We were about to eat dinner when my boyfriend glanced at my phone.
“Why are you looking at pictures of [insert name of a person you definitely wouldn’t want at your dinner table]?
“I’m not,” I said. “His picture just came up on Twitter.”
Technically, though, I was looking at the picture, whether I wanted to or not. If someone’s picture comes up on Twitter, and I’m looking at Twitter, then I am, in fact, looking at this person.
I am absorbing this information.
Whether I want to or not.
At the dinner table.
Before I fall asleep.
First thing after I wake up.
All the time.
It’s not like I don’t know this is bad for me.
It’s not like I haven’t spent years reflecting on what being “extremely online” does to me.
It’s not like I haven’t taken many significant breaks over the years.
But I have my reasons for going back. I work in media, I want to stay connected, I want to find new writers, comedians, music, ideas. I’ve made great connections with people as a result of stuff they’ve posted online. And I’m leaving the city where so many of my friends and peers are, so the internet has been my way of staying in touch.
I’ve had my reasons.
But I’ve started to notice the toll being so online is taking on my health, my attention span, and my mood.
And so I’ve decided to downgrade to just “sorta online.”
Would you believe me if I told you that after only a couple of days, I feel like I can breathe again?
I don’t think anything I can say will make you take the Twitter app off your phone. Nothing anyone could have said to me four days ago could have convinced me.
I think we need to come to these decisions in our own way, in our own time.
But when I think about what I value, what I really value? It’s deep connections, it’s being present, it’s the kind of stories and experiences that demand the attention that a super-online life is starting to erode.
When I was in high school, my friends used to joke that I could turn a story about brushing my teeth into, like, a 7-part miniseries. I value that kind of storytelling—the kind that looks deep into the layers of motivation, emotion, feeling. But the more I reach for my phone in moments of boredom, the more I weaken my ability to take notice of what’s happening around me as I do.
It’s not that I can’t adapt to 280 characters.
But I no longer want to.
I know I’m not the only writer who feels pressure to be online to market themselves and their work. I know all too well that publishers care about followers and engagement. I know that publishers need authors to take an active role in identifying and connecting with their audiences.
I also know that somewhere along the way I stopped thinking about connecting and strategically building an audience, and I started acting like a pure consumer.
A consumer of other people’s moods, their emotions, their outrage.
Look. It’s a full-time job just managing my own moods, emotions, and outrage.
So forgive me if I’m officially done managing everyone else’s.
After I press send on this email, I’ll log onto Twitter to post this. I’ll remind myself that using the internet to share my work is not the same as staying logged on all day long, hate-reading articles about young people who seem to be having soooo much more fun than me, plunging myself deeper into depression every time the picture of a war criminal or a serial abuser pops up on my screen.
I’ll remind myself that logging off does not make me stop thinking about the problems of the world.
It just leaves me with more energy to do something about them.
xoxoxo
Sarah