SHOULD WE ALL QUIT INSTAGRAM?

Navigating social media now that Zuck has kissed the ring

Photo by Payton Tuttle on Unsplash

“PLATFORM” IS A EUPHEMISM

Back in 2014, when my agent and I were trying to sell my debut novel, Symptoms of Being Human, I was told I needed an "author platform." At the time I had no f&*#ing idea what that meant. Here’s what I’ve learned. “Platform" is a euphemism for “How do I already know you and why should I care about your stupid little book?” The best answers [at the time] were:

• "I'm writing a book about teens at a ski camp, and I have a wildly successful teen-skiing blog [remember blogs?] read by thousands of teen skiers!" 

  -Or-

• "I am an archaeologist and my book is about a teen female Indiana Jones–and I just so happen to have an instagram with 29M viewers where I post photos of ancient teen artifacts, like sumerian fidget spinners and early gaming consoles!"

In 2014, I had no platform. I was a burned-out musician from the pre-MySpace days and an actor from the time of black-and-white headshots sent by snail mail. So, starting about eighteen months before I launched Symptoms, I bored into social media like a manic vole–and took to it immediately. In a creative world of ambiguous results, here was a place I could finally measure success numerically in likes, retweets, and follows! Hallelujah!

I was conversant in Facebookese–but teens had either fled or never arrived in the first place. I had an Instagram full of lunch porn, which I repurposed. I revamped my old blog (then entitled “Rock Paper Life") into a stream of writing advice (oh the arrogant horror) and confessions about my previous lives as a TV actor and touring rock musician. It all felt very exploitative and sort of pointless, like playing shows to empty bar stools on the Sunset Strip.

Photo by Akshar Dave🌻 on Unsplash

FINDING TWITTER

Then I found Twitter. I had joined in 2008, back when it was mostly a text message phenomenon, but had only used it erratically and without much thought. Now I revamped it. New profile photo. New cover image. Obnoxious bio which almost certainly involved the word "musings" and some quirky personal fact about my pets or coffee consumption.

As we prepared to launch Symptoms, the publisher’s PR machine produced reviews, landed the book on lists, and garnered some press: an article in the OC Register, an appearance on the cover of OC Weekly, and a blurb in my hometown newspaper (still run by the same woman who covered my first TV gig in 1992!) As that stuff came out, I gained followers: mostly other debut authors, some school librarians, and even a few agents and imprints. Everyone, in short, everyone but teen readers, who were not on Twitter. Still, I dug in. I engaged. I followed and replied and retweeted, desperate to be a contributing member of “YA Twitter.” As many authors do, I obsessed over likes and retweets and follows. But as YA Twitter grew more politically bent, I found myself backing off. Avoiding any topics that required nuance for fear of being cancelled (though that word wasn't in wide use yet.) I found my authenticity waning. My posts became more performative. More virtue-signaling.

Then, I made a screwup and used the wrong pronoun when praising a genderfluid celebrity for their bravery in coming out. Oh, shit. It was an honest mistake, but a nearly deadly one. The celeb replied to politely correct me, and I apologized. But for about 24 hours, this straight author with a queer book was experiencing an extended severe panic attack over what would have been fixed IRL with a short “oops, I’m an asshole, sorry.”

Looking back, that's when I should have quit. If a single, honest mistake could threaten my professional reputation, that was no place for me to be.

And yet, it took me another five years to bail–because I was afraid. Afraid of giving up my biggest "platform." I'd amassed about 3,600 followers. God knows how many were bots, how many were other writers following me with the hope of making some career connection (the same reason I was following so many others), or how many actually gave a shit what I had to say. A minority of them, I’d guess, especially since I wasn't actually sharing what I had to say anymore.

So finally, at the end of 2023, I deleted all my tweets and abandoned Twitter.

Literally nothing happened.

I can count on one hand the people who DMed me on other platforms to say they missed me on Twitter. I would occasionally spy on my hashtags and mentions (I kept my account to stave off impostors) but the activity surrounding me and my books stayed more or less the same. When my book hit a list or came out in paperback, the publisher or the library association would tweet about it. They didn’t need me.

Six months later, my detox was complete, and I was psychologically free from Twitter.

But looking back, quitting Twitter was relatively easy, because I still had other outlets. My Instagram was strong. I had gathered 500 names on an email list, which I turned into this Substack. 

I wish I could say I quit Twitter to protest Elon’s abuse of employees and refusal to kick Nazis off the platform. That would have been nobler than the real reason: I did it to protect my reputation. Don’t get me wrong, I did it for my mental health, too, and to reclaim my attention. But if I’m being brutally honest, I just wanted to avoid stepping on a landmine.

