A quick plug:
FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM!
rxtraveler
As a writer still clinging to big dreams, I am aware that the writing itself is not always enough. I must somehow stand out from all the other writers who dream big.
I can bemoan a lot of things that make making it seem unfair. How much of Madonna’s picture book did she actually write? Why doesn’t a New York editor stumble on this blog and declare, “We must publish this! All of it! And more!”? Why can’t I be seated next to an agent on a flight, have her volunteer this fact and then say, “We’ve got three hours. Tell me all about your manuscripts”?
I’m flying again next week. When I check in, I’ll ask to trade my window seat for one beside a literary agent. “Pardon me, sir?” Worth a try.
At writers’ conferences and in articles in writing magazines, both of which thrive based on us (desperate) dreamers, it’s often said writers need a platform. We need to be known. Five appearances on CNN panels last month, a cute shout-out to the number 5 on Sesame Street (with Grover, pretty please!) and a Live chat with Kelly Ripa that goes viral for all the right reasons.
If not all that, well, maybe a lot of followers on social media. That’s something, isn’t it?
The hope is that, if an agent and publisher take a chance on me, I’ll earn them money, not just from positive word of mouth and a Pulitzer Prize, but from me tweeting to my 7,000 followers on Twitter: “Hey! Me again. Buy my book. Pulitzer stickers on the cover mean something. It makes a great Christmas present too…for EVERYONE on your list! Even a great read-aloud for your toddler!” My 7,000 tweeps love me. Only three of them may like my latest selfie but they’ll surely pounce on my buy-my-book pleas. (Please!)
The trouble is I can’t make sense of Twitter anymore. I scroll, I try to connect, I feel I’m in a black hole. I didn’t even bother tweeting a pic of my latest haircut.
But there’s still that big dream about being a famous, acclaimed, published author. I’ve taken to Instagram. I don’t know what the magic number is for an agent or editor to glance at my account and think, “There it is. Platform. Ka-ching!” I’m pretty sure 281 million would do it (Easy to forget about the haters, Taylor) or even 4.1M (Anderson Cooper!) or 3.4M (Kelly Ripa). I’m hoping 10,000 makes an impression, too.
Not that I’m there. I started posting on Instagram 318 days ago, sticking to the respectful one post per day, and I’ve gained 2,000 followers. A good start.
Perusing other Insta accounts, I see many with thousands of followers despite only a handful of posts. Bots, I suspect. Plus, every day Instagram reminds me I can boost my account for a fee. I suppose I too can have a bevy of fake followers. I don’t want to go there. I’m saving my money for my next trip, my next writing conference and the next issue of a writing magazine with LANDING YOUR BOOK DEAL IN 2024 emblazoned on the cover. I’m a sucker but a selective one.
Every single person I follow on Twitter or Instagram has an account I’ve spent a few moments scrutinizing. Is it active? Are there signs the person is real and not just a re-poster on Twitter or someone who copies Google Images onto Insta? On the latter site, I refrain from following people whose entire account consists of selfies. (How about just one where the Taj Mahal or Van Gogh’s “Irises” isn’t relegated to background fodder?) I skip the ones where there’s always a woman with long hair and a big hat, her back always turned to the camera, no face reveal. These, I suspect are AI-generated. I also pass when one or more of the three latest photos includes dead game, a closeup of lip fillers or a man who misplaced his shirt. Sorry, but these are previews of what will fill my feed and I choose not to volunteer to be traumatized on a daily basis. (We all have different triggers.)
I do follow normal people, even interesting ones. My Instagram account may have a goal of building a platform to shuck my book—er, books—but, unlike Twitter, I’m also genuinely enjoying the site. I have a new appreciation for productive knitters. There’s a guy in Miami whose macramé reminds me of origami. (I mean that in a good way.) There’s a woman in Vancouver who posts pics of graffiti and I feel an odd (misplaced?) sense of triumph each time I can say, “Been there!”
Since my Instagram is specifically connected to an in-progress collection of essays about mental health, I have a big following of people who, like me, have been diagnosed as bipolar. Their posts sometimes strive to uplift, other times address challenges and often avoid mental health altogether. (A bowl of blackberries with a mint leaf gets a “like” from me.)
I tell myself Instagram will make me better at snapping pictures with my phone. I follow many photographers and, maybe by osmosis, I’m learning how to better frame a shot and how to make the mundane photo-worthy. One day, I too will get more than a thousand likes for a hiking shot or an artful image of a half-eaten piece of dry toast.
There is one aspect of my search for followers that troubles me. I hesitate every single time I come across a man’s account. My little bio blurb includes a rainbow flag. I’m gay or perhaps something more vaguely queer. (The menu has so much more to choose from these days.)
Despite all the hype about Pride, I’m still on shaky ground. I’m happy to be who I am, but I continue to feel there are many people who feel otherwise. I have always been guarded around straight men. There is a level of Trumped-up testosterone that I imagine to be present. With that, intolerance.
I can hear queer advocates labeling me as having internalized homophobia, shaming me in the process. I’m not Proud enough.
True. I have an aversion to having my identity dismissed, mocked or packaged into an overblown cry of intolerance.
If this were 2015, when Obama was president and the U.S. Supreme Court affirmed the right to equal marriage, I’d be less wary. I’d presume instead that a man I followed on social media who did not identify as gay or queer would be open and accepting. He’d follow me because of my photos or my writing blurbs or just as a polite formality. (Maybe he’s building a platform, too.)
I know there’s more acceptance now, but I also know there is a hate that’s more entrenched—bolder and emboldened by politicians who emphasize differences and feed off fear, scoring political points and accruing larger financial donations by eschewing tough issues like climate change, healthcare and the economy for cheap shots at minorities who don’t align with their party in the first place.
There is no Hippocratic oath for politicians. While I believe there are some who enter politics with good intentions, trying to navigate the gamesmanship while maintaining integrity, I also know there are many who are Machiavellian. Do harm if it means gain.
I hate my hesitation in deciding whether to follow a man on Instagram. I scan the photos and the teeny bio to see if there’s anything that hints at intolerance. Despite great content, I have talked myself out of following a guy from Montana, someone with a bushy beard and a dude with a propensity for baseball caps. I’m making assumptions.
I’ve never had someone on Instagram spew hate as a comment to my photo of a mountain or even my pic of rainbow-painted stairs, but I brace for that day. I’ve been blindsided by hateful rhetoric in real life many times. I know the most likely response for a person uncomfortable about any aspect of my Instagram account is to not follow me back, his reasoning never known.
My Insta hesitance is a reminder I am not as settled in my skin as I wish I could be. I am still more vulnerable than I should be. I may never shake self-hate and presumed hate. So often, I decide not to follow that man and the man after that. I feel shame, but I also feel safe.
Getting to 10,000 followers will take longer. In the meantime, I have manuscripts to finish, revisions to make and agents to accost in airports.
Another shameless plug…
My Instagram account:
rxtraveler
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