The New Old

Door handle at the Ah Louis building, circa 1885, in San Luis Obispo.

Finally locked down & signed out of Twitter. Indefinitely? Stabbing discourse, cruelty, judgment, cliques, snobbery… from within the literary community, no less. For years I’ve tried to ignore, mute, block, unfollow, but the app still taunted me to scroll. It’s made me sad in recent days, watching nonsense unfold. I’m sad for how “communication” and “community” evolve/devolve/concretize/chip away within the graying specter of social media and the global mood. It doesn’t have to be like this.

Social media, of course, is currently overwhelmingly unforgiving. Has me wondering, again, always, how I can hook into the stream of kindness I know is out there. Wondering if we’ll ever calm tf down and just enjoy our abundance; our right and privilege to merely exist as good-enough, as-is, free from burdens heaped upon us.

It’s hard enough being a writer. It’s lonely. All the lonelier as a self-secluding introvert who had high hopes for inserting myself as a newcomer into the online writing community. As it is, the scrutinization and rejection within the writing world is constant. The carrot on a stick is ever present. I’ve so long wanted to publish a book, but now I’m careful of how I tether that fantasy accomplishment to my self-worth. I know I deserve better than to dredge myself in negativity. That I must resist the sticky word that shouldn’t even be spoken: failure.

I don’t want to give up on writing (not quite yet, anyway) or lose all channels of communication, so I’ll use this website more. Old school style, no substack. Let’s exchange postcards. And I’ll continue to promote writers’ work on Instagram/Threads. I appreciate you all. I know the passion & heartache that drives you and eats at you. Maybe these are growing pains and those of us that stick around will burst through the keyhole onto the other side. There won’t be phones there.