the essay
I’ve been on a social media hiatus since the middle of December to spend some time with family and friends before the exciting chaos of my debut year starts in earnest (!!!), and let me tell you: it has mostly been very nice.
Twitter is... well, you know. I hadn’t been on there nearly as much anyway just because it feels a bit like the Wild West lately (not to be confused with the Wild Wild West, Jim West, desperado, rough-rider, no you don’t want none of this, six-gunnin’ this, brother runnin’ this, buffalo soldier, look, it’s like I told ya, etc.1), so that hasn’t been much of a sacrifice. Instagram is a different story, because I’ve grown to enjoy it and a lot of my social interaction with other writers happens there these days. But, like many creative professionals, I find it’s a double-edged sword. Like, yay friends and laughs and good news, boo mindless scrolling and comparing to others and working myself up into a general anxious lather. So I do find it helpful to take an intentional step back every once in a while. It’s beneficial to remind myself that my online presence isn’t actually that important, and also forces me to connect with the people I care about in a more intentional way.
These breaks always do me a lot of good. This one is longer than I’ve ever done before, so in theory it should be doing me even better. And I’m sure it is. I’ve been more productive, more present, less anxious, and have taken some truly indulgent naps on the couch with my cat. But this extended hiatus has also alerted me to a very annoying thing about myself—I’m out of practice when it comes to existing if I’m not doing it outwardly.
Now, the nearly-instant-gratification, larger-audience nature of today’s popular social media platforms has certainly exacerbated my tendency to share a majority of my actions and thoughts. There’s a huge dopamine hit that comes with posting something and getting those immediate likes and comments and shares. It’s like knowing my opinion or idea has been reviewed by a focus group of sorts and it has found to be good or interesting or relatable or funny. Very validating!
Except, when I thought about it, the origin of my need to express things publicly versus privately can’t be found within the twelve years I’ve had a Twitter account. It goes back much farther, to the halcyon days of LiveJournal.
I had various LJ accounts from ages 13 to 18. I posted about my life, the music and shows I loved, the trouble I was too naive to know I was getting into. I made friends—many of whom I’m still somewhat in touch with (one even beta read for me and is in my book’s acknowledgements). I did some of my earliest fiction writing in drabble and play-by-post role-playing communities there. And it was all very formative. Too formative maybe. Because somewhere along the way I got in the habit of not only telling the world what I was thinking or doing or consuming, but expecting that someone out there would care. In fact, I understand it now as what it was: a coping mechanism.
Add in the ease of today’s digital landscape and how much of my social and professional life has been built around it, and the result is that I now think of all of my experiences and thoughts in the form of how I can present it to others. This usually barely registers, because I simply go on Twitter or Instagram (or even Discord) and throw that sucker into the ether before I have to sit with it too long. But weeks away from those places mean that I’ve been forced to confront this habit, over and over again. I reorganized my pantry and thought about how I would post it as an Insta story. I hit my reading goal for the year and pictured grouping my favorite books into an easily digestible round-up. I’ve written several tweets in my head about how Arctic Monkeys have entered their Steely Dan era. And then, instead of actually posting any of those things, I’ve had to simply… sit with them.2
Frankly, I found it uncomfortable at first. I think I’ve figured out why: thanks to being on social sites from a young age, I developed FOYMO—fear of you missing out. If you (and I mean the royal you here) don’t know what I’m thinking/feeling/consuming, where is the proof I’ve thought or felt or consumed, and that I’ve done it correctly? A.k.a. whoops, I inadvertently built the foundation of my worth out of other people validating my brain’s production!
The public part is the reason why it’s not as simple as writing my thoughts down in a notebook and moving on. It’s the Y that’s crucial in FOYMO. Because, remember, this started as a coping strategy when I was a weird, depressed, angsty, confused teenager in rural Pennsylvania. I had odd interests for someone my age and gender, a lot of heavy stuff going on at home, no real social spaces outside of school, and toxic ideals about how relationships could and should work. Through LiveJournal—and later Twitter, Insta, and Discord—I found a way to shout into the void and get a response back that made me feel less alone. Reassurance that my brain is good enough and that I fit somewhere within the greater picture of humanity. If there’s no Y, if you miss out on what I’m up to, who is to say I’m doing all right? That I exist at all? That I matter?
Strange but true: turns out the answer is me. I am to say that I matter. In the steamy holiday novella Santa, Baby by Eliza McLane (highly recommend, btw) of all places, there’s a perfect line about how “the problem with survival tactics developed as a child is that, as an adult, it becomes impossible to tell where the strategy ends and your real personality exists.” Woo, boy, accurate! But thanks to this little social media detox (and also years of therapy), I’m now able to peel the FOYMO away to reveal the banana of my actual self beneath3. I’m no longer that kid who needs to live outwardly in order to understand herself and her place in the world. I know exactly who I am now, and where I fit. I like that person and see value in her, and I know that value isn’t affected by who is or is not watching. And that feels like a very healthy realization. I am proud of myself for coming to it. Hooray for growth!
Except I still desperately want to show you my pantry.
book stuff
You heard it here first, folks: there’s going to be a second Goodreads giveaway of 10 print copies of Mrs. Nash’s Ashes, January 4th through February 3rd. Mark your calendars (or just make sure you’ve added it as to-read and they’ll helpfully send you an email when the giveaway is open).
And it’s also up for request via Edelweiss and NetGalley if you’re an industry professional or reviewer who would like to read early!
what we’re reading at our house
me - My Man Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse; Santa, Baby by Eliza McLane
H - Bringing Down the Duke by Evie Dunmore
me & H - It Happened One Midnight by Julie Anne Long
h - Fruit Bowl by Mark Hoffman
what I’m listening to, formatted as an AIM away message
there’s an avalanche c o m i n g
don’t cover your e y e s
it’s what you t h o u g h t that you wanted
it’s still a s u r p r i s e
(“Unbearably White” - Vampire Weekend)
you should check out
I’m not on TikTok, where this has apparently been a thing for a while, but have y’all heard about slugging? It’s a skincare thing, not a sex thing (at least not in the context in which I’m talking about it). Anyway, 2-3 times a week you clean your face and moisturize per usual, but then you smear on some Aquaphor or another similarly goopy product and let it absorb into your skin overnight. It’s sorta gross feeling but it’s done wonders for the dry patches I get on my face/ears/neck during the winter, and I definitely recommend it if you too could use some extra hydration in these trying times.
Thanks as always for reading. I hope that your holiday season has been restful and that the new year brings you all the very best things. xS
I'll have you know I wrote this out completely from memory, and I could have kept going.
(Or reach out directly to someone who won’t mind a text or conversation, which is usually my husband, except not for the Arctic Monkeys/Steely Dan thing anymore because he’s very tired of listening to me talk about The Car.)
Sometimes I wonder why anyone trusts me with words tbh.