One Like (In Heaven)

 I've had a story published in an American magazine. Yay. I publish far more in the States than I do anywhere else despite my stories being unapologetically English - not British, not really - English. Maybe the toxic stink of England hasn't reached an America still wreathed in black smoke from burning tyres and tear gas. 

I'm very proud to be published. It's a proper air punch moment, without the pendulous panniers of compromise dragging it down. It's just a great thing. An audience. Reading my writing. Lovely. 

I don't normally share these things on social media, and certainly not my main John Patrick Higgins Facebook account. They're normally shunted off to my "Writer's Page" to be enjoyed by my three loyal readers. But I needed a positive today. Things have not been going well behind the scenes (or, if you could see me, in front of the scenes). So I stuck my minor triumph on my main page. 

One like. 

Some context. Yesterday I announced that Susan and I were watching a play on TV. Six people liked that. 

I also updated my status photo to a 1940's model wearing a sweater with a design of a sword going through her heart. Three people liked it. Two people "loved" it. 

"Here I sit, broken-hearted, paid a penny..."

In the last of my trio of posts yesterday, I described what Susan and I were doing for her birthday. This was a biggie: 47 reactions, approximately half of which were "love-hearts". There were also ten comments. 

But when I publish a short story in an American literary magazine it garners a single like. (Complete disclosure - the "liker" actually works on the magazine. So, I'm not sure it even counts). 

It's always this way. People like to see me existing. That's fine. They like to hear about me getting into some sort of scrape, or going to the dentist, or loving my girlfriend, but as soon as I post about my work, they flee for cover waiting for the big stink of my arrogance to waft away. Or maybe it's too pathetic, watching an old man try his best, clinging to each Pyrrhic victory in the face of an insurmountable "WHO HE?". I have started to look and feel old recently. Stooped, neckless. Cuts take longer to heal. That can't be a good sign, surely? I'm paying someone to remove my teeth, and maybe I've become a toothless old simpleton. If I were a David Bowie album, I'd be "Codger". 

Maybe my writing is really bad and people are just too embarrassed to engage. It's something I have to consider. In a "life-gives-but-takes-away" move, I got a rejection from the BFI this morning, telling my "script didn't align with the vision of the supporting materiel" which, I think, reading between the lines, means "why are there jokes in a horror film?" I've been hearing that a lot recently. 

One like. 

I know Facebook is a twat. I know algorithms don't like you sharing your successes without paying them first. I don't understand why my friends tell me they never see my posts. But plenty seem to see it when I tell a story about going to the shops and falling over. How can no one see this story?

"The Casual Ghost", the short story in question, bittersweet and transparently autobiographical, is the first chapter of a novel I was working on called "How Ghosts Affect Relationships" which I now know I will never finish. 

But as a standalone, I think it's a pretty good meditation on awkwardness, loneliness, and the degrading nature of low-paid, unskilled work. The only work I know how to do. If you read it you'd probably like it. 

https://www.exactingclam.com/issues/no-8-spring-2023/the-casual-ghost/

One like, though. 

Coda: Okay, it's the next day. Quite a lot of people have "liked" it, in fact. One person even commented "that I was a master of the craft". What i think it was about was actually anxiety about a meeting I was having that meeting that I was unnecessarily worried about. It's this post-Covid anxiety that's swept in, and the fact that I never see anyone anymore. I'm stuck here on social media craving "likes". It's pathetic and no metric for self-worth. Idiot.