First Chapter Fixations: Giving Books a Real Chance
I recently read this post by one Blair Thornburgh about common reasons agents or publishers will stop reading a novel. The article even mentioned one professional who would draw a big red line under the moment they stopped reading. Though page and/or time limits for reading are not mentioned in the post, by the title I inferred that this action referred to a manuscript’s first chapter. Even if the professional in question with the red pen was not referring to the first chapter, I am going to in this post, because I think the writing industry and community have recently become somewhat obsessed with first chapters, and it’s time to reign it in a bit.
Now, I don’t know Blair Thornburgh at all, so I have no problem with her. Nor do I argue with the overall wisdom of the piece. On the contrary, it is the very applicability of her post to today’s writing industry and community that has me irritated. There is nothing intrinsically wrong with the writing advice she gives, but the need for all of it to be present in the first chapter of a manuscript has me a bit edgy. That’s the market’s fault, though, not hers. In the end she just happened to have written the most recent post on this topic right before I finally felt the need to write about it myself.
Follow any agent or publishing blog long enough and you will eventually see some version of “Reasons Agents Quit Reading Your Stuff Right Away” type of post. They, too, are often filled with solid writing advice. But they perpetuate this first chapter fixation to the point that in some cases it becomes a first page or even first paragraph fixation.
Your experience will vary, but the thesis of most such articles can be summed up this way:
Agents/Publishers/Readers have little time or short attention spans, so you need to give them a reason to keep reading your novel beyond page one if you have any hope of success in this cruel writer’s world you’ve foolishly chosen.
What follows is usually a list of things one must do in order to keep an important person’s interest for more than 20 seconds. (Or ten seconds, or whatever minuscule amount the mean is today.) I won’t shoot the messenger,but the fact that the literary landscape requires such advice is in some ways pathetic.
Believe me, I realize agents and editors and publishers are busy people. Somebody tweets or blogs that truth within the writer’s community about once every 1.3 seconds. (Between reminders that writing and publishing is a business, of course.) So when you say agents and editors are busy people trying to make money, I do in fact get it. (Boy do I get it, already.) So I grant you that much, publishing industry; you can’t invest in a house with a leaky roof.
Yet within the writing community, this fact has been the genesis of a “hurry up!!!” mentality which reduces our first chapters to hooks, gimmicks and shiny object waving. So much is the need to keep someone reading for more than the first few pages that it may just be morphing into a code to crack as opposed to an encouragement to write strong openings. People are going to start, (and have probably already started) tweaking their first chapters to jump through all these hoops that agents insist upon in order to spend another five seconds on a manuscript. My concern is that such tweaking will be at the expense of quality of the rest of the novel. Big, gimmicky, sparkling first chapters to act as the “open sesame” to an agent or editor’s next precious 15 seconds. Then, even if the door opens, it’s Al Capone’s vault inside.
That goes for readers as well, by the way. Much of this advice is about “hooking” the reader quickly, because after all in this fast-paced digital world where…and so on and so on…at the speed of light… mention a Kindle in there somewhere. That point has been made a trillion times as well, and it too is part of the problem; everybody is scrambling to make their book worth reading within the first few seconds. The first few sentences. My response to all of this? How about we give books a few minutes to breathe before we jettison them into the slush pile, or hit ‘delete’ on our e-readers? How about we accept that sometimes a great story needs some exposition, back story and description? That may just be the price we pay for choosing that book.
Yes, you are busy, and the industry is busy. But if you need to be convinced a book is worth representing or reading within the first 20 seconds of reading it (or at least before the end of the first chapter), maybe there is a better way for you to make money or save time. Maybe it is that stubborn adherence to instant hooks and attention span dot-connecting that has degraded the quality of our published fiction over the last few decades. No one person is to blame, naturally, but can we expect an society-wide evolution towards better books when more and more people expect a hook, or a shock, or an unquenchable thirst to read up to page five, all within the first few moments? Can good come from generations of new authors spending more time worried about the “all important” first three paragraphs than about anything else?
I’m not discouraging quality writing. I’m merely suggesting that we aren’t defining quality in a useful, practical manner when we say we have to fall in love with a book so early. Of course a book that rambles on for 200 pages about nothing is not likely to catch fire in today’s market. (Though more and more of them are.) Yes, we can and should establish some semblance of quality control over what we read and what we choose to represent. (Though there is mounting evidence that quality is not the top priority.) But do we really in our collective hearts believe that we can determine the entertainment, literary, or marketing value of something after one half of one page? Two pages? Ten?
All right, perhaps sometimes we can. If you are into chapter 2 and nothing has happened or you’ve already introduced 46 named characters, you need an editor. But why not decide such things more on a case by case basis, instead of instituting a sweeping generalization about novels that take the first few pages to catch their breath? Because people in the book industry are busy? Because readers are busy? Writers are busy too, you know. Busy making something that doesn’t appear as though we threw it together in as little time as most people will give it to prove itself “worthy.”
