I need to communicate meaning, but my words vanish into a void

Facebook recently told me that I needed to convert my personal account into a “content creator” account. Why? I have no idea.

As a minor show of rebellion, I changed my work title on there to “discontent creator.” Because I refuse to define my work as “content.”

I hate that word.

To the current culture, a novel is content. A film or documentary is content. A poem is content. A painting is content. A thoughtful essay is content. A comedy sketch is content. A cat falling off a table is content as long as a camera is running.

The word treats all of those things as interchangeable cogs in a system whose purpose is to capture attention long enough for someone to show ads. I don’t object to someone making money, but I do object to a soulless system which offers no real value for the attention it steals.

I don’t want to create content.

I want to write.

I want to make films.

I want to create images.

I want to communicate ideas and feelings.

I want to create connections with others.

Those distinctions matter.

Some people vaguely object to social media “content” because it’s poor quality slop, but that’s far too simplistic.

There is plenty of technically impressive work being produced today. Much of it is high quality. Some of it is astonishingly good in some respects. A film can be beautifully shot. A song can be brilliantly arranged. A video can be expertly edited. A Facebook “reel” might be captivating.

My concern isn’t quality alone. It’s substance. It’s significance.

It’s the difference between trying to communicate something true about the human experience and merely trying to capture attention so Zuckerberg and Co. can make another buck or two.

Those things are not the same.

When I was growing up, I believed that if someone became genuinely good at something that mattered, society would eventually make some place for him.

Not necessarily fame. Not necessarily wealth. Just a place.

A writer could write. A filmmaker could make films. An artist could create art. A thoughtful person could contribute thoughtful things to the culture and find an audience that valued them.

I’m no longer certain that’s true.

Sometimes it feels as though the entire system has been reorganized around attention instead of meaning.

The question is no longer, “What are you trying to say?”

The question is, “What will perform?”

And I’ve discovered something about myself.

I cannot make that my primary question.

Not because I’m noble. Not because I’m morally superior. Simply because I don’t know how.

Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could build my life around creating things whose primary purpose is manipulating people into looking at them and sticking around long enough to view an ad.

I understand how attention works. I understand outrage. I understand shock. I understand novelty. Those aren’t mysterious things. Late-night television hucksters and carnival barkers have been doing it for years.

But it used to be easier to escape from those things. And it used to be that those snake-oil salesmen were confined to a few slimy places. Today, they’re invading every form of media or art. They’ve forced creative people to turn away from meaning and turn toward attention-seeking content.

But I don’t want to spend my life manufacturing meaningless slop. I want to spend my life trying to say something that matters. That realization has forced me to confront another truth that is more uncomfortable.

I am hungry for recognition.

Not fame.

Not celebrity.

Not strangers telling me how wonderful I am.

Something else.

I want something that might be described as applause, but not necessarily in the form of ego gratification. The applause I want is “soul gratification.”

When a reader says, “I knew this, but I didn’t know how to say it,” something important happens.

When somebody says, “This helped me understand myself,” something important happens.

When somebody says, “I thought I was the only person who felt this way,” something important happens.

The applause is not the point.

The connection is the point.

The applause simply lets me know that the connection has occurred.

Writers are often portrayed as solitary people who create entirely for themselves. That has never rung true to me.

I write because I need to understand things. But I publish because I want to communicate them. I desperately need my ideas and feelings and meaning to be communicated to you.

The deepest satisfaction I’ve ever experienced as a writer has never come from money or popularity. It comes from those rare moments when another human being encounters something I’ve written and says:

“Yes.”

Not  yes, you’re brilliant.

Yes, that’s true.

Yes, I’ve felt that.

Yes, that matters.

Those moments are difficult to describe to people who don’t create things.

They feel less like praise and more like recognition.

Two human beings meeting each other through words.

And perhaps that’s why I’ve been struggling lately.

I feel as though I have been producing some of the best work of my life.

Not perfect work. Not work that everyone would agree with. But honest work. Serious work. Work that reflects years of thought and observation. And much of it disappears into silence.

The silence is what hurts.

Not because I think I deserve applause.

Not because I think the world owes me attention.

But because communication feels incomplete when there is no evidence that anyone is receiving the message.

I sometimes wonder whether I was psychologically designed for a cultural environment that no longer exists.

A world in which writers were writers.

Artists were artists.

Filmmakers were filmmakers.

And creative work was valued primarily for what it contributed to human understanding rather than how effectively it captured attention.

Maybe that world never existed quite as fully as I imagine. Maybe I’m romanticizing the past. But I know this much.

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life optimizing myself for algorithms.

I don’t want to become a professional attention-seeker.

I don’t want to build a career around saying whatever is necessary to generate clicks.

I would rather fail honestly than succeed that way.

And despite everything I’ve written here, despite the frustration and uncertainty, there is one thing I know with complete certainty.

I am not going to stop creating.

I can’t.

Even if nobody reads the essays.

Even if nobody watches the videos.

Even if nobody shares the jokes.

I will still be trying to understand things.

I will still be trying to communicate them.

I will still be looking at the world and asking what matters. I will be begging you to see what I’ve come to see.

Because that’s who I am.

What I hope — perhaps more than I care to admit — is that somewhere out there are people asking the same questions and needing the same connections.

And I hold out that that there will be times — at least once in a while — when more of them will be able to say in return, “I understand you. I really do. What you said matters to me, too.”