This post has
been stewing around in my brain for months now, and I still don’t know if I’m
ready to write it. Or, perhaps, to be ostracized for it.
For me,
Facebook was a matter of “should”. Hell, I’m a writer, aren’t I? I want to
communicate, don’t I? I want to promote (and promote, and promote) my next
book, don’t I? What’s the matter with me, anyway?
So I stepped,
reluctantly, across the barbed-wire threshhold into an atmosphere that reminded
me, most alarmingly, of the playground.
Were you ever
bullied? Of course not! You wouldn’t be reading this at all unless you’re
already on Facebook (and curious as to why anyone would crucify themselves by
daring to say they hate it). And if you’re on Facebook, you have at least 1500 “friends”
and have always been popular and have never been bullied and and and (as
William Shatner once so eloquently put it) “blah blah blah!”
When I
stumbled into this thing I was a stranger in a strange land. Though I had
managed over the years to acclimatize myself to basic computer skills like email
and blogging and setting up a web site, and all that sort of thing, I didn’t
have a clue how to do Facebook and soon found that there were no instructions. It was that same old bitter dynamic that nearly destroyed me in my youth: I had gotten to the party far too late, everyone knew each other already, and they most certainly did not want ME around to clutter up their nice little tight-knit in-group.
When I finally figured
out how to post comments, I gingerly reached out for help with the system and
got exactly no response. There was this dense, embarrassed silence. It felt
like I had just said, “hey, someone help me! I don’t know how to use the
bathroom.”
I felt like an
incontinent old lady stumbling around in the dark.
Soon, I was
alarmed to learn that most of my contacts – feeble in number, at the start –
had at least 300 “friends” (300 being the starting point for most people), and
some had well over 1000. Some panic light came on in my solar plexus and began
to blink, blink, blink.
I was bullied –
a lot – in school and outside of it. This was before bullying came out of the
shame closet and teen suicide attempts inspired compassion instead of
ever-more-elaborate and ruthless forms of ostracism. I still can’t really figure
it out: I didn’t have green skin, I didn’t have two heads. Believe it or not, I
did have friends, and these friends tended to be loyal and close. In some
cases, I call them friends still (though not on Facebook).
So I wasn’t
some piece of shit meandering along with a target painted on my forehead (but
you’d never know it from the way I was treated). I was persecuted –
there’s no other word for it. I was more than unpopular, I wasn’t even on the
screen. So trying to find my way on Facebook stirred up some of the worst
feelings from the bottom of the sludge barrel. A thousand friends? Would
I meet that many people in a lifetime?
Dumb, stupid,
incontinent old lady me! These weren’t friends. These were, well, I don’t know
what they were. I couldn’t figure it out. When I tried to answer the question
(or statement) “what’s on your mind today”, and if my statement had any sense
of need or desire for help or any sort of vulnerability in it at all, I was completely
ignored. I couldn’t say anything remotely critical or I was “corrected”. Get back in line,
fruitcake!
Gradually this
changed as I realized I had to “cultivate” these thousand-or-so friends, that
they likely wouldn’t just fly into my nest spontaneously. And a funny thing
happened. From that point on, if I ever said anything at all or even commented
on some else’s “anything”, I was generally sniped at.
I was made to
feel “geez, don’t you even know how things work around here?” – as if I
didn’t already feel that way! In one case I tried to explain that I wanted to
be careful who I took on as a “friend” and I would “unfriend” anyone who made
me uncomfortable for any reason. Someone answered something like “wtf lady give them
three tries then they’re out why don’t u lol?” Another said “I just let in anyone.
Any old person who comes along, in the parking lot, out in the alley,
hehheheheh.” The feeling was, OF COURSE you have to be careful, you fucking
idiot, why are you making such a retarded statement anyway? Or else it meant, what?
You have discernment? This isn’t about quality. It’s about volume.
You say it isn’t?
A thousand friends. Two thousand? That’s volume.
I’m reading
more and more articles now about how Facebook is making us all much more lonely
in a society where loneliness is already epidemic. Every time I force myself to
go on Facebook I feel palpably pushed away. It isn’t fun. Since almost all my
contacts are in the writing and publishing field, 95% of what I read is self-promotion, done in a breezy “oh by the
way” style that provides a nice pink floral veneer. Call it the Facebook
wallpaper scheme.
Shockingly, this even seems to apply to writers who feel they're renegades and outside the mainstream and standing up to the status quo.
Shockingly, this even seems to apply to writers who feel they're renegades and outside the mainstream and standing up to the status quo.
Yes, I’m a
writer too and the whole reason I got coerced into this thing is so that I can promote
my next novel, which is written but not exactly published yet. Maybe this is my
incontinent-old-lady mentality rearing up again, but I was taught NEVER to
refer to my accomplishments in the writing field. You’d have to pry it out of
me with forceps that I ever won an award, or was shortlisted (that weird sister
to success that provides a sort of shadow-gratification for the up-and-coming).
You’d have to turn me upside down and shake me to make me admit I had ever
had a positive review. I was a Canadian,
and this was the proper thing to do. Anything else was inexcusable arrogance and rudeness and would alienate everyone for sure.
Now it has been turned inside-out and upside-down, and EVERY occasion, every launch, every luncheon, every book-signing-where-one-person-shows-up-because-they-think-it’s-a-different-book, probably about fishing, is now a chance to turn clownish cartwheels and wag your stumpy little Wheaten Terrier tail for attention.
Now it has been turned inside-out and upside-down, and EVERY occasion, every launch, every luncheon, every book-signing-where-one-person-shows-up-because-they-think-it’s-a-different-book, probably about fishing, is now a chance to turn clownish cartwheels and wag your stumpy little Wheaten Terrier tail for attention.
I’m sorry, folks,
but I am just so sick of this.
Yes! I see that
this is the information age. Yes! I see that selling a book (nobody knows this
better than me, believe me) is now so difficult that one must become a
shameless self-promoter to get anywhere at all.
Yes. I get it.
But I have yet
to see ANYONE on Facebook really express any feelings about anything except a
sort of blandified, self-involved glee. If someone is feeling devastating
grief, they stick a happy face over it. Though it was probably designed for it,
it is NOT a forum for any sort of meaningful communication between human
beings.
But there are people
who spend many hours a day “on” Facebook. Lonely? Why would we be that?
I haven’t
cancelled my account just yet, and I don’t know why except I still have a
thread of hope that my book will find a home. I believe it is now a requirement,
unless you want to be viewed as a crackpot or a Luddite. And I am aware that
Facebook is so popular now that you do not dare criticize it unless you work
for the New York Times or something. Or the Atlantic Monthly. So what will I do
if something does happen? Must I treat Facebook like the vast garbled bulletin
board (or billboard, or flashing neon sign) of ego that it truly is, get in line, and say my say? Will
I have to learn to cartwheel?
My immediate
concern is that I will be crucified for daring to say what I really think about
all this. It’s deeply taboo to say you hate Facebook. We. All. Love. It. Don’t
we? You don’t? Just get off it, then. Shut up and go away. There goes
freedom of speech – yet another casuality of the blandly conformist “we-think”
that would make George Orwell turn over in his grave.
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Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
It took me years to write, will you take a look
Order The Glass Character from:
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA
Barnes & Noble
Thistledown Press
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