Refuse to Disappear

Being unseen isn't the same as being unworthy.

David C. Roberson’s Maladjusted Multiverse #30

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This is from Back to the Future. Please tell me you’ve… just… please go watch it.

Man, have I seen some absolutely extraordinary artists disappear. They had talent, they had skill, and they had the discipline to overcome the days when they found themselves up against an inspiration block. Still, they disappeared.

Sure, a lot of them brushed hard up against financial hardship, familial responsibilities, health issues. But I’m not talking about those people.

I’m talking about the folks who wrote a few poems, posted a few paintings, released a handful of podcasts, and decided they weren’t good enough when the applause never found them.

I think about those people a lot. More than I should, actually. Probably because every time I publish something, there is this part of me that desperately wants to become one of them.

And it’s not because I want to quit, it’s because quitting, in some ways, is so much easier than showing people the things that you made. Making things is already hard, but showing those things to people is harder. Showing them again after nobody noticed or cared? That might be the hardest bit.

Creators spend an awful lot of time trying not to confuse being unseen with being unworthy.

They feel like the same thing, but they are not the same. The Internet has always had a funny/not-funny way of convincing us otherwise.

You’re excited because you finally finished something you’ve poured an ungodly amount of hours into. Then the pride is criminally subverted by the disappointment you feel watching an outline of a heart fail to grow numbers beside it.

Eventually, you close the app having clocked three paltry likes, a smattering of views, each representing a microsecond of a glance before scrolling away, and one comment that contains a link to someone who had a vaguely similar idea before you.

Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash

Don’t try to back out now, friend. Your brain already saw those statistics and translated them into self-worth. Like hacky TikTok parents trying to go viral by publicly traumatizing their children, your brain has performed a dirty little trick on you. It said the magic incantation, “Three likes — Twenty-four views — One comment!”, and dropped the ratty bedsheet.

“Where are you? You’re invisible!”

And once you think that, choosing to disappear is the next logical step. Better to go out on your own terms, right?

Except the numbers don’t tell you that your poem mattered to Kylie who desperately needed to read it after the death of her best friend. It doesn’t say that James read it, tried to like it or comment, but couldn’t because the fucking glitchy piece-of-shit app reset the feed. They don’t tell you that Tara took a screenshot of it to look back at it later, then sent it to Charlie because they’d just been talking about feeling the exact way you felt.

All those numbers tell you is how loud the room happened to be. And that is completely dependent on how many people the platform let into the venue.

I have to remind myself of that constantly. Because I have been making things for most of my life. Stories, poems, drawings, photographs, podcasts, videos. I have fucking ideas scribbled in notebooks that are old enough to buy me a beer.

Some of them are damn good. Others deserve to remain hidden for archaeologists from the next wave of human civilization to unearth and wonder what mad series of events caused a human to craft such nonsense.

But every single one of those malformed, maladjusted musings taught me something. Every one one became another brick. So is this newsletter. It isn’t a collection of completely random emails. It isn’t entirely a marketing campaign, either.

This newsletter is a correspondence with friends who care about what I’m building as much as it’s a record of my body of work. Eventually, I’ll run out of old poems to resurrect. But working on them has reignited my love of poetry. There will be more! I’ve also been dying to get back to photography, as well. And short stories!

It all belongs to the same larger project. I’m trying to build something that lasts longer than a social media post. I want to produce books on shelves. Poetry collections, stories, photography and artwork hanging on walls… maybe even get to that novel that’s spent the last twenty years anxiously tapping its foot while waiting on me to finish it.

I don’t expect every piece to be extraordinary, and honestly, no creator should.

There’s this old quote:

“Ninety percent of success is showing up.”

Whoever said it first got at least that much right. Maybe. Or maybe it just sounds good. Damn good.

Bodies of work aren’t built magically from a pile of flawless masterpieces. They’re built from consistency, showing up, and making the next thing.

And then somewhere along the way, people start to recognize your voice.

When you’re lost in the woods, you’re supposed to stay where you are. Rescue teams can’t find you if you’re running in circles! I also think about this a lot as a creator.

Every platform tells you to pivot, analyze and regurgitate the trends, reinvent yourself, chase the algorithm. But if you’re always running, how are the people looking for you supposed to find you?

Be you. Stay you. Stand still and scream into what you believe is a dark, empty expanse. Maybe nobody answers today, but that’s not the same as nobody hearing you. Refuse to fucking disappear.

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Writing

This fortnight(ish) I managed to post a number of old poetry pieces. I sincerely hope you enjoy them. If you don’t, that’s fine, too. You might as well keep it to yourself because I won’t be changing them. 🙂

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Podcasts

Toying With Dave

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One Last Thing…

People have occasionally asked why I have paid subscriptions enabled if I don’t lock any of my work behind a paywall.

The answer is super simple:

I would rather more people read my work than have a few people pay for it.

If some beautiful soul chooses to become a paid subscriber or toss a few bucks into the hat, they’re not buying some special access, they’re helping to build the next thing.

That money goes to:

• Replacement monitors for my two workhorse computer monitors that I’ve had since 2009. They’re blinking out on me these days. Makes things tough.

• ISBN numbers.

• Proof copies.

• Software.

• Hosting.

• Art supplies.

• A negative scanner.

If that’s something you’d like to help make possible, I am incredibly grateful.

If not…

I’m just glad you’re here.

Love ya,

Dave