I sat in the waiting area of Phaedra’s Soul

Food restaurant waiting for the manager to

show up. The vodka I drank earlier had me

sweating like a whore in church. I looked at

the walls and the ground and blew out nervous

breaths. A soft voice called for me and broke me

out of my trance.

“Mr. Porter.” The voice belonged to a thick,

milk chocolate-skinned woman with the body of

a porn star.

“Hello, ma’am,” I said politely. I tried my

hardest not to stare at her cantaloupe-sized

breasts.

“You don’t have to be formal with me, Anthony.

Call me Phaedra.”

“Okay. I can do that.” I held the door open for

her to pass through first.

Her tropical-scented perfume made me horny.

She looked sexy in her revealing top and tight

jeans that showed off her giant ass.

Inside her office, silver-framed pictures of

her and other people who were mostly in suits

covered her walls. Seeing how junky her office

was, I knew she probably put a lot of hours in at

the restaurant.

“I read over your application and nothing

jumped out at me right away . . .” She paused.

Remaining professional, I looked her in the

eye and listened closely.

“However, the ideal candidate paragraph you

wrote showed me your passion. You’re excellent

with words, sir.” She smiled and showed two

perfect rows of teeth.

I goofily smiled back at her. “Thank you very

much.”

“The job is yours if you want it.”

“When do I start?” I asked eagerly.

“Next Tuesday.”

After I left my job interview, I went back to

Aunt Leslie’s feeling like I hit the lottery jackpot.

As soon as I got into the apartment, I broke into

a silly dance. Being able to make my own money

made me feel like a man.

This was the first step toward helping my mother get back on her feet.

If I did some OT, maybe I could save up enough

money, and we could find a cheap apartment of

our own.

My mother came out of the kitchen and smiled

when she saw me clapping and spinning around.

“Boy, what are you doing?” she asked and

walked over to me.

“I got a job today.”

My mother’s eyes grew wide with excitement,

and she high-fived me. “Congratulations, baby.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

We sat on the couch.

“Where are you going to be working at?”

“Phaedra’s Soul Food.”

“Now, I know I can get me a discount, right?”

she asked and laughed.

“Of course,” I said, grinning.

“Look, baby, I’m going to go and take a nap.

“If you get hungry, there’s chicken fingers in the

freezer.”

“Okay.”

She made a beeline for the bedroom.

I got on Aunt Leslie’s laptop and edited one

of my screenplays. When it got dark outside, I

stopped typing and decided to go to the basket-

ball courts.

Once I got on the avenue, I bought a bag of

cheese curls and a Red Bull from the corner

store.

The block was lively. Two shapely women

argued while a man stood in between them

grinning. Farther down the street, a skinny

black man with a raggedy beard was hawking

bootleg cologne and perfumes. As I went to

cross the street, a guy on a dirt bike zoomed by

me popping a wheelie.

A few blocks later, I finished my cheese curls

and Red Bull and stepped on the blacktop like I

belonged there. I stood near the gate with a few

other spectators.

A white guy complained to another player

about picking a final teammate to play with.

Seeing my opportunity, I walked up on the

group of players unannounced and said, “I’ll

play.”

“Did I ask you to play?” the white guy asked

and got in my face.

I looked him in the eye and smirked. “You

scared or something, chump?” I taunted him,

and the people on the court showered him with

oohs!

Unexpectedly, he hit me in the stomach with

the ball, knocking the wind out of me.

“Watch your mouth when you come on my

court, bro,” he said with cold eyes and a harsh

tone.

I caught my breath after a few moments. “Stop

being a bitch and check the rock up.”

Soon as we got into the flow of the game, I

knew they played dirty. That was right up my

alley.

I pretended everybody on the other team

was Senior. I made sure to be ultra-aggressive.

When I got the chance, I swung my elbows at

their faces and tripped them when they came in

the paint.

The white guy who threw the ball at me

hugged me on defense. I hit him with my shoul-

der and elbowed him in the jaw.

