About ten years ago, when I was far more concerned with the trajectory of my career than I am now, I used to fret that I didn’t have enough readers of viewers or followers to get that blue checkmark on Twitter.
The reason wasn’t vanity. One thing most writers of any weight lack is belief that they’re any good. Even the best are sure they’re three minutes from being Scooby-Doo exposed. Some upstart kid is going to come up, yank off their face, and scream “AND YOU ARE ALSO A TERRIBLE WRITER!”
The reason was that I have always wanted to make enough cash writing to survive, and that checkmark is a false, illusory declaration of quality centered around the amount of money one makes. Nothing more, nothing less.
I didn’t know that then, because I was younger, and because a lot of the people I admired had that check. Then I spent any number of years watching those people I admire do the things that people who are successful in art often do. Step on heads, pull up the ladder, and ignore you when you ask for a seat at the table.
You learn real quick that it’s less about quality and more about charisma. And when you focus on your work rather than your gladhand, you don’t get a blue check. Hell, you don’t get a check.
You get fucked.
I shouldn’t take pleasure in the fact that a fascist has now turned that mark into a source of mockery, but I do, because that’s the one good thing that has come of the humiliation of not being deemed “worthy.” It’s watching those who are so-called get hoisted and abandoned and have to chum a little of the shit we throw down here.
Is that petty? Maybe. Is this petty? Perhaps. The glory is that few will see it, and if they do, they won’t think less of me for it, because everyone who reads what I do came by it honestly, not because of a corporation’s tick of validity. There’s joy in that. It means I don’t have to fret today. It also means I have shit to do. No laurels to coast on.
So I’ll just wave at you, say thanks, and get the fuck back to work.