120 Days of Facebook

My relationship status is complicated. Facebook arrived when I was in college, at a time when so much self-expression existed through blogs, personal websites, and alternatives like Friendster & MySpace. The blog at that time was my primary mode of communication, and stayed that way for most of that decade.

It pains me that I was able to write so much then, about any subject with no concern for accuracy or reputation, and now, sitting here putting words to screen feels like so much damn work. I suppose I know more now, and know more about what I do not know, and this act of writing now feels like both a risk and a knowing failure.

Twitter came a bit later, and that was pretty much that for the long read. It’s not that we necessarily wanted to stop writing, but that people probably wanted to stop reading. After all, this is about self-expression. Hear what I have to say. If it’s short, the chances are better than you’ll hear it. I can get it all out in a few words and feel a rush of calm that I’ve expressed this idea, concept, or trite observation.

Perhaps my creativity is deflated by that simple act, because I’m reaching an audience I’ve never had. Why bother writing a book or composing a song? I’ve already digested the thought and heaved it grotesquely into the world. The impulse to expand it into something hard but infinitely more valuable has faded, and I’m on to the next thing (probably for similar reasons, many studies find that announcing goals in public and social media makes you less likely to ever achieve them).

A question arises: how much do we know the people in our lives? It is clear the grain of Facebook influences our thoughts and subsequent behaviors. I do not know what other people’s feeds look like, but I imagine them to be very different from each other, and I suspect this may influence the kinds of things people choose to share with others. I’ve certainly heard people say, “Well, I liked this person until I followed them online” and have also experienced the inverse: that some people are much funnier or interesting online than in person.

Then again, sometimes I find that otherwise well-mannered and polite people are disproportionately obsessed with controversial social topics. Religion & politics seem to be a great preoccupation, and I’d be none the wiser without seeing it all play out on social media.

In the spirit of peacekeeping, Facebook allows you to minutely moderate your feed, which pretty much means you can weed out any opposing opinions fairly easily. This kind of power is awfully tempting because you can essentially craft the world as you really want it to be, but I tend to take the more treacherous path: either by directly engaging or whatever Facebook’s version of subtweeting is (a post that refers to a particular user without directly mentioning them, typically as a form of furtive mockery or criticism).

But just as we must craft the external, so we must craft the internal. Shall we share in private or public? What kind of things should I say on Twitter versus Facebook? Am I clean here, but dirty there? Will this opinion affect my career or personal relationships? Do I share, like, or just say stuff? What are the consequences? More importantly, what are the benefits?

I’ve maintained Twitter accounts off and on for years, and despite the fact that I’m fairly sure the vast majority of my contribution there has never been seen by a soul, it still reflects most of my social energies. Facebook is still a minefield for me, and I barely understand how to navigate its labyrinthian logic and contradictory ethics. Nonetheless, it’s the best way for a non-celebrity like me to obtain praise, feedback, or controversy.

You immediately learn the low-hanging fruit: these family members generally like this kind of content, but those friends like that kind of content. Some I can only assume have hidden me from their feeds entirely, or I’m merely ghettoized into some rarely-glanced at “people I talked to maybe twice in high school” list. I’m not exactly sure what to make of my audience. Do I delight, offend, or bore? Is it okay to please some people with posts about literature, and others with posts about music? Would talk of my career or philosophies cause a glaze to come to the eyes?

Short of creating topic-based groupings and micromanaging who sees what, it’s just a gamble. Nor is a “like” really all that valid as an indication of quality–I’ve posted a carefully constructed joke that Bill liked (yay!), only to see Bill also liked a semi-blurry photo of a cupcake (boo!). Back in the old days, when Facebook was exclusive to college students, the world was much smaller and more manageable. Everyone pretty much liked the same stuff, and cared about the same things. I don’t remember in-fighting or awkwardly deleting posts or comments I regret. Maybe it’s age, and maybe it’s audience. There seemed to be a lot less at stake, though.

When things get a little too hazardous to your health, some recommend simply ghosting the platform, instead of cycling through systematic account deletion and activation over the years. Ghosting is when you just leave it alone for a variable of time–don’t delete, just ignore. Come back later.

And that’s the last question I have to pose: why do we always come back? Do we find ourselves in a particularly happy or generous mood, and feel we can tolerate it? Perhaps we feel vulnerable and seek companionship or validation? It can certainly be fun for a while, until it’s not: someone went a little too far, namely, you.

You feel like the work is outweighing the reward. You’re dreading how your family will react to that latest Supreme Court ruling you’re so happy about. You glide effortlessly between authenticity and parody, sidestepping this trap, dismantling that one. Sooner or later, you know you won’t be so lucky: the trap goes off, the damage is done, and you frantically try to find that hidden deactivate button once again.

But eventually you do find it, think a bit, then tap. Facebook asks, “Are you sure you want to leave? You probably won’t hear from Bill anymore.” Which is probably true, and I really don’t know what to make of that.