Hi! Facebook let me know last night that they couldn't process payment and turned off my ads? There's money in my account, but both the card and the direct bank info were unable to process. Is anyone else having this issue right now, or is it just me? Also, here are my results after last week's Q&A and implementing some tweaks Mal suggested. Some of the ads are finally seeing momentum, although I haven't had a chance to sit down and go through the results closely. :)

I'm also wondering if my bank got sick of all the microtransactions from Meta? I know my account trust is low until I run ads for longer, but the microtransactions are really annoying, tbh 🤣

Here are my results from a week of running ads for my dark romance. I think these are good results on the FB dashboard, but my Amazon Attribution results show I'm not getting the 10 page reads per click. Should I let it ride another week or tweak the ad a bit more?

Here's the audience. I'm finding it hard to narrow my target down to dark romance out of the general contemporary romance category.

Okay, I followed the steps to turn on my ads. I added a space in the primary text and published again, but only one of my two ads are now running. It seems it wants me to fix a TOS issue with the ad I used to set up the Pixel (which is a separate campaign from the ones I'm trying to run, so I don't know why that is impacting it). Am I okay to delete the non-functioning ad I used to set up the Pixel, or will that screw up the Pixel I created?

@Jill Cooper No, I mean when we set up the Pixel, Mal had us open an ad and set up the Pixel that way. That ad is just sitting blank in my account, but if I delete it, it won't delete the Pixel I created, right?

I setup my ad, but I'm running into a few issues, and I'm not comfortable running my ad quite yet to complete the homework. 1. I can't find the Advantage Creative Text Generation (where we can pick different AI-generated text options from the personas). 2. In the Preview for the creative, many of the placements don't show my square image. They either show no image at all, or a preview of my Primary Text in the Stories placements. I set everything to the Original size in the "Select crop for media placements." Should I turn these placements off if the preview doesn't look like how I want it to? 3. It's automatically turning on three enhancements, even though I turned everything off: Reveal details over time, Show spotlights, Enhance CTA. Is there a way to turn these off, or are these enhancements okay to use? 4. Do I need anything in the URL Parameters box? Thanks!

PRIMARY TEXT OPTION 1: Deep breath, Willow. Plaster that fake smile on your pretty face. A waiter in a white coat passes by with a tray of champagne. I pluck one of the glasses off as he walks by, but before I can taste it, it’s gone. “You’re not twenty-one,” my dad reminds me. He takes a sip from the stolen glass. I scoff. “The drinking age is lower here. I checked.” “You’re right,” he says. “It’s eighteen, and last I checked, you’re still seventeen for a few more months.” I glare daggers at him, injecting as much spite as I can into my face. He decides now he wants to be a parent? F*** him. Turning my back, I move to make my way further into the crowd, but he grabs my arm. “First, we need to greet the president,” he says. “It’s customary.” I round back on him. “Do I look like I give a f*** about what’s ‘customary?’” My dad flinches as though my curse word was a knife, and he glances around at the people staring at us. “Willow, please behave,” he whispers. “This is an important work function, and you are representing the United States tonight. Ambassadors from around the world are here.” “I’ll behave if I can have some champagne.” I fold my arms in defiance. He releases my arm to pinch the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “Fine. But only one glass.” “Two.” He sighs. “Okay, two. But that’s it—I mean it.” I turn around to find the waiter, but my dad stops me. “After we meet the president.” I groan as he drags me by the arm toward the ballroom, where a receiving line spills out into the corridor. Inside, the crystal chandeliers draw my gaze upward toward the gilded ceiling of gold paneling. As we grow nearer, I catch a glimpse of a man standing at the front in formal military attire. He’s tall with graying hair and a cold, calculating stare. As people greet him, he shakes their hand, but he doesn’t say a word, nor does he smile at anyone. But he exudes power, giving off a don’t-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-kill-you vibe. And it makes me want to run in the opposite direction.

PRIMARY TEXT OPTION 2: The night is freezing, and I wrap my fur tighter around my shoulders. I didn’t dress to be outside tonight. A little fur is not enough to protect me from the harsh Andarusian weather, and rough goosebumps erupt across my skin. But I’d rather die of hypothermia than go back inside. It’s not my preferred way to go out, but it has its merits. Soon, the noise of the party fades away, and the only sound is the clicking of my heels against stone, which pierce the silent night. When I reach a fountain marking the entrance to the garden, I pause. I want to keep running, but I have nothing to run toward. I’m aimless. Anger and pain are ignited like a lit match dropped on gasoline. A cry is wrenched from my throat, and I throw my head back and scream toward the cloudy night sky. I stop, and the scream echoes off the stone. “Ah, yes,” someone says behind me. “The sound of pure, teenage angst.” Startled, I spin around toward the low voice. Fresh rage bubbles beneath the surface at the individual who dares to intrude on my private moment. Peering into the dark shadows, I narrow my gaze. “Who’s there?” Silence. I’m being watched, and it’s unsettling. I want to take a step forward, but fear keeps me rooted in this spot. My heart is pounding. I open my mouth to call out again, but before I do, I hear a lighter click. An orange flame lights up the dark, giving me a brief glimpse of his face. Aleksandr Kurochkin. The flame is snuffed out, plunging him back into shadow, save for the end of his cigarette. Slow footsteps begin to approach, and when he steps into the moonlight, my breath hitches. He’s even more stunning than when I first encountered him inside, when he was haloed by the light from the chandeliers. He belongs out here, in the dark. “Tell me,” he says, prowling closer, “how old are you?” “S-Seventeen.” “And what problems could a seventeen-year-old girl have to cause such turmoil? Surely, it’s not as dire as you think.” I narrow my gaze at him. “This, coming from the spoiled rich boy. What could you possibly know about suffering?”