License to tweet

Since writing this article I have attempted to give Twitter a chance. I have done everything you’re supposed to do. I have tweeted photographs, blasted small useless bits of information about my day to day life, and sent live tweets to Q&A in an attempt to get my name on television. But despite all of my efforts, I do not have three-thousand followers or a book deal. It’s a pity, but I suppose all we can do it try. It hasn’t been as painful as I thought, and a small part of me does mentally high five myself when I gain another follower—but I still can’t help but feel as though a little of my integrity has been lost. I wrote the following piece when it all began, on that fateful day I began to tweet…

My cursor hovers over a rectangle box. It’s a small box, large enough to fit only 14o characters, and a hash tag or two. I am not yet sure if the hash tag is included as a character itself, but I am sure I’ll soon find out. In the meantime, my cursor continues to linger. The small rectangle box is asking me to compose a new tweet. “Tweet” I mutter underneath my breath, “tweet”. Before I know it I’m singing Bobby Day’s sixties classic Rockin’ Robin to myself; but my 140 characters still remain unwritten. I stare at my laptop screen in a daze, wishing the Rockin’ Robin himself was here right now. After all—all the little birds on Jaybird Street love to hear the Robin go tweet, tweet, tweet. But as my cursor continues to idle, I’m not so sure that I’ve got what it takes.

What are the ingredients of a tweet? I’ve heard a lot about this craze, but never really understood it. Is it important to be funny? Do I have to impart some wisdom? Should I include a link to a website that promises you a free unicorn if you buy a microwave? I am very confused. I’ve spent the past twenty-three years composing stories in my head, writing down ideas on scrap pieces of paper. I have an entire box filled with old journals documenting every thought and emotion I have felt since I was nine-years-old. Words are supposed to be my thing. But what is the formula of the tweet? My frustration escalates. My whole life I’ve loved writing, in all its forms. In primary school I learned all stories have a beginning, a middle and an end. In high school I was introduced to the essay; I mastered the topic sentence and I could summarize my point like it was nobody’s business. University also introduced me to the personal essay, and how to compose a persuasive speech so fierce I could sway Tony Abbot to legislate gay marriage (well, maybe not that fierce, but one can dream). But this little blue bird has me all choked up. How can I possibly express myself in 140 characters?

Browsing other people’s pages is not helping either. I appear to be following people who are a lot more impressive than I could ever hope to be. As one friend live tweets from a fabulous book launch, Margaret Atwood tells me that she’s looking forward to reading in Munich today. Suddenly I imagine her sitting on the pavement of a European bistro, drinking black coffee and thinking fabulous thoughts. Meanwhile in Melbourne, I’m in the library chewing strawberry gum as quietly as possible so the security guard doesn’t kick me out. I’m not in Munich, but is that worth tweeting anyway? I think it’s got some potential, but it still feels a little petty. Many tell me that this Twitter business is the ultimate networking tool. They say that anybody who wants to be somebody has to be able to tweet, to get his or her voice out there, to be heard. But as I rack my brains for thrilling content, I still have nothing to say. So, as is usual in times of crisis, I revert to mockery. “ Compose new tweet…” I post. Have I failed already?

I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised with my inability to condense my thoughts into this small rectangular box, sharing them with an entire universe of strangers—many of whom may have criminal records and sizable pornography collections. After all, I was always the little girl in the corner at kindergarten birthday parties, the one wearing the cardigan her grandmother knitted for her, the one who would not speak until spoken to. It’s not just that I was painfully shy; I just didn’t like idle chitchat. If Susie was picking her nose and the other girls wanted to talk about it, well that was their business, and I wished them well. But if it didn’t interest me, I preferred to make no comment. As the other girls would impart their opinions about the un-lady-like nature of Susie’s unhygienic habits, I would play with my hair, staring into space and dreaming of the day where I’d rub shoulders with more intellectual peers. You see, my mother always taught me that if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. I suppose I’ve always believed in that mantra, along with one of my own—If you’ve got nothing interesting to share; please don’t share at all.

This is my trouble with Twitter. It’s not as though you have to prove yourself to tweet. You don’t have to first voice your intentions, or demonstrate your ability to share useful and beneficial information to the masses. The website is a free-for-all, teeming with millions of nobodies—nobodies who greatly outnumber those people of actual interest. While Margaret Atwood reads a book in Munich, some other idiot is telling the masses that they are—brace yourselves—watching a movie. They may both be members of the same online community, but the two tweeters are utterly incomparable. Atwood could be eating toast and we’d probably be inspired, she has earned a name for herself; her breakfast habits are officially worthy of being followed. But as for the young so and so in Melbourne suburbia who is telling the world that they’re watching 10 Things I Hate About You, well, they deserve to be told ten things we hate about them.

I’m sorry to be so frank, but I fail to see the value in such self-interest. The supposed appeal of Twitter is that is grants this movie watcher (and others like him) a certain freedom, an inventiveness to share whatever it may be that they feel is worth sharing. But there in lies the problem. As a firm believer that we should think carefully before we speak I often wonder—how do you gauge a tweet’s worthiness? Its value? Its importance? Where is the filter? There is none. And while this may create an even playing field for all, it also creates a domain in which narcissism flourishes and intellectualism flails.

This is why some of us love to love Twitter, but also why others love to hate it. While it may allow us to communicate with people we wouldn’t normally have access to, it also leaves me wondering why this is such a triumph. As my twitter use increased I tagged John Safran to a tweet that praised his book; two hours later he thanked me personally. Immediately I felt a buzz; I was connected, I was in touch. For a brief few moments I felt special, but the buzz soon fizzled. I realised this didn’t make me successful, and this didn’t mean that John Safran was going to introduce me to his publisher. He probably wouldn’t even want to shake my hand or hug me—bastard. I realised that I hadn’t become popular; I was merely cool by association.

But, slowly, ever so slowly, I was beginning to learn the rules. If a “popular” tweeter favorites your tweet, it’s like a nod in the hallway at school. And if a “popular” tweeter re-tweets your post, well you’ve hit the jackpot baby; you may as well be eating lunch together. But even after figuring this out, I failed to see the point. It seemed such an empty way of meeting people, and such a lazy way to get ahead. I suddenly realised I wanted to be discovered the old fashioned way. I want to rely on my talent, not on my tweet. Does that make me a loser? Potentially. But I’d rather be a loser than a tweeter.

It appears I have failed as a member of the Y-generation, and to be honest, it makes me proud. I may have grown out of the cardigans that my grandmother once made for me; but there’s a small part of me still standing in the corner, twirling her hair, and waiting for someone to say something interesting. Where others find delight in hash-tagging their experiences and uploading all their memories, I remain defiant. Sure, if Margaret Atwood ever re-tweeted one of my posts I’d be pretty chuffed, but I would not be converted. I apologise to all the little birdies on Jaybird Street, no longer will you hear me go tweet, tweet, tweet.