Writers are told more and more these days that they should have a strong presence online. They should branch out through any means possible; stamp their name on as many social media websites as they can.
However, I have been very remiss in this department. Disgracefully so, I would say.
I love writing for my blog, but I just don’t have the heart for Twitter, Snapchat, Bookface, etc.
For a while, I was gaining a steady Twitter following, but I stopped tweeting once I realized just how annoying it is for a multitude of reasons. For one, I’m not politically minded so I don’t care to tweet about politics. I’m not that funny either (dammit, my secret is discovered!) so I spent a majority of my time trying to think of something humorous to say when I couldn’t think of anything. I’m also allergic to platitudes so I don’t want to post generic life-advice either.
For another thing, I’m just not interested in being bombarded with other people’s opinions 24/7 about politics, religion, the latest social outrage, and so on.
Not you guys. You guys are cool. It’s everyone else’s opinions that can be annoying. At least in excess.
I found social media was often a distraction from what I was really wanting to do. You know, write. I was trying to do these things for my writing’s sake when, in reality, it was directly interfering with it.
It clouded my ability to walk through the park or enjoy a sunset without worrying how it would look on my wall. I was more concerned about crafting a humous, yet not offensive post that I realized two hours had passed and I still hadn’t finished that chapter. Keeping up with all the accounts was harder than trying to keep a Tamagotchi alive.
It reminded me of my trip to the UK and how everyone seemed more interested in having an interesting Snapchat story than relishing in the fact that they were in frigging Europe (before you say anything, this was before the Brexit vote so, technically, they were in the EU). I took a crap load of photos too, but I tried to learn when to put the camera down and actually enjoy life.
I am amazed that so many writers can post a million things on Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter, and Facebook and still be able to publish a full-length novel by the end of the year. Some of them while working other jobs. I observe from the sidelines like “How do?”
Hell, I’m a writer. I don’t even know what I would take a picture of. Oh, look, here’s my desk. Here’s a pen. Here’s a book. Here’s a manuscript I promised I would finish by the time I graduate and haven’t touched in two years. Perhaps I require a social media consultant. A Henry Higgins-like figure who will shape me from a socially awkward pariah into something palatable for the masses.
I don’t hold out much hope though.
Although I may get an Instagram.
Oh, wouldn’t that be loverly?