I Wasn’t Silent. You Just Weren’t Shown What I Said.

You know what I noticed?

That last thing I wrote about art and power lasted about as long online as a cigarette.

I posted it.

Went upstairs.

Took a shower.

Came back.

Gone.

Not one site.

The sites.

Five minutes.

Maybe ten.

Long enough for me to wash my balls. Not long enough for anybody to read what I apparently wasn’t supposed to say.

And before somebody turns this into a conspiracy theory I’m not actually making: I don’t know what happened inside an algorithm.

I don’t know if there was a human being involved.

I don’t know if some word tripped some moderation system or if the whole thing got caught in one of those invisible nets we all pretend we understand because occasionally Instagram tells us what time to post a Reel.

I know what I can see.

They give me the analytics.

That’s the funny part.

They’ll show me exactly how invisible I am.

I can see how many people see something I post.

I can see how many people see a reply.

I can watch an idea enter the machine and die.

And there is a pattern.

The closer something gets to politics, power, rape, war, religion, anything people might actually fight about, the audience falls off a cliff.

I replied to a bunch of posts saying men who stay silent about rape should be remembered for their silence.

So I didn’t stay silent.

I answered.

Almost every one of those replies sat there with single-digit views.

Five.

Seven.

Nine.

Maybe somebody’s mom.

Then I write “nice” underneath a picture of somebody’s new car and apparently the entire fucking Western Hemisphere needs to be notified.

Hundreds of views.

Sometimes thousands.

Nice car.

Democracy saved.

And I know the obvious answer.

People like cars.

People don’t like rape.

People scroll social media to escape.

Political content gets muted.

Certain accounts have different reach.

Algorithms are complicated.

I know.

I know.

I know.

There is always an explanation.

That is almost the problem.

Because at some point the difference between being silenced and being placed somewhere nobody can hear you becomes academic.

I wasn’t silent.

I said the thing.

You just weren’t shown it.

And that thought hit something in me I’ve been picking at for the last few years.

I have spent a lot of time calling myself depressed.

Sometimes I was.

I’m not rewriting my medical history here.

But lately I’ve wondered whether depression is the entire word for what happened to me.

Because for a long time I wasn’t doing anything.

Not really.

I was waiting.

Waiting for somebody to read the script.

Waiting for somebody to answer the email.

Waiting for somebody to say yes.

Waiting for the career to start.

Waiting for money.

Waiting for permission.

Waiting for grief to end.

Waiting to feel better before doing the things that might make me feel better.

Waiting for my life to become something I would recognize as my life.

That starts to do something to a person.

You stop moving because nothing works.

Then nothing works because you stop moving.

Eventually you call the resulting feeling depression.

Maybe sometimes it is.

But another word has been bothering me.

Suppressed.

I wasn’t moving.

I was being held down.

Some of that was the world.

Some of it was money.

Some of it was grief.

Some of it was the film business.

Some of it was algorithms.

Some of it was medication.

Some of it was me.

Probably a lot of it was me.

But I keep coming back to the same question:

What happens to a person who spends years believing the correct response to an unfair game is to get better at playing it?

Work harder.

Be nicer.

Make the email shorter.

Make the screenplay more commercial.

Make the post less political.

Make the language less offensive.

Smile.

Network.

Brand yourself.

Optimize.

Cut twenty pages.

Lose twenty pounds.

Get better headshots.

Write something they can sell.

Write something they can understand.

Write something they already know they want.

And whatever you do, don’t make anybody regret inviting you into the room.

That’s how you disappear while technically doing everything right.

I have been very fucking obedient.

That may be the most embarrassing sentence I have ever written.

Because I like to think of myself as the opposite.

Punk records.

Army.

Screenwriter.

Guy who says fuck too much.

Very impressive costume.

Underneath it, I spent years doing what I thought I was supposed to do and waiting for the promised result.

College.

Graduate school.

Jobs.

Scripts.

Festivals.

Queries.

Networking.

Applications.

Rewrite it.

Try again.

Be professional.

Be patient.

Nobody owes you anything.

Keep going.

Eventually the work wins.

Does it?

Sometimes.

Other times the game just keeps letting you play because your continued belief in the game is the product.

That was the thing I heard Chuck Palahniuk talking about the other day that landed like a brick.

We did the things.

We followed the instructions.

We performed.

We were obedient.

We were good at being obedient.

And then we arrived at the promised destination and found out happiness apparently had moved without leaving a forwarding address.

So what now?

Go backward?

Pretend you still believe in the bargain?

Become even better at a game you no longer trust?

Or do something different?

Not optimized different.

Not “personal rebrand” different.

Actually different.

That question scared the shit out of me.

Then it didn’t.

Because there is something incredibly freeing about failing to get the reward.

Eventually they run out of reward to threaten you with.

If nobody reads it, what exactly am I protecting?

If nobody buys the script, who am I trying not to offend?

If the post gets eight views either way, why am I sanding the edges off it?

Why am I trying to sound smart?

Why am I trying to sound employable?

Why am I trying to sound reasonable to people who decided whether I was reasonable before I opened my mouth?

What exactly is left to lose?

That is where I swung the other direction.

If the thing gets no views either way, write the thing.

If they hate it, fine.

If they suppress it, fine.

If the algorithm shoves it under the couch cushions next to all the other things nobody was supposed to find, fine.

But make sure it is yours.

Not the version you think gets shared.

Not the version you think survives moderation.

Not the version that demonstrates what a thoughtful and nuanced person you are.

Not the LinkedIn version.

Not the festival application version.

Not the “I would love to connect” version.

Yours.

Maybe that is what I should have been doing the whole fucking time.

I spent years waiting for permission to become myself.

Turns out the person with the permission slip was me.

Fuck you.

Imma do me.