the dark side of white noise - s. bobby alexander - book mockup

Because some questions keep asking for a story.

The next signal in the
noise is on its way.

For those who know the pull of ambition — and the silence that follows.

White noise is supposed to soothe, to mask, to make the unbearable tolerable.

But there’s a cost to living inside the static.

The Dark Side of White Noise explores the tension between signal and silence, fame and grief, love and illusion.

It’s a story about what we chase, what we lose, and the fragile thread of meaning we try to hold
onto when the world grows loud.

Because the stories you carry shape the life you live — and sometimes, they’re heavy with the sound of everything you couldn’t say.

Join The Signal to be the first to know.

Ambition, addiction, aftermath — these are not just struggles, but signals. This story is for those who have heard them, and wondered what remains when the noise fades.

Why This Book Matters

💝 What does it mean to lose yourself to the very dream that saved you?

🌈 For anyone who’s ever chased something too far.

🎶 A story about fame, grief, and the noise we mistake for love.

Excerpt

Click here to read the excerpt

A Note Before You Begin
This scene is stripped of names and specifics so it can meet you without spoiling the path ahead. It’s a fragment from before the breaking point, when the performance is still going — and the silence after hasn’t yet arrived. Context: Late in the tour, the narrator steps away from the noise just long enough to hear what’s been under it all along.

Backstage, the air carried a faint hum — not from the crowd, not from the lights, but from the amps bleeding through the walls. It was the sound of the set running without him, a pulse he could almost mistake for his own. He leaned against the cold brick, the scent of dust and steel rising each time someone crossed the loading dock. Beyond the half-open door, the night pressed in thick and black, a strip of wet pavement catching the yellow glare of a single streetlamp. For a moment, he imagined walking toward it — past the barricades, through the alley, until the noise was something he could only feel in his ribs. But then the stage monitor cracked, calling his name. He closed his eyes, listening. Not to the voice — to the space between the syllables, where the quiet lived. Somewhere out front, the crowd roared at a song they thought they knew. He knew it, too — the way you know a photograph of yourself from a lifetime you can’t quite prove was yours. The monitor called again, sharper this time. He stepped back inside. The door swung shut behind him, sealing in the heat and light. But the quiet didn’t leave. It had followed him in.

Before the rupture, there’s always a signal. This is a story about what happens when you can’t un-hear it.