A return to social media, fishing for readers, engagement, and clicks. Or confessions of a long-time lurker.

In my thirty years online, I’ve probably had fewer than a dozen actual social engagements with people I’ve never met in real life. Even in the early, early days of Compuserve, my friends and I would log on and prank people in chat rooms, but on my own, I’ve never had a desire to communicate with strangers online. And don’t get me wrong, that’s what we all are: strangers.

Over the past few years of maintaining this website, a little corner where I post things I’m thinking about from time to time, I have not done any promotion beyond casually inserting into conversations with friends, ‘Yeah, I wrote about this on my website,’ which has always gotten a blank stare and a nod of recognition. It was probably that sentiment that made me reluctant to even attempt to expand my audience of readers to a sum greater than zero. Yet, the older I get, the less the opinions of people I love and respect really mean when it comes to my writing, or books, or movies, or music. I like what I’m making here.

When I first got online, I did find it easier to chat with friends on messenger apps like ICQ or AOL Instant Messenger. Seeing their name light up and a message box pop up was an incredible feeling. Before we had cellphones to call or text friends, it was the first place you felt that you had a private space to discuss and share things. You could also take your time and respond thoughtfully if you wanted, but it was also perfectly understandable to leave a message on read, well, because somebody in your house needed to make a telephone call.

As things progressed and chat rooms, newsgroups, and forums got big, I still struggled to look out into the vast emptiness of the ocean of faceless usernames and find a reason to connect with anyone.

In my teens and twenties, I wasn’t completely antisocial. When you worked in the service industry, you had to cultivate good social skills to keep your job and get along with the general public you served. You had to learn how to take their shit with a smile if you wanted to get tipped, and you had to learn how to get along with the ex-cons and other drug-riddled lowlifes like yourself that you relied on to get through a kitchen shift.

There are times in my waking life I have to ardently remind myself that other people are, in fact, real. So when I get an unsolicited message on social media, that part of my brain is far more convincing when it argues that the originator of that message is undoubtedly a bot, a reality that grows more plausible with each passing day.

After reading short stories by up-and-coming writers, I am filled with an excitement that drives me to rush to my keyboard and type out a quick message about how inspiring their work was and how much I enjoyed it. But after a few drafts of this, I give up and delete it. Why? Because, again, I’m calling into question my right even to lavish praise, no matter how sincere. Usually this deflation is caused by reading their bio and seeing all the MFAs, BFAs, or whatever-FAs, along with the long list of publications they’re in. Feeling inadequate, I question my choice to make a connection, and I sink back into the little corner of my world.

I’m trying to get more serious with my writing, driven by the desire to make it my occupation and not just my isolated obsession, and I understand that a big part of that will be reaching out and promoting my work in a way that feels both self-aggrandizing and borderline narcissistic. But it must be done, because the alternative is to give in to my self-doubts and continue down a lonely path where I am my sole audience, which is not a healthy way to grow as a person, let alone a writer.

The way I see it, I am at a fork in the road when it comes to how I feel about my own craft, where I fit in the world of literature, and the importance of making my voice heard. To one side, I have the dark cloud of imposter syndrome that has been with me since dropping out of high school. On the other, there is the reality that it doesn’t matter one single iota what people think about me and my writing. The purpose of my creating is not to win favor, or impress colleagues, or even get published. I write because I have to. I create because, if I did not, I would probably explode.

I write because I have to. I create because, if I did not, I would probably explode.

I am not writing this essay or blog post or article or rant or by-line of a manifesto for any other reason than because it sparks joy in me that is unrivaled. It gives me the energy to write more. The purpose of my sharing a link to my website, or posting on social media, or just telling another writer how much I adore their latest work is not to pump up my ego. It is to take one small step toward a future where I have more time to dedicate to writing and to dive into the library of ideas festering in my head that keep me up night after night.

So, where to from here?

I guess it’s on to the great wide open, to sail out into the sea of faceless usernames, dropping anchor and baiting hooks, doing my best to form whatever connections can be made.