Is the Attention Economy Bankrupt?
My knees never reached the floor when I sat in the “Criss-Cross Applesauce” position.
Nevertheless, I sat cross-legged and rubbed my sweaty palms on my knees as the predator circled. The game “Duck, Duck Goose” was the kind of torture that sadists who deal with kindergarteners all day invent.
The “chosen one” strolled around the circle, deciding which head they would tap before racing around the circle. The winner took the loser’s spot in the circle. The loser either became the predator or was exiled from the group.
Relieved and forlorn, I was rarely chosen.
That’s what it feels like on Substack these days, reading weekly articles detailing success stories of people who started with nothing five years ago and now earn $1 million and have 100,000 subscribers.
You’re either in or out. Gatekeepers decide whether your newsletter is “worthy” of being highlighted and shared with others. A few more subscribers trickle in, but who reads your carefully crafted newsletter or podcast?
I’m exaggerating a little. However, I witnessed the same phenomenon on other digital media platforms. Millions of people are waiting to be liked, followed, and rewarded with a lucrative brand partnership.
Is it me, or does the attention economy feel bankrupt?
As a former political operative, I always enjoyed entering the arena, slashing through the ideological noise, grabbing audiences and foes by the jugular, and demanding their attention. It was the “hope and change” era, after all.
But now, hope is a meme, and change rattles our pockets.
Despite light-years of technological advancements occurring in my lifetime, artists continue to wrestle with the cycle of creation, distribution, recognition, and resources. How do we get paid for what we love to do?
Aren’t we entitled to follow our callings instead of exist in careers? Isn’t that what the great business con artists promised in the early aughts—“Do what you love, and you’ll never have to work a day in your life?”
Many of us are working. Sometimes, we work two or three jobs to feed our families, pay for Mama’s diabetes medication, and buy art supplies. Gatekeepers promise that if we just keep at it for the next 20 or 30 years, “producing content,” we’ll be an “overnight success.”
“Kerra, you’re playing in the attention economy whether you like it or not,” said Frederic, my French shaman neighbor, last week over a home-cooked dinner at his place.
I protested in between bites of his spicy, Peruvian, vegetable stew. Like the cooked carrots, my softened arguments sank to the pit of my stomach.
“Darling, I don’t mean to insult you,” Frederic said, sensing my growing frustration and welling tears.
“Then, you should have warmed up the chicken.”
Frederic smiled sweetly and somewhat indulgently. He knows I get spicy and short-tempered when his rapid-fire truths hit my tender heart.
“Artists seek attention,” he explained. “Why write a memoir or make a documentary about learning to swim, dive, and map sunken slave ships if it’s only a personal journey? If your art was merely a means of self-expression, you could journal about it and be satisfied.”
“I have burned and thrown away journals dating back to when I was 10,” I said. “Not everything I create is for public consumption. Why can’t I create art just for me that is also seen by others?”
In addition, I wanted to say the words I didn’t have until I read them today in
’s gorgeous essay, “Being witnessed vs. being consumed.”“I despise the sense of entitlement that comes with visibility,” J. Rycheal said. “In this social media era, where everything is about instant gratification and consumption, that has become a challenging position. I don’t want to be consumed. I want to be witnessed. (my emphasis).
As with many shamans, Frederic offered me a spiritual lifeline and a glass of water.
“I know you’re upset with me, but we are all in the attention economy,” Frederic said. “That’s how my clients find me. But when I take them through the healing process, it heals me.”
I kissed him on the cheek, thanked him for dinner, and said “goodnight.”
As creatives, we can explore and examine digital platforms to determine how to make them work best for us. For example, you can use Substack to make money, replace your full-time job, build an audience, participate in a creative community, or express yourself.
Stop playing games in spaces that frustrate you. Leave, observe the rules, or subvert them to achieve your aims. You don’t have to wait to be chosen – whether you’re in digital or traditional publishing, independent film, music or anything else.
Choose (and heal) yourself, and you have the potential to inspire healing in the world.
This resonates so deeply, Kerra! I have hard time with the attention economy because so much of it feels inauthentic and performative. There's a lot of resistance that comes up whenever I feel pressured to play because I don't my work or words that I pour so much intention into to be reduced to the consumption. I also have a hard time with the pressure to go viral, because it seems as if that's become the measure of "successful" art despite the fact that many viral offerings fade from the collective memory and gaze just as quickly as they fall into it. Visibility is so much more sacred than that for me.
Thanks for sharing. I wish I had a shaman next door. To your point about social media and consumption, I felt it heavy in spaces like IG and twitter. The urge to do more, share more, and in turn receive more eyeballs was real. However on this platform I feel I am able to express myself more fully and release my work at a pace that feels sustainable. Who knows for how long of course but I wonder if the ability to use more forms of media - written, graphic, auditory - allow for myself and other to be satiated with that we share and in turn obsess less over the interpretation? Thanks again for the read.