if you died at your desk, nobody would notice

“If you died at your desk, nobody would notice.”

And he meant it.
Laughed in my face like it was funny.
Like I was supposed to laugh too.
Like it wasn’t going to follow me for years.

Hey friend quick note,

You’re getting this email because we’ve crossed paths through creativity, community, or shared ambition—and I wanted to personally let you know what I’ve been building.

I’m launching The Script Doctor—my full-time mission to help overlooked writers turn raw ideas into income. This isn’t just a business. It’s a rebellion for the underdogs.

This first story? It’s the moment I realized I was never meant to die at a desk.
Now I write for my life.

If you’re ready to do the same—
Keep reading.
Otherwise, feel free to unsubscribe. No hard feelings.

I stood there frozen.
Not confused. Not sad. Just... alert.
Like a dog that hears something it can’t quite place but knows it should run from.

I didn’t know what to say.

I was 21. 

This was my first job post-grad. 

I’d spent my first paycheck making sure I looked the part. 

Hell. My parents spent 21 years preparing me for an opportunity like this.

Like I had a future. Like the world would treat me well if I played my part.

They made sure I knew my lines.

And to be clear—

I wasn’t some intern with a good attitude and no receipts.

I had just graduated from Syracuse University, Dean’s List.

Star student in high school.
Already known in my community.
Already featured in newspapers.
Already an award-winning creator.

At work? I was praised. I was early. My work was done before the deadline.
I was thorough. Diligent.
I prided myself on being excellent. Because I was.

But none of that mattered.
Because the rules changed the minute I stepped into the room.
Suddenly there were new things I was supposed to master— unspoken things.

Like how to disappear.

But baby,  I’m Black.  I can’t hide my ass, even if I wanted to.

The white men in that office?
They didn’t even bother to be discreet.
Some of them sat across from me and watched porn on their lunch break.
One of them—bold as hell—fondled me.

When I jumped back, he laughed and threw up his hands like I was doing too much.

“Calm down,” he said.
Like I was the problem.

I told my parents.
You know what they said?

“Keep that good job.” 
Be a good girl.

 They’d been through worse.
They survived.
So would I.
…hopefully.

Later, when HR sat me down to tell me I’d “been warned” that my new boss was a perfectionist...my body clenched.

Tight jaw. Clammy hands.

My shoulders did that thing where they try to fold in on themselves—like if I made myself small enough, quiet enough, agreeable enough… maybe I’d be safe.

They weren’t talking to me like a person.
They were reading from a script.

 A different than I expected or had been prepared for.
So I learned to play along.

It killed my self esteem. I became suicidal.

And nothing—I mean nothing —prepared me for the police.

Two white officers.
Full uniform.
At my job.
On my lunch break.
Looking for me.

The sweat under my arms was immediate.
Not the cute kind.
The kind that soaks your shirt and makes your back stick to the chair.

I couldn’t believe it.
I couldn’t breathe.

I remember thinking:
Please don’t let anyone from work see me like this.

And the wildest part?
That man in the breakroom was right.

If I had died at my desk—
nobody would’ve noticed.

They didn’t notice when I was drowning.
They didn’t notice when I stopped speaking. Stopped smiling.

Kept my head bowed like a good ni—… y’know.

And so he was right. I did die at my desk. Slowly.

And that—right there—is exactly why I don’t sit at a desk anymore.

I write stories that pay me, free me, and sound like me.
I don’t report to HR—I advise other writers on how to rewrite their lives.

I became a full-time writer because I got strategic.
I committed.
I studied.
I stopped waiting for someone else to notice me.

I noticed me.

This is Ink & Alchemy.

For the writers who know what it’s like to be overlooked.
For the storytellers who are done begging for permission.
For the Black girls who were good, kind, polished—and still got devoured.

Each week, I’ll send you:
🖤 a personal note like this
💰 grant opportunities
✍🏾 screenwriting tips that actually help
🗞 one industry headline and why it matters
👀 one strange-but-true headline, because real life stays wild

P.S. If you’ve ever had a breakroom moment like mine—
where someone said something that shattered your illusions, even a little—
hit reply and tell me about it.
Let’s name these things.
Let’s stop letting them sit on our chest unspoken.

You deserve more.
More money.
More freedom.
More life.

Because if you’ve made it this far in rooms not built for you—
imagine what happens when you build your own.

With fire and freedom,
Jasmine Patrice White
The Script Doctor
hope dealer. full-time writer. doing whatever I want.