Popular Pays (but Not for Me)
by David Deane Haskell
So I’m looking around one day and I see an ad for something like an influencer meets businesses type of deal. The name of the company was Popular Pays. It sounded catchy at first. Then the double-meaning landed, and then my stomach clenched. It still hurts now. The judgement of my youth, condemning me to failure as an adult. Just more of the same. The world is geared a certain way, and I struggle with the notion of a popularity contest superseding all my hard work, efforts, and talent. But there you have it.
This goes way back. That old, disheartening belief system I had imposed on me before I ever knew what was being done, done by people who had no idea what they were doing. “You, David, are inherently, infinitely and forever unpopular. Unlikable, maybe even unlovable. And that will never change.”
Oh my God.
I’ve been feeling that, ever since I first started trying to get traction. To be popular. So effortless for so many. All those breezy, charismatic smooth talkers who make befriending look as easy as walking down the street—and maintaining those connections at scale no less, just as easily.
There’s got to be a catch. It can’t be that easy.
My stomach is officially killing me now. If pain could talk it would be shouting: “That’s what success looks like, and you’ll never have it! That’s what you need to be, and you’ll never get there.”
“Make friends”, they tell me. “Make connections. Get yourself out there.”
“Why don’t you start a podcast, do something bold?”
“Make some videos and be influential. You’ll never get anywhere without that.”
“But you don’t dare”, the inner critic reminds me, “because they’ll reject you. Even your voice is pathetic, never mind that ugly mug of yours!
“You can hide behind the written word because you can edit and massage it and maybe fool them into thinking that you’re okay. Maybe a little charismatic, a little funny, a little witty, but they’ll know the truth if they see you. Stay back from that. Beware. But guess what? You’re never going to make it if you do that.”
I need to get to the bottom of all this before it kills me, so I go looking—I tap into the voices of the past, straight into the trigger itself.
He knows that he’s unpopular. He knows he’s rejected by his peers. He knows he has no friends. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows it’s true. He feels deep shame for that, for his ineptitude, his lack. He’s so alone.
He’s coming into view. That inner child, the inevitable ‘first one’, always at the root of it all. Ever reacting to the stressors of the here and now, from so deep in the past.
I haven’t bonded with this one for a while now, but he’s familiar. It’s the lonely boy, the lonely boy in that room on Golden Avenue, Medford, Massachusetts, with his X-wing and his board games, his room full of toys and no one to play with.
It’s interesting, the lead-up to this this morning. It’s not even 9 a.m. Woke up feeling under the weather. Thinking about which avenue I can try to pursue. Thinking about the lack of monetary success so far this year despite my intensive efforts to gain a following. To gain traction. To gain readers.
I pick up my drumsticks and tap out a beat. Rhythm is my passion—my original calling. It’s the way I speak the truest. Maybe I should just do that. Except it’s not the only thing I want to do, not the only way I want to express myself.
But I don’t just want to be popular because of my drums. I want to be popular because of my heart. I want to be myself, not ‘just’ a musician on a stage. I want them to like me for me, not for the solo I’m playing. I want to connect. I want to say things and hear responses. Feedback. Engagement.
That bold line of thinking makes my stomach clench again, doubling me over in agony. Something inside me, maybe the lonely boy, says ‘you’d better just drum. It’s all you’re good for.’
I’ve been disappointed with the level of engagement so far. I’ve done my best to reach out, but when you see that vast influencer society, all these pseudo-famous internet celebrities doing what they do, you tend to feel pretty small.
It’s quite a process. In some ways I admire them. But I’m not looking for that, either. I want something more real. It’s hard to even imagine millions of subscribers, anyway—everything a numbers game.
I spoke with an influencer once—someone that was really high up there. Millions of followers. They talked about how they were never themselves, it was all a persona. And they talked about their audience like a census taker talks about the neighborhood. These masses of followers didn’t even sound like real people. Just data on a spreadsheet.
It didn’t appeal to me.
I’m interested in cultivating a small, loyal readership. People into what I have to offer. People who enjoy the way I express it—my voice, my heart. People who want to join me on the path to healing, and who realize that part of that is in recognizing, day by day, the stuff that still hurts like hell.
That’s what I want.
About the Author
David Deane Haskell is the author of Wounded Angels: A Journey to Wholeness Through Inner Child Healing. He writes about inner child healing, spiritual recovery, and the strange overlap between memoir and speculative fiction. More about the book, along with David’s fiction novels, are all found here: https://daviddeanehaskell.com.
