I started writing this newsletter on January 1st of this year with the subtext of pulling back from Facebook. I’d been wanting to do it for a long time—find some other way to connect and discuss with people besides the posturing sinkhole that social media has become. I had naive visions of writing thought-provoking missives that subscribers could not resist commenting on. My newsletter page would be a new literary salon! I’d have to charge for admission! I’d be the talk of the town!
That of course has not happened (yet!). I did indeed receive many comments on several posts—on Facebook. I guess our behavior there is so ingrained that it’s a hard habit to break.
As the summer has settled in, I’ve achieved one goal and failed at another one: I left social media and I have written far less. The former is working nicely for me and might become permanent. The writing part though - or lack thereof - left me feeling discombobulated. Writing is how I process. It’s also how I feed my ego, honestly. When all else fails, I can write my way through a problem and enjoy the added bonus of having other people relate to it.
Case in point: this very post. In the course of writing it, I realized that I’ve been wrestling with imposter syndrome. Where do I get off thinking that other people want to hear from me? What do I have to say that isn’t already being said by the 1,000 other yahoos writing newsletters? More to the point, what is the precise combination of words and themes that is going to resonate with people? If I can’t find those, then I might as well not even try.
Charlie Warzel is a journalist whose newsletter offers precisely the kind of thoughtful, nuanced discourse I’m craving these days. His piece on June 1st, The internet is flat, is one I’ve shared, quoted, and re-read multiple times since, so forgive me if you’ve seen this quote before.
The social internet promised us deep human connections — the sort that requires nuance and patience for messiness — but instead, it’s just turned us all into brands. Brands are monolithic. They are purposefully devoid of nuance. A brand is supposed to evoke a blunt emotion (Luxurious! Dangerous! Dependable! Built to last!) and are meant to remain consistent through space and time. Once you are ‘Built Ford Tough,’ it’s expected you remain Ford Tough for quite a while. There are cars to move off the lot.
All those questions I was throwing at myself are rooted in the assumption that I’m a brand. Having spent my career in marketing, I applied the same rules to myself, and the ever-flattening internet exacerbated it. Always be on message and always have that message be as simple and clear-cut as possible. Do not attempt to move outside the message.
I’m not Ford Tough, though. I’m messy and complex and have multiple opinions that contradict each other. I say stupid things and brilliant things and am absolutely positive I have offended people in the past. Removing myself from online communities in which I spent so much of my time and energy has re-gifted me with clarity of thought. I’m taking longer to respond, not just to others but to myself. I’m measuring where I am mentally, accepting it, and - possibly, hopefully - welcoming it. I’m slowing myself down and letting my brain do its thing.
Where that takes me is anyone’s guess. It will surely result in some random-ass stuff (see below for proof). But for the first time in a very long time, maybe ever, I’m giving myself free rein. And I don’t really care where it ends up. I’m just happy to be creating.
In honor of the Not-Remotely-Veiled Metaphor of Over-Compensation that spent 11 minutes in the air this morning, I’d like to point you to an alternate view of space travel.
In the summer of 1969, right before Woodstock, the Harlem Cultural Festival took place over a series of weekends, featuring Stevie Wonder, Sly & the Family Stone, Nina Simone, The Staples Family, Gladys Knight & the Pips, and many more historic artists. You’ve probably heard that Questlove made a movie from the unearthed footage, Summer of Soul, and I highly recommend it.
One part of the film that hasn’t received much attention is the fact that the Apollo 11 moon landing happened one night during the festival. So a news crew went around interviewing people to ask what they thought. Friends, my white ass was shook. Person after person expressed annoyance and low-level anger about the billions of dollars being spent to explore another planet while Black Americans struggled to feed their families. I have rarely felt so completely removed and alien from my fellow humans. And so completely blind. It’s changed the way I think about space travel and made me look even further askance at the billionaire flyboys.
I was therefore doubly pleased to find this treasure on kottke.org today, Gil Scott-Heron’s poem, Whitey on the Moon. Enjoy. And ponder it, man.