As his head whipped back, I drove the lane and made the game-winning shot on a layup off the backboard.

Claps and cheers rained down on me. I felt like

King Kong.

I smirked, flung the basketball at the gate, and

strolled toward the exit.

Someone approached me from behind. On the defensive, I turned around and pushed him in the chest. I was ready to fight somebody.

The white guy put his hands up defensively. “I

come in peace, bro.” He stuck out his hand.

“I’m sorry, man.”

We shook hands. “I’m Anthony, by the way.”

“I’m Paul. And I didn’t mean any disrespect

by what I said earlier. I got caught up in the

competition out there.”

“Trust me, I understand.”

“I can’t remember the last time I lost to

anybody. You got some skills, bro. You most

definitely held your own out there.”

“Maybe we can do the best two out of three

next time,” I said and smiled.

“Definitely, bro.” Paul threw the basketball

to one of the players on the court. “Take my

number so we can link up.”

I punched his number into my cell phone.

“Good meeting you, man,” I said.

“Same here, bro.”

We shook hands again and went our separate

ways.

Maybe living with Aunt Leslie wouldn’t be so bad after all.

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Chapter 6 - 7.31.26

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Since we didn’t have any electricity, I went to the Free Library with my flash drive and used their computer to edit my screenplays and search for jobs. Because I felt the pressure to step up in Senior’s absence, I stayed at the library from open to close five days out of the week. The majority of the time, I got the, “I regret to inform you . . .” e-mails from employers.

Between our living situation and the nonexistent job opportunities, I was hitting the liquor bottle hard. I’d drink after breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sometimes, I got lit when I went on the job interviews. My nerves were shot, and vodka calmed me down.

When I left the library that night, all I wanted to do was have a drink and go to sleep. As I rounded the corner, I saw a group of people in front of my house. I immediately thought something happened to my mother. I broke into a sprint. My heart shattered into a million pieces when I saw it—our belongings on the sidewalk displayed for everyone to see. Whoever put our stuff outside didn’t bother putting it in boxes. Everything lay haphazardly on the sidewalk with our dressers and end tables.

With watery eyes and a heavy heart, I pushed through the crowd and ran up the stairs to find a padlock, and an eviction notice on our front door. Feeling naked and vulnerable, I came back down the steps.

“All of you need to mind your own fucking business!” I yelled at them before they all dispersed. I had never felt more alone in my life. I called my mom’s cell after I noticed the missed calls from her. My cell phone had been on vibrate at the library.

“I’m so sorry you found out like this,” she said somberly.

My shoulders slumped as I sat on our steps. “What are we going to do now?” I blew out a frustrated breath.

“For now, we’re going to stay with Aunt Leslie.”

“That’s nice of her to let us stay there.”

“Yeah. She’s a lifesaver.”

“Yes, she is,” I said, smiling weakly.

“You still remember how to get here?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

After I ended the call, I went and searched through our stuff and found a loose trash bag. I stuffed the bag with family pictures. When I looked at a picture of me, my mother, and Senior in Ocean City, I thought of happier times. All of our family vacations. All of the times we went to the movies. All of our family game nights.

Now, all of it was gone, and nothing would ever be the same.

The more I thought about our belongings, the more I didn’t want any of this stuff anymore. It represented the past, and I wanted to focus on the future. I spared our home one last glance before I walked to the bus stop. I took a bus and a train to get to Aunt Leslie’s apartment in North Philly. Abandoned buildings were scattered on her block. As I walked past the Chinese restaurant, there was a group of guys smoking. Weed smoke and fried shrimp lit up my nostrils.

Her two-bedroom apartment was on the third floor, and the hallway smelled like French fries and bleach. Aunt Leslie answered the door smiling. She was a thick woman, and when she hugged me, she almost crushed me.

“It’s good to see you, but I wish it was under different circumstances,” she said.

“Me too, Auntie.”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Aunt Leslie said and stepped away so my mother and I could talk. I put the trash bag down by the closet and sat on the couch next to my mother.