DISTRACTION

In late 2023, I read Deep Work by Cal Newport, in which the author introduces four rules, the third of which is: Quit Social media. It's an incredible book, I've read it twice, and I recommend it. It's the reason I even entertained quitting Twitter. The others, though–Instagram and Facebook–I couldn’t bear to leave.

I did, however, develop a healthier relationship with social media. I deleted IG and FB from my phone, re-installing them only when I had something to announce. I installed Self Control on my desktop to block distracting sites while I was writing, and Opal on my phone to reduce screen time. I’ve fallen off the wagon a few times, especially during the unbearable ennui between drafts, but I always climbed back on.

During this post-Twitter period, I tried out TikTok (R.I.P.?). The best response I got (maybe 1500 views?) was from a confessional video I made about how bipolar disorder sometimes manifests as just being an asshole. The attention was a rush, but I felt sort of horrible. Like, do I have to spill intensely personal shit just to get followers? For a while, I rationalized it as "promoting visibility" or "advocacy." But really, it was self-exploitation as a bid for attention.

The post-Elon social media landscape was nuts. I joined Mastodon and Hive and tried to rekindle my Tumblr, all with minimal success. Then came Threads–and with it, every Instagram follower who joined up. I rapidly hid 1,000 followers and thought HURRAH! I’M BACK! But as I spent time there, I found nothing had changed: I became obsessed once more with likes and follows. I think Threads gave us all a viral post in those first few months, like a dealer handing out free samples to potential addicts. There were fewer Nazis, probably, but I’d never interfaced with them much anyway. I joined BlueSky, too–but without Instagram’s glorious network effect, I gained few followers and felt once more like I was shouting into the pre-published void. I don’t feel important there, or even known. And if that’s what I’m searching for, wouldn’t my time be better spent writing books anyway?

And now, Zuck has kissed the ring, and is in the process of disassembling everything that made Facebook and Insta and Threads better than Twitter.

Photo by Jackson Simmer on Unsplash

SO SHOULD WE ALL JUST QUIT?

I wouldn't miss Threads. I've already deleted it from my phone, and I’m trying not to check it. I log into Facebook once or twice a week to catch up with friends. I feel okay about that. But Instagram–that's the one I fear to quit. That's the place where I interact directly with readers. View their fan art. See their positive comments.

But lately, before I post, I've been asking myself, "Whom will this help? Am I doing this for attention?" And, most dreadfully, "How might this backfire?" All of that is f#$%ing awful. Why would anyone stay in that kind of abusive relationship?

The answer is FEAR. Fear that if I unplug my last microphone, no one will hear me anymore. I’m afraid despite knowing that I am profoundly available to the public via my website, this Substack, and you know, actual books on shelves. Anyone who wants me can find me. 

It seems a horrible injustice that creative people have to adapt ourselves to these alien media–video and microposts and stories–just to sell books or records or paintings. The experience recalls the futility of the late-90s record industry, when labels were going belly up, but bands were still plastering fliers to phone poles and handing out tapes in parking lots.

Cal Newport gives some persuasive and depressing math about how much social media actually affects book and record sales (spoiler alert: almost not at all) and how the trade-off in time and emotional bandwidth is almost certainly a net loss.

And now that Zuck has thrown in with the Nazi sympathizers (God I hate sounding that extreme, but we're all choking on the evidence), how can I in good conscience remain on these platforms?

CRY FOR HELP

What would happen if I quit?

What would happen if we all quit?

Book sales and music careers existed before social media. Can they exist again without it?

New authors in particular feel the pressure to “have an online presence.” But when I look back on my own publishing career, I'm not convinced it made a damn difference. I met my agent at a book conference, because I went looking in person. I stayed in touch with fellow authors by email. I could do that again, I really could. And I'm convinced it would be better.

As of this writing, I'm still on IG and FB. And I’m tortured and regretful that my fear is ruling me. I want to be one of those writers who tosses my smartphone in the river, buys an old typewriter, and gets busy growing a beard and cranking out the next great American novel in a cabin somewhere.

I remember after reading Snow Crash, I sought out Neal Stephenson online. I found only a single post on some random message board. It was an open letter to fans, explaining that he could either communicate with readers one on one via emails and social media, or he with tens of thousands at once by writing books.

But now, even Neal Stephenson is social media.

So what are we little authors supposed to do?

I want to hear your thoughts about this–I need to hear them–as a comment on this post, or in a reply to this email. I'm looking for guidance and advice on how (or whether) to navigate this new social media quagmire.

For now, I'll keep this Substack.

I hope to hear from you soon.