Popular Pays (but Not for Me)
by David Deane Haskell
So I’m looking around one day and I see an ad for something like an influencer meets businesses type of deal. The name of the company was Popular Pays. It sounded catchy at first. Then the double-meaning landed, and then my stomach clenched. It still hurts now. The judgement of my youth, condemning me to failure as an adult. Just more of the same. The world is geared a certain way, and I struggle with the notion of a popularity contest superseding all my hard work, efforts, and talent. But there you have it.
This goes way back. That old, disheartening belief system I had imposed on me before I ever knew what was being done, done by people who had no idea what they were doing. “You, David, are inherently, infinitely and forever unpopular. Unlikable, maybe even unlovable. And that will never change.”
Oh my God.
I’ve been feeling that, ever since I first started trying to get traction. To be popular. So effortless for so many. All those breezy, charismatic smooth talkers who make befriending look as easy as walking down the street—and maintaining those connections at scale no less, just as easily.
There’s got to be a catch. It can’t be that easy.
My stomach is officially killing me now. If pain could talk it would be shouting: “That’s what success looks like, and you’ll never have it! That’s what you need to be, and you’ll never get there.”
“Make friends”, they tell me. “Make connections. Get yourself out there.”
“Why don’t you start a podcast, do something bold?”
“Make some videos and be influential. You’ll never get anywhere without that.”
“But you don’t dare”, the inner critic reminds me, “because they’ll reject you. Even your voice is pathetic, never mind that ugly mug of yours!
“You can hide behind the written word because you can edit and massage it and maybe fool them into thinking that you’re okay. Maybe a little charismatic, a little funny, a little witty, but they’ll know the truth if they see you. Stay back from that. Beware. But guess what? You’re never going to make it if you do that.”
I need to get to the bottom of all this before it kills me, so I go looking—I tap into the voices of the past, straight into the trigger itself.
He knows that he’s unpopular. He knows he’s rejected by his peers. He knows he has no friends. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows it’s true. He feels deep shame for that, for his ineptitude, his lack. He’s so alone.
He’s coming into view. That inner child, the inevitable ‘first one’, always at the root of it all. Ever reacting to the stressors of the here and now, from so deep in the past.
I haven’t bonded with this one for a while now, but he’s familiar. It’s the lonely boy, the lonely boy in that room on Golden Avenue, Medford, Massachusetts, with his X-wing and his board games, his room full of toys and no one to play with.
It’s interesting, the lead-up to this this morning. It’s not even 9 a.m. Woke up feeling under the weather. Thinking about which avenue I can try to pursue. Thinking about the lack of monetary success so far this year despite my intensive efforts to gain a following. To gain traction. To gain readers.
I pick up my drumsticks and tap out a beat. Rhythm is my passion—my original calling. It’s the way I speak the truest. Maybe I should just do that. Except it’s not the only thing I want to do, not the only way I want to express myself.
But I don’t just want to be popular because of my drums. I want to be popular because of my heart. I want to be myself, not ‘just’ a musician on a stage. I want them to like me for me, not for the solo I’m playing. I want to connect. I want to say things and hear responses. Feedback. Engagement.
That bold line of thinking makes my stomach clench again, doubling me over in agony. Something inside me, maybe the lonely boy, says ‘you’d better just drum. It’s all you’re good for.’
I’ve been disappointed with the level of engagement so far. I’ve done my best to reach out, but when you see that vast influencer society, all these pseudo-famous internet celebrities doing what they do, you tend to feel pretty small.
It’s quite a process. In some ways I admire them. But I’m not looking for that, either. I want something more real. It’s hard to even imagine millions of subscribers, anyway—everything a numbers game.
I spoke with an influencer once—someone that was really high up there. Millions of followers. They talked about how they were never themselves, it was all a persona. And they talked about their audience like a census taker talks about the neighborhood. These masses of followers didn’t even sound like real people. Just data on a spreadsheet.
It didn’t appeal to me.
I’m interested in cultivating a small, loyal readership. People into what I have to offer. People who enjoy the way I express it—my voice, my heart. People who want to join me on the path to healing, and who realize that part of that is in recognizing, day by day, the stuff that still hurts like hell.
That’s what I want.
About the Author
David Deane Haskell is the author of Wounded Angels: A Journey to Wholeness Through Inner Child Healing. He writes about inner child healing, spiritual recovery, and the strange overlap between memoir and speculative fiction. More about the book, along with David’s fiction novels, are all found here: https://daviddeanehaskell.com.