“How long can we stay here?” I asked.

“Leslie didn’t give me a timetable. We can stay here until we get back on our feet.”

“I hope we’re not here too long.”

“Me either, baby.”

“What are we going to do for money?”

My mother sighed. “Leslie is going to cover us as much as she can, and I’m waiting to hear back from a couple of jobs I applied to.”

“I’m playing the waiting game too with these jobs.”

“I’m prayerful that we will get the job calls sooner than later.”

She touched my shoulder and smiled weakly.

I looked into her eyes. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to get a job. With Senior gone, I’m the man of the house, and I’m going to take care of you.”

“Baby, you don’t have to worry about me. You get a job and take care of yourself. Mama will be okay, and so will you. You hear me?”

“I hear you.” I stood. “I’m going out for a walk to clear my head. I shouldn’t be gone long,” I said and headed for the door.

“Okay. If you go to the store, can you bring me back an iced honey bun?” she asked.

“Sure thing.”

When I got outside of the building, my cell phone rang. An unknown number popped up on my caller ID. “Who this?” I asked.

“Hello, I’m Jessica from Phaedra’s Soul Food. I’m calling to see if you’re still interested in the position.”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“Can you come in for an interview tomorrow morning?” I smiled like the Grinch.

“Absolutely.”

Initially, I planned to drown my sorrows with vodka. Now the drink would be celebratory.

Chapter 4 - 7.24.26

Chapter 5 - 7.28.26

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On a breezy Friday afternoon in September, I came back to Philly from New York City. I had enjoyed an all-expense-paid screenwriting retreat courtesy of Senior. It was a gift for having a 4.0 grade point average and being the valedictorian of my graduating class.

The pricey two-week trip represented the last meaningful deed the man did for me. The retreat’s workshops educated me on tightening scenes, eliminating fluff, and finding a unique voice of my own. I soaked up every word and committed every tip to memory.

Then, I ate until I had to loosen my belt at the nightly buffet.

After we ate dinner, they allowed us to explore Times Square. The giant billboards. The bright lights. The fleet of Yellow Cabs. The smell of roasted peanuts, gyros, and grilled hot dogs. The people who roamed the streets.

All of those things inspired me to write. Sometimes I didn’t sleep a full eight hours because the ideas wouldn’t stop coming to me. Having real-life things to draw from helped me to write things easier.

The retreat also gave me the perfect distraction from thinking about Senior’s abuse and him abandoning us. I got off the cigarette-smelling Greyhound bus feeling stiff. My legs were cramped for most of the ninety-minute bus ride. At least I got to talk to a retired homicide detective. He gave me a lot of insight on police procedure that I used in my screenplay.

After I used the bathroom in the bus station, I walked around the corner and took the regular bus home. When I walked in the house, I heard my mother talking loudly on the phone upstairs.

Then, I noticed a pile of envelopes on the dining room table. Most of the envelopes said Final Notice in bold red. I looked at the envelopes quizzically because I assumed the bills were being paid. I hit play to listen to the messages on the answering machine. All five of the voice mails said, “This is an attempt to collect a debt.” I pushed stop on the answering machine and went into the kitchen.

Dishes filled the sink, and the trash overflowed in the trash can. Down in the basement, I found clothes all over the floor in the laundry room. Obviously, something was going on. I went all the way up to my mother’s bedroom and stood by the door to eavesdrop on her con versation.

“I don’t know how long I can keep this a secret. Girl, what the hell am I going to do with another child?”

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. I rushed into her bedroom, and shock crossed her face. “Leslie, let me call you right back.” She fumbled with her cell phone before ending the call and looking at me. “Anthony, baby, when did you get here?”

Ignoring her question, I asked, “How far along are you?”

She became silent.

I came over and patted her on the shoulder supportively. “I’m here for you.”

She looked up at me, and her eyes watered. “I’m two and a half months.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked softly.

“I didn’t want to burden you with my problems. Our situation is stressful enough.”

