We Regret to Inform You That The Pellet Jar is Empty

Here’s the thing: Now is not an easy time to be an author.

Now is not an easy time to be anything.

Today I was caught in a maelstrom of Imposter Syndrome, Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, Do My Friends Hate Me Or Am I Just Hormonal, and Oh God, Oh God, Is Publishing Dead, and it turns out I’m not alone. Several people on Blue Sky were trapped in this same churning hurricane of anxiety, and Tobias Buckell linked this wonderful article he wrote on the topic back in 2018, which I still think of as The Good Old Days.

And it got me thinking.

If you read the article, you’ll see that he references a scientific experiment in which a pigeon pushes a lever and is rewarded with a food pellet. The pigeon learns the relationship between the lever and the pellet quickly, and all is well. Yay, pellets.

But then those clever scientists introduce a variable reinforcement schedule, meaning that pressing the lever doesn’t always produce a pellet. The pigeons drive themselves mad trying to figure out the new rule and replicate whatever actions brought the last pellet into their lives. They push the lever endlessly and do silly dances while they starve to death, always waiting on that next pellet. And this is how it feels sometimes, when your process no longer works— including the creative process, and including the process by which we connect with the world.

But then it occurred to me—not only are we all pigeons gone mad, pressing the lever and begging the pigeon gods for sustenance. We also have to contend with the fact that social media used to provide dopamine, and now it mostly causes pain. Meaning not only is there no pellet… but sometimes you get a mild electric shock when you hit that lever.

When I discovered social media back in 2009 or so, it was a constant source of happiness. Connecting with old friends, joining new communities, making new pals, discovering exciting new realms. Facebook was a reunion, Twitter was Cheers, Instagram was a museum. There was no algorithm—whoever was awake, whatever they were doing, it just showed up in your feed if you’d chosen to follow them. And it was beautiful.

And then, like most beautiful things, it got monetized. And it began to suck. And now here we are, being force fed pablum by billionaires while our friends are hidden from us, being sold products when we want to see art, being forced to endure a fire hose of wealth and success while we silently cry in isolation thinking that we are alone. That we’re the only one who can’t quite figure out how to make all their dreams come true.

Or maybe it’s just me?

I’m a neurodivergent introvert, and social media was a miracle for me. It allowed me to hack my introversion, to make friends in a safe place online so that when I met them in real life, they didn’t seem so intimidating. Social media taught me how to write a book and edit a book and get published. Social media gave me a way to spread news about my books and events. Social media allowed me to connect with my first readers.

And now… it doesn’t really do that.

When I go to that well for a deep, nutritive drink, I see advertised strangers, or upsetting news, or fake news, or the meteoric success of celebrities and outliers that can’t be replicated. My friends are scattered, or at least not online as often. I post, and it feels like screaming into a void. Views are down, likes are down. I don’t even know which of my friends and followers are still there and which ones have left their accounts active to avoid squatters while effectively abandoning ship. That sense of connection I loved so much has been lost.

And I don’t have a good answer for you.

For you, or for me.

I don’t know how to reach people anymore.

I posted a book cover on Twitter yesterday, a book cover I’ve been sharing for months, and dozens of people replied that they had never seen it before. I sent out a newsletter, but every time I send a newsletter, that old sense of doubt creeps in—that I’m annoying people by jamming their already-full Inboxes with spam. I’m an author, and I need to tell people about my books, but how? There is no central place. No one source. People and attention are scattered. Tarzan has let go of one vine, but there is no new vine to grab.

No wonder it feels like a free fall.

All I can tell you is that if you feel alone, you’re not. We’re all here with you, many of us confused and anxious and fairly certain that we’re missing out on some fabulous party that’s always happening somewhere else… and that the world is on fire. When I feel this way—disconnected, doubting, burned out—I find solace in my art and in my friends. Nothing can take the joy of writing away from me, and it’s hard to feel disconnected when you’re literally connecting with someone else. Going to conventions and writing retreats has done more for me in the past year than social media. As it turns out, it was always about the people, and the people are still there. You just have to do things the old fashioned way—and be present without the app. For me, the app has become the problem.

To put it in pigeon terms, once you stop focusing on the pellet machine, you remember the bird feeder. And the bushes full of berries. And the ground full of worms.

So, in conclusion: keep reading, keep writing, you’re not alone, reach out to a friend, go out and live life in the moment without all these stupid algorithms, and buy my books.