I can no longer support other bloggers nor fellow writers and artists who don’t even thank me for my support. I cannot be a “groupie” any longer and I do not enjoy it. I might follow someone if I enjoy their posts but I won’t “share” them unless I have a particular comment, that is, agree or disagree or elaborate on what they have said. And nothing else, really. If my “congratulations” is brushed aside and not even appreciated, if my “this post is great” isn’t even acknowledged (or worse, my comment is held in moderation and then, discarded) then I seriously question why I am making an effort. I do not want to make too much of an effort in proportion to the lack of appreciation of said effort.
By all means, giving and expecting nothing in return is a good thing! Of course! However, there are plenty of UNDERAPPRECIATED blogs and bloggers out there. YOU need to find these blogs, too. Why follow those who have plenty of followers already and do not even give one FUCK if you follow them or unfollow them? To these popular bloggers who have not yet even answered your emails, (maybe they care so little that they send a bounceback….) THEY DO NOT GIVE A SHIT. So why make an effort any longer? Why care? Why try and try and try to be loved when they aren’t going to love you? They got hundreds caring about them. (Look what happens as soon as they post a YouTube.) Go find someone that only has a few followers and see what happens when you tell them, “Hey, I liked this.” Not only will you be very much appreciated, but you might make a new friend as soon as you do so.
Ahem…I guess that pretty much sums it up. Underappreciated. Only I am not supposed to be the one using that word to describe myself. Not me, and not now. Someone is supposed to use that word at my eulogy, should there ever be one. Only I do not want that to happen. Because truthfully, I don’t want it to get that far. I don’t want to be FINALLY appreciated after it’s fucking too late. And I have been saying this for years now, wishing I didn’t even have to say it.
I wish I didn’t see the obvious, that if I were dead someone might suddenly say, “Oh, we should have noticed….” Which gets me into a writer’s conundrum. Do I die to get the word out, or do I stay alive and fucking unnoticed, screaming to be heard. “Hey, please hear me out!” It’s sad, and staring me in the face that death is going to get me the biggest audience I’ve ever had. I’ve known this for a year or two, known that I could die and then, have all the Freedom of Speech I wanted! “Oh, she was right all along!” which the fuckers won’t say to my face while I am alive. But I did not go that route. Somehow I believed, probably incorrectly, that I could have both, life and that loving audience that believed my story and actually upheld it as truth (the way 99% of people’s stories tend to be upheld as truthful).
But there is no career, no one out there. I am talking to an empty cyberspace.
It’s a lie that that’s what death is like, that you speak only inside a cold coffin where no one hears. That couldn’t possibly be true. You live on. Obviously the music of Bach and Beethoven lives on. In fact, when I got to music school I was told that the ONLY music that mattered was the music of dead white guys. I was told that their music mattered and mine did not. Get lost, kid.
I’ve been busy getting lost all my life. I’ll keep getting lost and I’ve gotten good at making myself scarce, just to keep the joke going. I hope the Dead White Guys enjoy my sense of humor someday, if it works like that. How is it even possible that the ultimate disappearance ends up illuminating one’s words, strengthening the pen, putting the sale of one’s art on autopilot? I won’t have to sell anymore. And that, to me, will be a huge relief.