Journalistic Ghosting – Cruel, Cowardly, or (par the) Course

Over the past months, I’ve sent out several articles to a range of UK and international journalist publications. This range of admittedly unsolicited pieces focused upon key topics such as suicide issues and  prevention, AI ethics and education, and preservation of Scottish heritage.

These weren’t half-baked rants scribbled in a fit of rage. These were carefully crafted, research-backed, timely pieces pitched to a mixture of outlets I’ve written for before and some I havent including: History Today, The Independent, Times Higher Education, Time Magazine, The Times—and a few more for good measure.

Not one reply.

Not even the gentle condescension of a “thanks but no thanks.”

This isn’t a whinge (although I might reserve the right). It’s a reflection on the curious power of editorial silence and the impact that silence can have, especially on writers working in emotionally charged fields like mine, such as suicidology.
As an academic within the field, I would argue that the work I do isn’t fluff. It’s not clickbait. It’s not AI-generated listicles on “Ten Ways to Boost Your Brainpower with Berries.” It’s hard, uncomfortable, and, in terms of the current topics, increasingly relevant. But relevance, it turns out, doesn’t always open the door.

But then again? Should it? Does anyone want to read about suicide rates and new methods of prevention when we can instead read which celebrity just died or got married. How important is my particular brand of concern about AI in education and my calls for integration and training rather than exclusion and punishment when countries are blowing each other to pieces. I also accept that my input is no more important than others in my fields, and probably less so than some of the articles being written and published with similar themes.

However, it’s part of my job to keep trying to find new ways to open dialogue about my work, my research, and the issues I am aware of. Literally, part of my recent requirements that were listed to me when I applied (and failed) for promotion. (Different article about the crushing destructing of my soul under the wheels of academia, through being judged against the wrong criteria and having no right to reply). It’s a part of the job, but it doesn’t make the attempt any easier.

Silence as Feedback

In many ways, its not the rejection that is the worst element but the silence and how that can make you, as a writer, a researcher, a specialist: question everything, particularly about your own worth.

When you hear nothing at all, you begin to fill in the blanks:

Was it the pitch?

Was it the topic?

Did it get caught in a spam filter somewhere between here and Fleet Street?

Did I accidentally email Time Magazine a recipe for tablet?

Is my name on a board somewhere with the words, “avoid at all costs – useless, needy, and annoying”

(Admittedly, this is probably written somewhere but I’m not sure it’s about my career outputs)

This sort of silence is not just editorial—it’s existential. It raises uncomfortable questions about visibility, gatekeeping, and whose voices get amplified in the public square.

Tricks, Connections… or Luck?

I’ve always tried to believe in merit. But the longer you sit in the void of unanswered emails, the more tempting it becomes to ask: How do others get in?

Is it who you know? A whisper from a well-placed editor? A talent agent? A borderline-unethical SEO strategy?

Some people float seamlessly from op-ed to op-ed like it’s a dinner party circuit. Others—often researchers, activists, or those with lived experience—pound the inbox pavement to deafening silence. There’s a darkly funny irony in writing about suicide and silence—and then being met with silence. The difference is that, in my field, silence can be fatal. In acacemic journalism, it’s just career-slowing.

There is a digression here that I feel I must make, which im not sure makes me feel better or worse. In my spare time, im a stand-up comic. It’s a vocation I love, and I am consider myself extremely lucky to be able to get on stage and tell stories that make others laugh. I adore it, and after 2 years, I believe I’ve picked up some good experience, skills, and maybe a little talent. Yet, getting booked for shows is often very difficult. Just this week, my Fringe show that I have been practicing and writing for has had to be canceled because the venues I approached never responded to my emails and I ran out of time. Automatic responses were received promising confirmations that never came. Many of my friends are headed off to do their shows and im disappointed to not be joining them.

In both cases, academic journalism and comedy, it doesn’t seem to be merit or ability but luck and contacts. Those who have an in to a venue or a column seem to find a niche that they can continue to fill. Good for them I should say, but the sad fact is that in both cases I often feel like a bairn outside a sweetshop watching these wonderful treats be consumed but very very rarely being able to sample it myself.

Keep Sending the Signal

I suppose that this piece could sound like a jealous, whiny child crying into the ether because they didn’t get picked for the team at playtime. Honestly, one of my ongoing fears is that it is exactly how I sound or even worse what I am. But, I have a huge issue with the notion of luck being a driving factor because I have never been lucky. I have this horrible notion at the back of my head that luck is a resource you gain or lose through good and bad actions and that some people are born with a broken scale. It is ridiculous, but I can not shift it. From a psychoanalytical perspective this may explain my combination of devastating self critique and blame internalisation as I justify my bad childhood, homelessness, being abandoned by my parents, attacks as a teenager etc as karmatic punishment for something I did. It’s an odd mix of narcissism and victim complex.

However, if the answer is simply luck, then my instinct screams to give up now. On academia, on comedy, on everything because luck has never seemed to be on my side. So, for my own sanity, I have to believe that I can still play a hand in my own fate. I’m still writing. Still pitching. Because that’s what you do when you care about a topic and believe it matters. But it’s time we started talking more openly about the emotional labour of trying to be heard.

Hopefully, something will get picked up soon, and it will help me recognise that whose experience gets shared is not a done deal. Because right now, I am concerned about what happens when vital perspectives are locked out of public discourse—not with a rejection, but with the dull thud of nothing at all.

But i think most importantly, im putting out this message to those who are also still sending out their signals: so i can say I see you. You’re not alone in the static. I know its hard, but it’s still worth trying, and I’ve got my figures crossed for you.

And to the editors skimming this (because someone will eventually): I’m still here. Inbox open. Story ready.