“Your stress is my stress too. I’m a big boy. I can take a lot. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

She nodded. “We’re behind a couple thousand with the bills . . . and a couple months with the mortgage.” She avoided eye contact with me.

I sat next to her on the bed. “Before I left for the retreat, you said we would be okay even though Senior left. Is that still true?” I asked, trying not to think pessimistically.

“Of course, baby. I’m going to figure a way out of this for us. We won’t be down forever.” She grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes. “I promise.”

So far, my mother hadn’t ever lied to me, so I took her words to heart. I switched subjects.

“What happened with the dishes and the laundry room?”

“The truth?”

“Of course.”

“Sometimes your mother can be lazy.”

I pulled her into a hug.

“I still love you, though.”

“I love you too, baby.”

In the middle of our tender moment, the electricity cut off.

“I’ll get some candles from downstairs,” I said before I traveled through the darkened hallway. My mother’s words echoed in my head as I went down the steps.

“I’m going to figure a way out of this for us.”

I sure hoped so because we were in a bad spot.

Chapter 3 - 7.21.26

Chapter 4 - 7.24.26

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Normally, she gave out hugs and cheek kisses, but Senior had her acting cold and distant. They were so into their argument that they didn’t even notice me standing there at the bottom of the stairs.

“Who is she?” my mother asked with her hands on her wide hips. Senior smiled and shook his head.

“Every day it’s something new with you, Brenda. Don’t you get tired of accusing me of shit? I know I’m sick of it.”

“You come in the house at two in the morning smelling like perfume and liquor, and you’re sick?” She looked at him like he had two heads.

“You must have lost your damn mind.” Senior’s forehead wrinkled in frustration.

“I had a few Coronas at the bar. So what? I’m not guilty of anything.”

“Explain this then.” She handed him a letter. Senior’s eyes grew wide, and he sucked his teeth.

“Why did you open my mail?” His voice cracked with emotion.

“What are you guys fighting for?” I asked, jumping into their conversation. This had gone far enough.

“Nothing, Junior. A small misunderstanding between your mother and me,” Senior said, his hands flailing.

“Don’t you lie to him, you son of a bitch,” my mother said.

“Let me be clear,” Senior began, pounding his fist into his palm to emphasize his point. “You wanted to find something, right? Unfortunately, you found what you were looking for. Don’t blame me, Brenda.” He walked off and went toward the steps.

“Can y’all calm down, please?” I asked, looking between them.

My mother’s eyes narrowed to slits, and she followed after him.

When Senior went to touch the banister, she grabbed his arm.

He yanked his arm free, and they stared each other down. Soon as Senior turned to go upstairs, my mother pushed him into the stairs. After he stood up, he got in her face. Nothing could be heard but their heavy breathing. “What you gonna do now, coward?” my mother asked and smirked.

Without warning, Senior slapped her in the mouth. She stumbled backward and landed on the floor.

In my seventeen years on earth, I had never seen Senior hit my mother. When I saw blood on her lip, I charged at him and knocked into his shoulder. At six foot three and 240 pounds, Senior, had me by two inches and thirty pounds, but I didn’t give a shit.

Once he put his hands on my mother, I had to do something. “What the hell is your problem?” I asked him with my fists balled at my sides. We were nose to nose. I smelled hints of floral-scented perfume. Senior smelling like another woman’s perfume made me sick to my stomach.

“Stay out of grown folks’ business that doesn’t concern you.” He turned his back on me and walked away.

Something deep down inside of me snapped. I pushed him in the back, and he turned around and pushed me in the chest. Out of nowhere, he swung on me. I moved to my left and punched him in the jaw and the side of his head. He touched his face in disbelief and gritted his teeth.

Then, he punched me in the mouth and hit me in the stomach twice. “You wanna act like an adult? I’ll treat you like one.” Another punch to the stomach. He knocked the wind out of me, and I tasted blood on my lip.

“You must’ve lost your damn mind,” Senior said, as I held my stomach in pain. Once I caught my breath, I tackled him and knocked over the couch. I got on top of him and kept punching him in the face until my knuckles were bloody and my hands ached. I stopped hitting him when my mother put her hand on my shoulder.

