I don’t want to go viral; I am not a disease.

Scrolled past, forwarded, meme-ed, imitated, and forgotten.

On some days, I don’t want to write at all. There, I said it. Like today — a Monday. But I show up, nevertheless.

On other days, I ask myself: why am I even writing? The noise of those convinced that nobody is reading echoes loudly as I sit at my desk.

On many days, I enjoy writing. I shut the doors and don’t want to step out.

On many other days, I feel thankful that I can write (I think I can).

On most days, I wonder how others make sense of the world. The thought of not being frustrated — not staring at words (word counts, too) or an empty WordDoc — scares me. How would life be if words hadn’t chosen me?

And on no single day do I wish to go viral. I am not a disease.

I am healthy — and so are my words.

Viral, as the world taught us in a big way five years ago, causes havoc. It’s cyclic too, though we hadn’t paid enough attention. Viral needs a strategy. It needs close monitoring. It makes noise. And it always carries the promise — or threat — of return.

I am incapable of all that.

Viral is success, if you're not going to get all literal about it; like me.

Yet, I don’t wish for it.

I like success. Who doesn’t, right?

Am I successful as an author? Depends on who you’re asking.

My parents? My husband? My publisher? My bank account? The makers of “books to read this summer” lists? Me?

Have you come across my books on those lists, shelves, Instagram, Amazon? (Have you? I’ve written four, just in case I’ve piqued your curiosity.)

Perhaps not.

My books and I are yet to go viral.

We’re still in the healthy phase of life, where we get a little hiccup-ey, feel under the weather, maybe see a doctor, pop a pill or two — but overall, life stays uneventful. Manageable.

We stay on track, the words and I, on good and bad days.

We show up with a coffee cup. Sometimes, two and a donut on the side.

We get by.

Without making it to the headlines.

We need no booster.

I hear it takes little to go viral.

Just one post. One reader. One like. One list. And boom — there you are.

Everywhere. Spreading uncontrollably. Touching lives. Reaching places you never imagined.

It does sound nice, that idea of the boom-whoosh. 

Phew, I did it.

Of course, I don’t know how that feels. I haven’t been there.

Why don’t I want it? I should like it. I should desire it, right?

I have 19 years of writing behind me. Isn’t it time for the boom-whoosh?

But here’s what I think it would do to me:

• I fear what comes next. What lies after the boom-whoosh?

• Will I be forgotten easily?

• Will I feel pressure to create something even more viral-ey than the first?

• Will my past ghosts — the WIP manuscripts lacking viral potential — stay buried forever on my desktop, too scared to emerge?

• Will I become lazy after I’ve “made it”?

• What if I actually enjoy the limelight?

I want my words to be noticed, of course.

I want them absorbed. Relished. Remembered.

Not scrolled past, forwarded, meme-ed, imitated, and forgotten.

I didn’t become an author (oh lord, why did I? That’s a question for another day) to be a trend or a phase.

I’d like to make history, sure.

But I don’t want to be associated with a disease.

A germ in a Biology book.

An infection studied under a microscope, waiting to mutilate and multiply.

I want to be alive in this writing journey.

And here’s a fact: viruses don’t die — because they aren’t alive in the first place.

I’d like to be alive.

P.S. I am not against virality; I am rooting for longevity.