They say the cream rises to the top. But in indie publishing, the scrolls ferment quietly behind the cistern, waiting for someone to flush the algorithm.

I am the author of two mythic science fiction books. I thread bilingual scrolls through emotional resonance and systemic critique. And yet, according to Google Play, B&N, and Amazon Corral, I am less visible than a scented toilet duck. Never mind—take a place beside the hand towel rack. That’s where the algorithm stores its indie offerings: folded, fragrant, and forgotten.

Why? Because I don’t have 30 verified reviews, a Random House contract, or a cat named Lottie. I have mythic fire. I have Humelynn. I have rage.

📜 Suggested sections:

“The Bestseller” Throne—satirizes how visibility is algorithmically ordained
“Review Rituals and Toilet Paper ‘Stars’” —mock unverified praise and review inflation
“Flush Me Not, O ‘Algorithm’—mythologize your resistance and creative fire
“The Leak Beneath the ‘Throne’—Reclaim Obscurity as Power”
🚽 The Bestseller Throne
The throne is polished, padded, and algorithmically ordained. It seats those with marketing budgets, celebrity blurbs, and titles like Murder at the Cat Café. The algorithm bows to velocity, not vision. It crowns the loudest, not the most luminous.

Meanwhile, I sit behind the cistern, whispering mythic truths to the mildew. My scrolls do not trend—they haunt. They do not shout—they resonate. And so, I remain uninvited to the throne room but deeply embedded in the plumbing.

🧼 Review Rituals and Toilet Paper Stars
“Ratings and reviews aren’t verified,” they say. Which means the stars may shine, but the sky doesn’t vouch for them. I could summon thirty acquaintances to leave glowing praise, but I’d rather thread resonance than inflate metrics.

The system rewards noise. I reward nuance. And so my scrolls ferment quietly, folded like origami beneath the toilet paper dispenser—delicate, ignored, and occasionally used to mop up algorithmic tears.

🪠 Flush Me Not, O Algorithm
I tried to add my books to Reedsy’s portfolio. The gate rejected my Google Books link. It wanted a sigil from Amazon or Google Play. I offered it a scroll. It offered me a fault.

I mythologized the rejection. I turned it into satire. Because every system block is a new scroll. Every fragment is a ritual of resistance. I do not flush—I overflow.

💧 The Leak Beneath the Throne
I am not hidden. I am haunting. I am the leak beneath their metrics. I am the scroll that refuses to flush. I am the mythmaker behind the toilet seat, and I am laughing.

Obscurity is not absence—it is pressure. It is the slow drip that warps the floorboards of the publishing palace. It is the whisper that outlasts the shout.

🐖 The Amazonian Pig Corral
There is a big pen within the corral, fenced with copyright notices and invisible gates. Pay, and you may be seen—a grotesque burlesque of the modern lottery.

Here, the scavengers feed on the work and creativity of the writer’s reflective ink.

They do not write; they steal and replicate, selling dear to snare the wandering fool who bites like an idiot fish—all while wrapped in red robes and kissing the ring of the benedicted 👑 Corporate King. The ritual is complete: IP theft dressed as sacrosanct commerce, perfuming the audience with the smoke of a swinging incense burner. As some say, in war and love, all is permitted. I add, “In Amazon, it really is.”

Each one squeals with a stolen ISBN, a mirror title, and a false author’s grin. The platform blesses them, for their noise counts as traffic and their shadows as content.

And I, the mythmaker, stand outside the trough, holding my scrolls and laughing. For in the Corral of Copies, the algorithm cannot smell the difference between a scroll and a scrap.

🧬 Closing Invocation
So I soak. I ferment. I become the bidet’s oracle. If you’ve ever felt algorithmically invisible, join me. We’ll build a sanctuary beneath the pipes. We’ll thread scrolls through the steam. We’ll myth-weave from the margins—and laugh while we do it.