i want to be a substack princess

/i hate social media pt. ii

The other day I was in this “nature & spiritual boutique.” Sometimes I pass it on my walks. I’ve gotten cute stuff there for cheap: a blue tote bag adorned with big dandelions, a matchbox with a beautifully painted eye on it. I was feeling sad on my stroll because my stomach was hurting so I decided I’d let myself buy one of those butterflies encased in glass for twenty bucks. I’ve been doing all these medical tests to find out if I have Crohn’s disease or Celiac or whatever the fuck and life kind of sucks because I’m in pain all the time.

I wandered over to the bones/skull aisle and eyed all the different specimen. I decided I was not morbid enough to want a spider encased in glass, though they were charming in their own way. Little turtle skulls sat in jars on dried moss and I considered getting one of those, too. There was even a bird skeleton and it was standing. I was looking at all this stuff when a man meandered over and started saying how unreal it all was. “Yep,” I said. He kept picking things up even though there were many little signs that instructed to not touch anything. I wondered what he was doing in this store. I pointed to a fancy $100 jar displaying a butterfly majestically:

I asked him if he would get me it. He was old enough to be my dad and reminded me of Elon Musk. He had sloppy brown hair and a grey T-shirt and a sad look in his eyes. Like you can’t help but feel bad for this guy for some reason. He said he would get me one of the $20 butterflies and I thought that was pathetic. This game was only fun if he would buy me something expensive.

But I said sure, whatever. He asked me for my name and I said Jessica. His name was Brett. I thought, of course his name is Brett. He said OK, pick which one you want. I pointed to the blue butterfly. I called the girl at the counter over to get it for me since you’re supposed to ask for assistance. Then Brett said, Be right back, and rushed out. I wasn’t sure if he was getting his wallet from his car or ditching. Either way, I wasn’t going to wait for him. I hoped he wouldn’t come back. But by the time I paid for it and was leaving through the glass doors, he was there. “I would’ve bought it for you,” he said. “You ran away,” I said. He was starting to say something else but I just said, “Bye Brett,” and continued on my walk.

I pressed the button for the intersection and walked across when the light turned red. I passed men sitting on folding chairs and smoking in front of a cigar shop. I inhaled deeply because I quit cigarettes and secondhand smoke is all I get. Then, as I was listening to music, I heard someone yelling “Jessica!” I turned back and saw Brett running after me. He asked if I got the butterfly. I said I did. He said he really would’ve bought it for me as a “token of kindness.” I said OK. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Just killing some spare time, which is rare,” he said. “Don’t you have a job,” I said. “Sometimes,” he said. “What do you do,” I asked. “I make money here and there,” he said sketchily. I wanted to tell him he reminded me of Elon Musk but I didn’t. He asked what I do. I tried to think of a compelling lie, a fun fake job to work, but I just blurted, “I sell clothes.” Boring.

I have been sort of miserable lately. Luckily, Lexapro makes misery bearable. It’s just a drifting thing. However, it hasn’t been able to kill the heaviness in my chest. A sinking feeling. I thought being off social media would help liberate me of my own impossible expectations, but it has not. The rat race persists. In fact, being off social media is making me lose. I didn’t think I would be the kind of person to care so much about recognition, but it’s a hard thing to admit to yourself—that despite believing in your own abilities, you still need external validation. This is heightened by the way the internet makes all types of statistics readily available. See how many copies your book have sold, see who’s rating it how many stars, see how many people are talking about it on Twitter.

What makes everything even more anxiety-inducing are the figures who incessantly pop up on your social media feeds who are doing what you do except better. The truth is—even though I’ve told myself that the work is all that matters and everything else is a distraction—I want to be a Substack princess, I want to be a Literary It Girl, I want to be whatever stupid fucking aesthetic embodiment can be put on a T-shirt and sold and worn and spread like a disease. I want to be admired and envied, RTed and praised. I want people to care, even though I claim I do this for myself.

I’ve always written because of this sense of being an outcast, of being on the outside looking in. But the writing scene from New York—where I’m from—is glamorous, prestigious. I wonder if people would take me less seriously if they knew I live with my mom. My mom who I hide my novel from because she would be angry at me for writing it, she wouldn’t understand why I would write something so negative. I wonder if people would take me less seriously if they knew I pregamed every literary event because of my fear of saying the wrong thing, though I’m even more embarrassing when I’m drunk, only less anxious with alcohol in my bloodstream.

Of course they wouldn’t care. Only I care. I’m more hurt when I’m not asked to do a reading than I am happy when I’m asked to do one. No amount of compliments of my book will satiate me. And it’s so humiliating to admit because I don’t think any artists are entitled to laud. Drowning in self-pity is just an excuse to avoid the work. But the internet makes comparison and competition unavoidable. No matter how many times I say I want out, no matter how many afternoons I spend lying on a blanket in a field reading, I always return to this, this insatiable need for my work to be appreciated.

My friend asked why I bothered talking to that guy—Brett—and it is because I will give anyone the chance to see me, invite anyone into my mess in case there’s a possibility they understand.