Y0Addenda.2

In Which Our Author Procrastinates About Self-Promotion Instead of Working

“Sew itth publeth’d?” Olivia asked through a mouthful of chips.

“Why would you do that?” Bel frowned.

“Woth?”

“Wait until your mouth was literally too full to speak and then start talking to me?” Olivia held up a finger, taking a moment to chew and swallow:

“So it’s published?” She reiterated. Bel rolled her eyes.

“I mean…yeah? I guess?”

“Jesus, sound less excited why don’t you?”

“What’s to be excited about? I write because I like writing. Cause I can’t not. I put it out there because I feel like it was something worth saying. But this whole…farming views, fostering engagement thing? It feels…gross.”

“Yeth - cos yew’r fuckn awful ath’it.”

“Liv…for fuck’s sake. Talk or eat, or next book I make you date a guy.” Olivia paused, then swallowed, glaring at Bel.

“One? Heterophobic. Two? Don’t be fucking gross and weird, Bel.”

“What’s happening?” Kade wandered in, manoeuvring her way past Olivia and into the kitchen. She turned on the kettle, reaching up and opening the top cupboard, rummaging around for a mug.

“Careful: she’s in a mood this morning.” Olivia warned.

“Oh?”

“Threats of conversion therapy, breakfast-shaming…it’s all happening. Egregious behaviour.” Olivia shook her head sadly.

“Ignore her.” Bel instructed, letting her head drop into her hands, elbows on the desk in front of her.

“Gladly.” Kade shrugged. “You okay?”

“I mean…yeah. I’m fine. Just getting heckled by the garbage disposal for not being a good enough shill.” Bel deadpanned. Olivia pushed several more chips into her mouth before silently flipping Bel off.

“Oh. So it’s this again?”

“Am I…do I worry about this too much?” Bel looked over at Kade, who just leaned back against the counter, shrugging and folding her arms over her chest.

“We’re us. We worry about everything too much. Collectively, we’re the girl who can feel claustrophobic and oppressed while lying on the couch watching comfort TV.”

“Accurate.” Bel admitted. “But specifically this: do I talk about it too much?”

“The practice of art versus the performance of being an artist?” Kade raised an eyebrow. “Maybe a little.”

“I just…I hate being perceived, but I want to feel seen, y’know?”

“I get that you don’t want to dance for it, but - "

“ - It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I don’t think anyone should have to. I think good work should speak for itself.”

“Like…natural selection.”

“Sure.”

“And we’re not seeing the privilege inherent in that viewpoint?”

“Oh for fucks sake, Kadence - "

“ - No, I’m right, and you know I’m right. The myth of artistic ability and output emerging in a vacuum is just that. Mozart didn’t ‘rise to the top’ purely based on natural ability: he was a child with tutors and a fucking harpsichord from before he could walk. The Bronte’s weren’t rich, but they had access to education and resources well beyond the standard for women of that time. Privilege is inextricably and consistently entwined with the performance of art, and, transposed to the day…the ability to market yourself? Yeah. It’s how you get read.”

“That’s basically what I was saying.” Olivia nodded.

“The fuck it is, Liv.” Bel rolled her eyes: “Kade…’I don’t wanna’ is a valid response to the way capitalism has made the process of artistic expression about anything but.”

“Yeah, but ‘I’m entitled to do well cause I’m hyperlexic and have enough free time to throw words at a page’ isn’t.” Bel stared at Kade. She blinked once. Then again.

“Well fuck you, too.”

“Look, all I’m saying is…you have time and capacity and talent. Not as much as you’d like…definitely not as much as some, but you’ve got those things. Thats privilege. That’s a foundation. Not a house.”

“Not a builder.”

“Then hire one, or shut up and do the work. Or…y’know…sit on the curb and whine about how cool it’d be if the house built itself, I don’t know.”

“Make me a coffee.” Bel frowned.

“Yes, dear.” Kade smirked.

“You do realise you don’t have to build the house the way the world says you should, right?” Olivia raised an eyebrow.

“Huh?”

“You’re not lazy, you just think the blueprint - the format - is inauthentic bullshit, no?”

“I mean…essentially, yeah. It’s all…reductive, lowest common denominator, keyword-worshipping, begging-with-confidence crap.”

“So like…don’t do that. Do something else.”

“Mmm.” Kade nodded. She poured boiling water over instant coffee and added milk to the two mugs. She took a mug to Bel, before returning to the kitchen and sitting up on a bench-top, holding her own with two hands and sipping slowly.

“Do what, though?” Bel asked.

“I dunno.” Olivia shrugged. “Algorithms reward output. Readers reward authenticity. I feel like you’re getting bogged down in the worry that output equals trash, and authenticity equals the cynical performance of it. Doesn’t have to, does it? You wanna write? Write. You wanna be authentic? Don’t bother performing it, just do it. Be messy and cringe and say weird shit in dumb ways that people don’t like.”

“I mean…yeah. Or…phrased differently…be yourself. Do it your way.” Kade synthesised.

“Fucking hate being myself, being myself is the core causal factor in most of my trauma.”

“You don’t get to be seen without being perceived, babes.” Kade observed drily. “No matter how scary that is. No matter how unfair it seems. So…I guess…make sure that the version of you being perceived is something you can live with. The way I see it, you’ve got three options. First: you could quit. Y’know? Write for you and never show anyone, and…nothing changes. That’s just your life up till now. Second…you could get good at the marketing bullshit. Get thicker skin, learn the strategies, deploy the strategies - “

“ - I’d rather die.” Bel admitted.

“Oh: well I guess that’s four options.” Olivia smirked.

“Too dark for seven in the morning on a work day, Liv.” Kade grimaced, sipping coffee and slowly swinging her legs. “Or, third: make the content you want, the way you want to make it, and do it for you. Write stuff, be authentic, and…hope you aren’t fundamentally unlikeable in some profound, universal way that prevents anyone from finding you or your work interesting or relateable.”

“Yeah, cool.” Bel sighed. “Thanks for the fucking giant neon signage aimed at my biggest fucking insecurity.”

“You’re not that special, Bel,” Kade reassured her. “That voice in our heads is both an asshole, and a trauma response aimed at preventing us from ever taking a fucking risk. Its why we default to catastrophising, its why we constantly worry that the people who love us…don’t, it’s why we transitioned at fucking forty - “

“ - Thirty…fucking…eight.” Bel growled.

“Semantics. You get the point. I know you get the point. That voice says: if you can hate yourself more and harder than everyone else inevitably will, it takes away the teeth.”

“And it fucking doesn’t.” Olivia contributed.

“It really fucking doesn’t.” Kade agreed.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Bitch…” Olivia groaned: “You fictionalised your own transition into a 100000 word novel over the space of, initially, three months…included a suicide attempt in the first…fucking…chapter, and put it…online. For free. I think you might be okay at pumping out content and being messy and authentic.”

“So ‘do the hard thing because you’ve done harder’?” Bel raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“More like…do it to avoid yet another instance of waiting decades to do a thing you were gonna do anyway and avoided because you were worried about what people would think of you if you did.”

“That’s a low fucking blow, Kade.” Bel inhaled sharply. “I dunno. Maybe I’ll just talk to you guys and see what happens?”

“I min…” Olivia attempted through a fresh mouthfull of chips: “Whoo fuckn carth, ride? Nthn acshully matterth.”

“I swear to fucking god, Liv…” Bel shook her head.