“That’s enough, Anthony.” She held a kitchen knife in her other hand. “You need to leave before I call the cops,” she said to Senior in a fearful tone.

While lying on the ground and holding his jaw, Senior said, “I don’t need this shit from either one of you. I’m out of here.”

He slowly got off the ground and went upstairs. I circled the living room in a rage, mumbling to myself. I wanted to kick his ass some more.

“Try to calm down, baby,” my mother said. After a few minutes, Senior came downstairs with a small suitcase. I got in his face again.

“Wow, so you leaving us now?” I asked and shook my head in disappointment. At that moment, I hated how much we looked alike. The long eyelashes, naturally curly hair, pointy nose, and light brown skin. I even hated that we shared the same name, Anthony Edward Porter. I nicknamed him Senior, and he called me Junior. Both nicknames stuck with us over the years. He shook his head and bit his lip.

“You have a lot to learn about respect. I’m your father, and the shit you pulled today should make you ashamed of yourself. I’m not perfect, and neither are you. You remember that when it’s your turn to be judged.”

I saw the hurt in his face as his eyes watered. Then he walked out the door. Something told me he was leaving for good. I watched through the front window as he got into our piece-of-shit Toyota Camry with a donut on the wheel and peeled off up the street.

His cologne and the other woman’s perfume lingered in the living room long after he left. All of his life lessons about family being number one were total bullshit. Obviously, my mother and I weren’t that important because he left us without hesitation. I went over to my mother who was slumped on the other couch with her chin to her chest.

“What did the letter say?” I put an arm around her and hugged her.

“Senior has another son,” she whispered and let the tears fall.

I was stunned because now I had a baby brother out there in the world. Truthfully, I always wanted a sibling, but not under these circumstances. I was disappointed that Senior stepped out on my mother and had a mistress and another son. He abandoned us, and when he left our house, it was obvious that he chose his other family over us.

How did my mother and I become so insignificant? I wished like hell I could transfer the pain from my mother to me. Knowing Senior cheated was one thing. Seeing proof of his cheating ways pissed me off, and I’m sure my mother would never be the same.

I wiped the tears from her cheek with my thumb. I’m sure I would never be the same again, either.

Later that morning, a few hours after Senior left the house, I strolled through our tree-lined neighborhood. The sky was pink and orange, and the clouds looked like cotton balls bunched together.

The air outside was cool and crisp despite it being July. It was peaceful out there, and taking a walk allowed me to clear my head. Thinking about Senior, I had so many ques tions. Why did he cheat on my mother? Did he love us anymore? What would I do the next time I saw him? Would there be a next time? Would we speak again? What would my life become without him? I circled back around the block and lumbered home.

Back inside the house, I stood by my parents’ half-opened bedroom door, eavesdropping on my mother’s phone conversation. She blamed herself and said she should’ve been more attentive to Senior’s needs. I wanted to rush inside their room and shake her for blaming herself for his bullshit. I grew tired of her making excuses for him. Instead, I let her vent to whoever she was on the phone with and went into my bedroom. I vowed to make it big in Hollywood so my mother would never again have to depend on a man for shit. She was my responsibility now. On my watch, she would never have to struggle again.

Back in high school, I had to write a screen play for a class project and found out I enjoyed writing way more than I expected to. By the time I graduated from high school in June, I had finished two crime fiction screenplays, one named Compromised and the other named Cold-Blooded. At first, I wanted to make some money for myself when I eventually sold the screenplays to somebody.

Now with Senior gone, I wanted to make money for me and my mother. Between Senior abandoning us and my mother blaming herself for his actions, I needed a drink. I grabbed a bottle of vodka out of my nightstand and took it to the head. My love for vodka started in the eleventh grade.

At an unsupervised house party, I got caught in a dare to take shots of liquor. Soon after, I became addicted to drinking. I hoped the vodka would dull the pain of Senior choosing to be with another family over us.

