to argue my case against the individual or the colletive for my piece. It’s me, myself, and I with being an artist, and even if the world looks at what I create as something not work the gum on the bottom of their shoe, at least it has the one, truthfully honest like. The badge of pride that I did make this, I did honestly produce this, and that is worth celebration within itself.

And after all: if a website didn’t want me to subscribe to myself or like my own work… why not change it? Until then, I’m going to keep doing it. They can try and stop me.