I'm Not Good For the Algorithm
Updated: 1 day ago
(And Honestly, Have You Met Me?)
This morning, I sat down at my desk, opened my laptop, and completely forgot my own bloody password.
Me. A project manager. A person whose job is literally being organised. Knowing things.
But my brain? Empty. Just vibes and one (1) vampire.
Because writing this book? It’s eating me alive. Not in the sexy way. In the “there’s nothing left in my skull” way.
It’s devouring my sleep. My grip on time. Burning through my focus like a lit match in a pile of dry leaves.
And now, apparently, I’m also supposed to be good at Instagram.
Five Hours for One Fucking Reel
Yep. Happened this week.
Because apparently, that’s what we do now.
Because still images are dead, attention spans are fried, and I’m supposed to hook people in the first three seconds with "value".
I’m supposed to have a Pinterest plan.
I’m supposed to craft Instagram content that’s digestible, trendy, algorithm-friendly.
I’m supposed to engage with posts, network, comment, like, share, post at the right times, use the right hashtags, and somehow convince an inhuman, soulless algorithm to show my work to people who might actually give a shit.
And honestly? I’d rather fight a bear.
I am shit at it. I am slow. I am obsessive.
The transitions never feel right.
The hook text is never hooky enough.
Apparently, I’m supposed to open with a line like "You’ll never guess what happened" and then cut to my face like I’m about to sell you protein powder.
I don’t want to do it.
I hate it. I’m bad at it. It drains me.
I do not want to sell my work like this.
I don’t want to tease, or hook, or convert.
I don’t want to give people "value".
I want to give them vampires.
And rants about music that moves me.
And images that try to capture what I felt when being growled at. That let you smell the sweat.
And poetry that makes you go, "Damn, girl—what was in your coffee today?"
But sure. Let’s talk transitions.
Let’s talk about how I wasted an entire afternoon obsessing over the audio not syncing properly with the captions.
How I nearly cried because the text box was half a pixel off-centre.
How every tip I read screamed "HOOK! SELL! ENGAGE!"
And all I wanted to do was throw my phone into a bog and scream "I wrote a book, do you want it or not?!"
“You Can’t Merge. You’ll Confuse Your Audience.”
Yeah? So?
I’m confused all the time.
People told me not to merge the metal blog and the novel stuff.
Said it would be messy. Off-brand. Difficult to follow.
And you know what?
They were right.
It is messy. It is off-brand. And it doesn’t follow anything.
But it finally makes sense.
Because the more I tried to split things—this is the book, this is the blog, this is the poetry, this is the brainfog, this is the vampire, this is the album review—the more it all just... fractured.
Turns out?
It’s all the same voice.
It’s all me.
There’s no border between the live show write-up and the pub-dwelling slow burn.
No switch that flips between screaming about Peter Steele and writing a script poem at 2am.
It’s all one ongoing, genre-destroying, emotionally unstable, slightly mossy spiral.
And yeah—people unfollow.
All the time.
I know this thing I’m doing is difficult. Confusing.
But I don’t care anymore.
Trying to separate it?
Trying to split the voice into neat little categories so no one gets confused?
That’s what kills the spark.
So I merged it. All of it.
And let it be weird.
I’m Not Promoting. I’m Vibing (Badly)
I don’t want to be a brand.
I don’t want to be a funnel.
I don’t want to optimise my art for a platform that doesn’t give a single shit about storytelling, nuance, or emotional carnage.
I just want to write.
That’s it.
That’s the whole plan.
Writing is how I cope.
It’s how I survive grief, rage, music, love, loneliness, ADHD, and whatever else my brain throws at me between meals.
It’s how I function. It’s how I breathe.
It’s not optional.
And yeah—sometimes I spiral.
Because what good is writing a painfully funny, deeply unhinged, supernatural romance if nobody ever finds it?
What’s the point of setting myself on fire for this story if it never reaches the people who would love it as much as I do?
So I’m posting into the Instagram void.
Making terrible reels. Yelling about supernatural boyfriends.
Trying to find the right people—the ones who get it.
But I’m too shit at finding them.
And the algorithm is merciless.
I don’t want to fight it.
I don’t want to sell you something you didn’t come looking for.
I don’t want to make content just to keep up.
I want to connect.
I want to talk to real people who still read full books.
Who still listen to entire albums.
Who still get obsessed with characters like they’re real and send me messages that say,
"I saw a man today and he had Rupert Blackmore energy and now I’m emotionally compromised in the frozen foods aisle."
So yeah. I’m shit at Instagram.
I do it wrong. I confuse people.
I get more unfollowers than followers on a good day.
And let’s not talk about my total follower count because—honestly—it’s just sad.
But let me tell you something.
This year? I’ve found some of the most amazing people. Truly.
And that matters so much more to me than numbers ever could.
The ones who stick around.
The ones who relish the curveballs.
The ones who feel seen.
The ones who reach back.
The ones who laugh and cry and spiral right along with me.
I love this.
Because here’s what I’ve realised:
This blog?
It’s not for everyone.
This book?
Also not for everyone.
But if you’re still here?
It’s for you.