Here’s the synopsis:

Anthony Porter, an emerging young screenwriter and closeted alcoholic, loses faith in family and relationships after he learns of his father’s infidelity. Then he meets Essence, a woman with a college degree, her own home, and the perfect smile. Feeling like she is “the one,” he throws himself into the relationship, only to learn of her manipulative and vindictive ways.

Battling with depression and his own inner demons, Anthony turns to screenwriting as his only solace. Just as things are improving, he learns of secrets that shatter his world again, leaving him wanting retribution, for which he will risk everything—including his freedom.

Chapter 2 - 7.17.26

Chapter 3 - 7.21.26

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VISIBILITY.

People can’t buy a book they don’t know about. I think about that a lot. How do you get your product in front of people? How do you find the people whom you want to get your product in front of?

As an author, it seems like the questions are infinite.

I’m obsessed with how products are marketed and what actually makes them sell. I used to be a big fan of the Superbowl commercials because how they present them.

For example, think about McDonald’s. They never tell you to buy the product. They just say it’s available. You make your own choice.

Books are a tricky proposition that relies heavily on word of mouth. You have to get into other people’s ecosystem. Every reader has one. I think of every marketing effort as compound interest. The more you do the more you can possibly gain.

Sometimes, I’m overly optimistic and I think you can mimic the traditional marketing spaces in smaller batches. There are book influencers and book spaces that have a bigger reach than some of those traditional outlets.

The trap I got caught in was blind posting on social media with no intentionally behind it. My first book’s rollout was a disaster because I didn’t have the proper infrastructure to make the book a success. I had no contacts, no marketing budget, no direction, and no plan.

I don’t know everything, but at least I feel comfortable enough in my own skin to be authentically me and let the chips fall where they may.

With that said, I go down a lot of rabbit holes and I’m consistently trying to refine my marketing approach. What marketing methods are most effective? Which ones give me the most ROI? Where are my marketing dollars best spent?

I like to set small, intermediate, and large goals. One of my large goals is to have some sort of large-scale promotional push one day. (ex. billboard on I-95)

I got price quoted for a similar large-scale promotional venture and it was $5,000 a month. Before I might’ve scoffed at that price, but now I understand more about business tradeoff. That $5,000 get you access to an estimated 24,000,000 people.

Ecosystem.

VISBILITY.

Access to both of those cost money and time. Even the biggest brands in the world deem it necessary to continue to bring awareness to a multimillion and sometimes billion-dollar properties. The quest for discoverability never stops.

I mentioned rabbit holes earlier so I might as well mention another one. I wanted to study a lead title at a Big Five publisher. So, I set out on a quest to dig as deep as I could.

Here’s a list I found for that lead title:

-Book club pick

-Late night talk show appearance

-People Magazine

-Boston Globe

-Wall Street Journal

-The Atlantic

-Minnesota Star Tribune

-Kirkus Reviews

-Publisher’s Weekly

-Booklist

-Book page

-Shelf Awareness

-Associated Press

That’s probably not even half of the company’s marketing efforts because they want return on that advance payment.

Again, a lottery ticket.

The hope is that with enough of a push/buzz a good book can sell. On the flipside, a good book can be everywhere and marketed well but still doesn’t capture the reading public’s attention.

Writing is such an interesting journey. There are no guarantees and the market is always changing. Writers are battling imposter syndrome, writer’s block, social media fatigue, lack of funds, etc.

And you know what? They keep going and keep grinding.

I don’t know how to give up. I’m hardwired to find a solution, to problem solve. Luckily for me, I have a strong support system I can go to when things get rough.

I study what came before me, but I’m not married to it. I try and do the best with what I have and never stop advocating for myself. Social media is a megaphone, and I get to use it whenever I want.

That’s an asset.

As the title of this article said: I’m a Lottery Ticket

And I won’t stop trying until I hit the jackpot.

That’s what I told myself when I decided to delete Instagram. I was ready to wash my hands of it. Completely done.

