Hey Algorithm, Go F*ck Yourself

How to be okay if your stats are in the shitter

We’ve all done it. We’ve poured our hearts out into pieces. Done research, drove ourselves nuts over the right phrasing, adjectives, etc.

And then — views are shit. It seems views are down all around, but admittedly my sample size of writers is relatively small. Or maybe I’m shit. That’s probably it. Yeah.

But shitty stats can be a good thing. Because now, you’re free do write what you want to write. Frankly, fuck it — let’s write.

Of course, I could be completely wrong, and likely am, because that’s usually the case. How about we take a walk.

I’ve made some very good friends here over the last several months. Writers I would actually call friends. Not just digital friends — actual friends. One common thread I hear is that our earnings and views and reads on Medium are shit.

It’s so easy to get caught up in the rat race and care, but we shouldn’t. Because we’ve made friends and have learned to write. Even if your stats haven’t improved in months, I guarantee you’re a better writer than when you started.

Why are you here? Seriously. Answer the question honestly. Did you really think you could maybe make some decent money and quit your day job? It’s not likely to happen. I mean, maybe, but doubtful. More than likely, you stumbled upon this platform and thought, “Oh neat! A new place to do my blogging and practice writing and stuff!”

But then you discovered the social networking aspect of it. Then you started to see the same people running around in circles together. And you wrote some things and got a few claps, and you were on top of the world. But then…

You started checking your stats, expecting to climb out of the doldrums to the top of the literary mountain. You’d have a book deal in no time and could quit your job and write on the beach!

Right.

Medium stats are like a drug. You just need a quick hit of a clap or a comment. And you can’t help but take a little of your self-worth from them. After all, they’re just about the only indicator we have that anyone likes what we’re doing. But, the second we start worrying about what people think of us, that’s the second we’re not ourselves anymore.

It’s time we all quit checking our stats and do something else, eh?

How about we just fucking write together.

Let’s do that. Let’s enjoy meeting other people in this stupid boat, write some funny, weird, authentic, painful, heart-felt shit, and have a good god damned time.

The algorithm is an asshole. Fuggit about it.

Write about sex with inflatable unicorns or goblins or grandpa’s beard or Aunt Jennifer’s adult toy collection or your favorite holocaust singalong songs. Write an epic opus about the giant rogue beach ball you bought that killed six people in Daytona. Pen a poem about the magical ironing board that conjured a fire-farting dragon with webbed feet.

(Gee, maybe I shouldn’t be in charge of this. But still…)

I don’t care what the algorithm says. Hell, as soon as the DeLorean hits 88mph I’ll be back in 1985 anyway! Come with me!

Come back to the time when you just started here and you were excited when ONE person clapped ONE FUCKING TIME for the article you spend three hours on. Just let it go, man. It’s all gonna be okay! Come play in the sandbox with me. There’s so much fun to be had! Screw those stats.

This piece has absolutely zero chance of being picked up by the aforementioned algorithm because it’s dumb and vulgar and probably offensive to some, but I couldn’t help myself. And it’s not like distribution really helps much, anyway. Please don’t be offended. That was not my intention. Just trying to loosen up a bit.

For all that may feel disenfranchised at times, stick it out. We’re in this together. Sort of. Writing is a solitary exercise after all, but…you know what I mean.

Thanks to the crew at Counter Arts, Will Hull, Carlos Garbiras, yesnodunno, and Squeeze the Avocado, and to some others who may or may not be struggling with stupid stats. kasey sparks, Samantha Drobac, and probably thousands of other people caught in the stupid vortex of shame.