I have become a real writer in my own eyes. Not with a multi million publishing deal. Not with a glut of writer friends to eat noodles with on a Tuesday afternoon. Not with a crazy writing tour schedule in which I’m able to meet and greet people who say they love my work.
No... I have begun to drink red wine alone in the evening because... well I don’t have a good reason but it seemed like a good friend to talk about writing with and so far, so good. She’s a good muse and knows her way through the fog.
I suspect if you got to know her well enough, pretty soon you could learn not to give a fuck about anything.
Meanwhile, this afternoon, I put a bullet in the head of my twitter account. Nobody cares unless you’re Royalty Famous. I walked. What used to be a good place has become a platform of such inconsequence, even a writer of Dirty Realism can see no value in it.
This is part of a much bigger picture in which three of my friends have also closed ALL of their social media accounts along with me.
We all have our own reasons but the common denominator for all of us is how the ‘socials’ have you performing like a circus pony without you knowing you were doing it. If you’re still in that zone, take a long hard look at how much time you spend on your feeds, how they make you feel and what they have you talking about.
If you’re honest with yourself, it ain’t good. It may have been once upon a time, but it isn’t anymore.