Even though I was in the middle of book promo. That was the only thing keeping me tethered to the idea of staying.

Then—boom. Threads showed up, batted her eyelashes at me.

I should’ve never made eye contact.

And to add insult to injury, I couldn’t delete Instagram without sacrificing Threads anyway. So… why not give it a shot, right?

At first, I made the same mistakes—tried to apply the same tired social media templates. And got the same hauntingly familiar results.

CRICKETS.

So, I had to ask myself—what was I doing wrong?

I wasn’t being me.

I didn’t even know what that meant because I had spent so much time doing everything but that.

I ignored the social media advice. No more trending audio. No more hashtags. No more trying to game the system.

And then…something amazing happened.

Threads became fun. Discussions were happening. Authors were celebrating wins. I found my tribe. The content I actually wanted to see was all in one place.

I leaned into my personal interests, and people connected with me.

Most importantly? I love that I can come to my bookish corner of the internet and feel right at home.

There’s no pressure. It’s just… fun.

And the moment it stops being fun? Then I know I’m doing myself a disservice.

I’m not a content creator. I’m a curator—someone who gets to be completely unhinged, talk about tacos, and nerd out over Robocop.

And I’ve made some genuine connections along the way. Met some really talented people.

Speaking of talented people—one of my Thriends (yes, that’s what we’re calling it) encouraged me to give Instagram another shot.

Begrudgingly… I went back to the place I swore I’d never return to.

But this time, I made a change.

I focused on making my time there meaningful. I actually tried to connect. I engaged with people. And most importantly, I had fun.

That’s my foundation now. Fun.

Sure, there’s business to handle, but if I’m not enjoying myself, I will unplug if I need to.

At least now, I know I won’t waste my time on BlueSky.

But that’s another post for another day.

Thank you for reading.

Humbly,

Marc

That’s what I told myself.

My content goes there to die.

My biggest waste of time? Twi— I mean, X. I wasn’t an early adopter. The blue bird launched in 2006. I joined in 2009. And I never found my footing. A lot of that was probably my own aversion to social media. When you constantly hear that social media is “useless” or a “waste of time,” that message sticks. It poisons your thinking. And for years, it poisoned mine. I didn’t know what to post, so I copied what I thought worked.

And the results?

Unsurprisingly terrible.

Looking back, my content was all over the place. The algorithm had no idea where to send my posts. And honestly? I’m just not good at doing what everyone else does. Sure, it’s useful to see what people respond to, but only as a reference point. And X? X was especially cruel. My engagement was nonexistent. When I did get a comment, it was from a bot named L0oKaTME26. In fact, when I finally audited my account, I realized most of my followers were bots. I was wasting my time. So, I shifted my attention to Instagram. Again, not an early adopter. The app launched in 2010. I joined in 2014.

Sensing a pattern here? I’m always late to the party.

But after years of trial and error, I finally found a rhythm. At first, I was remixing content, sharing other creators’ memes. But as you can imagine that process eats up time. And more importantly? It wasn’t my content. If I’m researching memes, I’m not writing. If I’m not writing, I can’t finish my books. If I can’t finish my books, I can’t sell them. And if I can’t sell my books… I can’t make any money.

Faced with that reality, I still didn’t want to give up.

Then, Instagram Reels exploded in popularity. And total transparency? I didn’t adapt well. Just when I thought I had found my groove, my engagement tanked. No one was paying attention. Reels were like a Rubik’s cube, and I couldn’t get any of the colors to match. That’s when it hit me—like a lead pipe to the chest. It was time to go dark. I deleted X. I had already abandoned Facebook years ago. But I was still stubbornly trying to breathe life into Instagram, a platform that wasn’t working for me anymore. I deactivated TikTok (LOL). I was ice cold from a content standpoint. I didn’t know what to post. And as much as it hurt to pivot, I had to stop banging my head against the brick wall of social media.

So, I made a decision.

I was going to delete Instagram.

TO BE CONTINUED....

Thank you for reading.

Humbly,

Marc