I once had Facebook. A very long decade ago. But it ate me alive. I was one of those people who found myself following my ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s baby’s first encounters with pureed peas.
So I quit. Suddenly. Rashly. And never looked back. Not once.
And to this day, this woman’s got no Instagram, no Snapchat, no Facebook, no Twitter.
But now I’m writing a blog. I’m writing to write. But I dig the idea of strangers stumbling on it and wanting more. And ain’t nobody going to see this shit since I live in a cave.
I read an article recently about the demise of the mommy blog (which confusingly also said “long live the mommy blog” in the same breath). The idea of being in a room with 1000 mommy blog bloggers who spend thousands of dollars trying to mogulify their multi-media branded selves to be one of the bloggers who make money doing this was both nauseatingly daunting and frustratingly desirable. I have no idea how to maximize SEO or keywords and I still stubbornly resist embracing any sort of social media to spread myself with. I want to vomit in my mouth when faced with the multitude of websites telling me how to blog. I am the first to look away and retreat when faced with learning new information (I don’t even understand how to get my photos to automatically upload to the clouded ICloud and to not have the raunchies go to my kids’ iPads). But this stuff can’t be any harder than dealing with terminal patients who have fallen and are bleeding out of the back of their skulls. Or harder than managing itemized lists of 25 medications and a family member who wants to know about each and every potential pharmacologic interaction. Or could it?
Surely navigating Facebook simply to find a way to spread my story, my writing, my personality out into the tides, regardless of how many souls are already taking up space in those waters, is something I can do. Do I want to though? Maybe I continue to hide from social media but at least learn how to manipulate myself into a visible spot in the dense foliage of the Interwebs. There are a dime a dozen community education classes where, with a bunch of 70 year olds who want to write about the state of our democracy, I can learn the technicalities of how to get my blog to show up in a goddamn google search (even when you type in the exact title it shows up nowhere…) Surely I can do this. Surely I can learn a thing or two without it all making me want to burn my type-hungry fingers off and hide away in Patagonia.