Light tap on my tablet’s glass surface checking my writing app for anything. The story I wrote today was good, I know it was. No reads, no comments, no likes. WTF, Daily Prompt. I’ve read 50 eleven stories this week. I returned to scrolling deeper into the night. Cats in business ties, pricy body oils that smell like cake, clips of people doing other people’s comedy routines. I checked the app again, no reads, no comments, no likes.

Frustrated, I switched from TikTok to Facebook Marketplace to shop for God only knows. Messenger notification from Celery popped up in my screen’s left hand corner. Splitting the screen, I opened Messenger. Celery’s real name is Celeste but she used to lay on our apartment couch a lot in college so all the roommates renamed her after a vegetable. Years later, the nickname and the friendship stuck.

Hey, you going to that thing at the library, Celery wrote.

I might if I don’t have to work late, I replied.

Scrolling through online ads vintage coats and rusty plant stands, I clicked on a photo of milk glass pitcher. Nice pitcher but it was too far of a drive.

I don’t know if I’m going. My cat has a crystal reading/exocism scheduled and I might have leprosy that day, Celery wrote.

It’s your meeting. You are the librarian. You have to go, I replied as I switched from the Marketplace over to Facebook Reels.

Someone on my feed was cooking with a criminal amount of Velveeta cheese. The local library was hosting a discussion on the history of book banning and Cel was the moderator and organizer. She was also a person who hated public speaking and some days the public in general.

What if my arm falls off or Bootsie opens the hellmouth. Again, Celery wrote and added a sad face emoji, a cat emoji, and a hell flame emoji.

Laughing I admired a shirtless guy in suspenders splitting wood with an axe. I checked the writing app again, no reads, no comments, no likes. My phone rang. It was Celery.

“What’s wrong? You’re not texting like yourself,” Celery said.

A weird combination of blunt and sensitive, Cel could read me instantly. I could tell she tucked into bed between her cat, Carlo, his dogs, and a couple of paperbacks.

“I’m thinking I should start blogging, Cel. I just don’t know what to write about.”

Muting the volume on my tablet, I thumbed through clip after clip of elaborate choregraphed dances, women squeezing into tights, pheromone perfume to drive men wild, AITA, and dollar store amazing finds. The world glided beneath my thumb.

“Rand, if you are blogging because you think you have to, don’t. Just don’t. Who needs another blog? Content instead of Art. And if you don’t know what to write, that’s the clue, it’s not a burning passion. What’s got you spiraling?” Celery said.

Sighing heavily, I looked at the video of a woman dyeing her coils a shimmering pumpkin orange. I glanced at the writing prompt app icon and still little number signifying how many people read my work today. Frustrated words gushed out of me as I explained to my friend about not getting any feedback. I went on and on about writing everyday and just flushing my short fiction into the abyss.

“And the worst part is I read other people. I comment like crazy. I pay money to write about other people’s stuff. And not to be a jerk but damn some of it’s good and some of it’s terrible but everyone on the app has more reads than me. Every. single. person. I kid you not someone did the exact same prompt as me tonight and it was like a cat just walked across the keyboard. That story has 96 reads, 32 likes, 27 comments. What the actual hell,” I said.

Suddenly pissed, I tossed my tablet on to my desk to prowl my tiny living room. I made a series of aggravated ovals. Sidestepping half finished crochet projects and soon to be organized model making supplies, I moved from my gaming chair to flop on my loveseat.

“I just feel—I don’t know. I can’t describe it. I feel as if I’ve unravelled and left behind a hole, a frayed hole. I’m an unmade bed, unsettled, unsatisfied,” I said.

“I understand. You sound like a dopamine junkie. Remember Jesse, my ex. He was always looking for a dopamine fix. The sweet high of a new project, learning a new skill, and in Jesse’s case a new Hooters waitress. You feel good when you see that thumbs up, that attaboy, when you scroll from thing to thing all night long instead of sleeping. It feels good but it doesn’t last. When things went bad with Jesse, remember how I got?” Cel said.

Of course I remembered. I had listened to her late night crying calls. I had picked her up from random bars and random guys’ apartments and offered her flat ginger ale and saltines for her hangovers. I loaded my apartment with liquor store cardboard boxes, heavy duty contractor bags, packing tape, and even a disposable litter pan. The second she told me she was ready to leave, I showed up ready to roll.

"I remember just wanting to be wanted, wanted to be seen. I became just like my ex, chasing dopamide. Instead of thumbs, work on get published. I can help you research agents. Take a class and get critiqued. You told me once, break up before you get broken,” Cel said.

Just then I noticed a white numeral 1 in a red circle on my writing prompt app. Someone had read my stuff. Someone liked it maybe even told me, “nice story.” This is it. What I pinned my self-worth on today one stranger’s validation.

"You need to break up with the algorithms. I’ll be there a list of literary agents and beta readers in fifteen minutes,” Cel said, rolling out of bed.

“Okay but I’m stealing that idea of Bootsie accidentally opening a hell mouth because he couldn’t get an Uber.”