I don’t get social media. In this day, having a friend count in the double digits probably makes me a loser, but I’m okay with that. I like the mobility of posting family photos to Facebook, and I like reminiscing back on the experiences I’ve had in the same way I read through my old journals, but I’m a fairly private person. I don’t like the thought of everyone knowing my business, and I don’t want to spend my time portraying a glamorous version of myself that isn’t entirely true to reality. And honestly, who wants to live in a world where a person’s worth is measured by the number of ‘likes’ they accumulate?
Yet occasionally as I work on my novel, I fantasize about having a big audience. I imagine thousands of other people enjoying the stories that I create, and perhaps even relating to my characters and the struggles they overcome. There is a piece of me that craves popularity after all.
From behind the safety of a pen name, so I don’t have to tell the neighbors what I do. Ha ha.
While I don’t write about the experiences that I’ve actually had, I’m emotionally honest in my work, and that makes it hard to advertise myself to the people I meet. In a way I want to be an idea that connects to the secret hurts inside all of us, to help others find companionship and solace. Is that weird? Probably. But I’ve never been normal.
After all, I don’t get social media.