It was Friday night. I felt restless and alive, a formerly huddled mass yearning to be free. Having long pondered the folly of interacting with others out of a flimsy and incomplete construction of myself defined by “stuff I like” and “stuff I own” and “stuff I think once sentence at a time,” I thought I’d delete my Facebook account. So I followed the instructions, and got the following message:
Your account has been deactivated from the site and will be permanently deleted within 14 days. If you log into your account within the next 14 days, your account will be reactivated and you will have the option to cancel your request.
What is this, the Hotel California? In the age of caller ID, data recovery, aggregation, the archived cloud…it’s awfully difficult to do anything rash. Or, I should say, too easy and too consequential, and at the same time too difficult to do something rash and get away with it, like delete your entire inbox, disappear your Facebook account without leaving a trace, dial the number of someone you shouldn’t call, come to your senses, then hang up… I pity children today who don’t know the thrill of making a good crank call.
Anyway, you know what the Facebook thing reminds me of? Back in my online poker-playing days I learned that if in a moment of clear-eyed determination you wanted to cash out your account while you were ahead, the automated cashier would tell you yes, you can cash out, but the transaction takes 7 days so if you want to come back during that time and gamble your money away it will be right here waiting for you.
After a phone conference with the fabulous yet sensible Coe Booth, I was convinced to let my Facebook account live. But, I am cashing out, at least on particular ways of using the Internet: As a platform for being right or proving other people wrong, as something to which I feel daily obligated, for having conversations that are best had over lunch, coffee, or an adult beverage. Reacting out of context. Saying anything that can too easily be misread. (This past week I discovered you really shouldn’t try to debate all of the implications of the Haiti disaster or why Rush Limbaugh is wrong about everything in 140-character bursts.) Cashing out on listening to the little voice inside me that asks, “If I’m not being right, demonstrably smart, witty, savvy, and getting good reviews as a person, writer, blogger, social networker…do I matter?” I was talking to one friend about this and she brought up the idea of the performative self, which led me to ask, “You mean there’s a NONperformative self?” Huh. Who knew.
Oh, so you’ve heard me talk this talk before? I waffle, I know. Of Web 2.0 sometimes I think, “MY GOD IT’S BRINGING ABOUT THE APOCALYPSE!” Other times I see it’s pretty useful, and brings about some good things. But, generally I’m feeling more urgent about this as an issue for society and humanity and our ability to listen, think critically, love, create, and live lives in which “interaction” does not always mean with a screen. How to balance that with a career that benefits from connectivity during the long stretches of time between books, in an industry that has many interesting and important ongoing conversations facilitated by aforementioned apocalyptic technology—that’s the question, that’s the figuring out that needs to be done. I’ll tell you, it’s temping to go off the grid completely. In the last year I have come so close to pulling the plug on everything but the house phone. That’s a reaction, of course. I’ve been thinking through what I’m reacting against and trying to problem solve instead of running away.
The big old experiment in the laboratory of my brain continues.
In other news, I am so thrilled that Rebecca Stead’s When You Reach Me won the Newbery Medal. I loved that book. Though it’s brand new, it somehow managed to feel like a piece of my childhood, and I can’t think of any other book not actually from my childhood that has done that. Congratulations, Rebecca! And congrats to all of the ALA winners and honor books. The only other books I’ve read that won something are Marcelo in the Real World by Francisco Stork and Flash Burnout by LK Madigan. Loved and blurbed ‘em both.
