Pretty Hate Machine

Goodbye to Twitter

I deactivated my Twitter account this morning.

Oh, I’ll be back. You have 30 days to reactivate, and I know many writers, like Tayari Jones, who deactivate on a regular basis to keep away from politics, doomscrolling, validation-seeking, the dopamine hit of mention-tagging, and the drama machine that is The Discourse, which has turned writing into less of a pleasure and more of a never-ending high school television show.

Twitter was fun back in 2008 when you could tell jokes without a thousand people thinking it was open-mic night and you were workshopping it with them. When writers had better things to do than police each other and look for chances to dogpile. Now, many agents use Twitter hashtags as a pre-slushpile, and you are expected to learn the rules by digging through tweets and websites before participating. There was one agent who expected no one to like your Tweet except them, so they could use it for bookkeeping.

Really.

I got lucky and started writing before social media took over completely, and managed to get a readership for which I am very thankful. Before some submissions forms had a little dropbox for you to enter your number of Twitter followers. It still works for many; I know one writer who penned a New York Times bestseller after getting a deal thanks to an essay that went viral; others who make a habit of starting shit-storms on Twitter and got better deals with a small press; and many who direct a following of minions who await their opinions on the latest outrage so they know what to think.

I never wanted any of that. I just wanted to write books. And I have, and I am, and I will continue to do so. And I will surely mention them, and any related events, on Twitter, because you can’t not.

But for now, I am taking a break from it. Because the reality show performances have become too much to take. And I don’t have the self-discipline to ignore people. Other writers have opined that any display of earnestness, or thoughts posted without editing for nuance, are often assumed to be in bad faith and treated as if they were op-eds published in the New York Times—which often feels they it has less of an editor than someone tweeting heartfelt thoughts in the small hours.

Because not everything people say is meant to apply to everybody. Twitter has anticipated this, and created “Twitter Circles.” It’s a list where you can limit who sees your Tweets to a subgroup of your followers. I haven’t tried it, so I don’t know if they can retweet it outside of the circle; that seems like it would defeat its own purpose, much like Jake LaMotta’s overcooked steak. I don’t want to be bothered. I’ve fallen back to emailing and texting people.

And writing here.

Because you don’t need to be part of the online writing “community” to be a writer. I joined the local writing group, and I plan to be more active there. It always amazes me when I read a popular book, and find that the author has no social media presence. It can be done. The mystery of it all! Who are they, really? What’s their favorite television show? Did they see a white dress or a gold dress? I need to know!

No, I don’t.

And I’m better off not knowing. I mean, I’m glad I know that Delia Owens, author of that Crawdad book, is wanted for questioning in the murder of an African man in Zambia, along with her husband and son. Maybe you’d enjoy reading this in the Atlantic. The murder was caught on film by ABC! This should be the next Tiger King, and I’m sure it will, after they keep it quiet so it doesn’t tank Reese Witherspoon’s movie of the book.

See? I can be a shit-stirring writer, as well. Maybe it’s in our nature.