Maybe we all need to be a bit less busy in the book world, and accept that it wouldn’t kill us and might just help us if we consider the pacing of other fields of quality endeavor. Deciding that a book is not worth representing, publishing, or reading before the end of the first chapter is not equal to passing on a house with a leaky roof. It’s passing on an entire house based on the ugly color of the front door. It’s leaving the cinema because we don’t like the font used in the opening credits, or giving up on a five-course meal because we didn’t care for the salad it began with as an appetizer. In short it’s choosing to ignore the fact that there is a certain craftsmanship in creating such complicated things, and that that craftsmanship cannot always be rushed into existence just because we happen to be too busy to consume more of it before passing judgement upon it.
I try to give every book I read at least 40 pages before moving on to something else. I encourage other readers to do the same, or else be potentially deprived of some excellent fiction that opted to set the scene for a bit longer. I accept that agents and publishers can’t do that, but I cannot accept that the best choices are being made by busy people (or their interns) when they give a novel a few pages or a few paragraphs to “wow” them with certain predetermined milestones. The first five pages isn’t the place to be wowed in most cases, but the industry has begun to cater to the types of books that do, I think. Then again, the industry would not, if readers were willing to accept that they need not be breathless by page five of my book as they read it on the morning commuter train.
We can do better than this, can we not? After all, the act of passing on a book itself is not more complicated if done after ten minutes of reading than it is after ten seconds of reading. And in the former case, one might just find a masterpiece that needed a minute to take its coat off and sit down-a masterpiece that did not pass any of the “hook me in the first page/chapter barometers floating around out there. And that would be tragedy worth writing about.
The (Audio) Play’s the Thing. Even Now.
I couldn’t sleep last night (which is nothing new) so I opted to try listening to some music. Usually in bed I use the CD player, so I don’t have to bother with headphones that the mp3 player requires. So I reached for my CD holder. But at the last second I decided to not go with music. I instead flipped to the back where I keep two CD copies of some old cassettes I’ve had since I was a child. The cassettes have great sentimental value, and are now quite rare from what I can tell online. So a few years ago I digitized them, so I’d at least always have the content.
The cassettes are of audio plays of a kind, about historical figures from American history. In this case, one tape was about the “life” of George Washington. The other tape contained the stories of Ben Franklin and Daniel Boone. Almost more suited for radio in the 1930’s, but captivating to my young imagination nonetheless. I would allow myself to travel by way of (overly?) dramatic incidental music, sound effects, and memorable subject matter back to the founding days of the nation to visit those I most admired as a child.
I’ve been a restless person with a curious, exploratory, and times wandering mind my entire live. Multiply that by being a kid who was awake when everyone else was asleep much of the time, and you get someone who didn’t rest as much as they should have on their own. So music helped me focus. Relax. Get lost in the sedate wonders of my subconscious, thereby opening the door at last to slumber. (Much to my kid sister’s annoyance at times, when we shared a bedroom.) Other times, these audio plays served the same purpose.
Last night I grabbed the George Washington one and played it as I sat there in the dark. In so doing I engaged in a process so deeply entwined with my formative years and beyond that if one could project a visual image of the deepest part of my psyche, one would probably see among the images a version of myself playing those tapes.
Not that this was the first time I had listened to one of these productions as an adult. Far, far from it. I’ve picked them up here and there to listen to for a few minutes over the years. I remember when I was sick in bed for two weeks with pneumonia as a senior in high school I listened to them in an attempt to relax a bit. It worked. They had, and continue to have a somewhat calming effect, I suppose. So much so, in fact, that is wasn’t even until high school that I ever heard the end of the George Washington tape; I had always fallen asleep before the end. How odd to hear something that old and that much a part of my childhood for the very first time. Even today I find the ending of that tape less enjoyable than the beginning, though there are other reasons for that I’ll mention later.
These audio productions held a dual fascination for me, though. There was the story and subject matter. But there was also the production itself. As a kid I remember trying to imagine where they were recorded, and the actors who played the roles. I could see them with the script in their hands in front of microphones reading their lines to one another inside some obscure hole in the wall studio somewhere. For some reason I always imagined them working at night, with few lights on in the studio, so as to enhance the story telling effect. I thought they were some kind of secret group of performers, since their names were not on the cassette or the packaging. I remember thinking how great it would be to be a part of making one of those plays myself for others to listen to. Given the resources I’d still like to produce an audio play like that, actually.
Some aspects of these plays hold up to both adulthood and to all of the years that have passed since the simpler time during which they were produced. A time that in many ways was more creative for kids. Back when attention spans would allow for even energetic children to sit or lay down for an hour or so and listen to a play. Then again, maybe no other children in the world but me did such things; I could believe that, frankly. Either way, some of it transcends the time and purpose of its creation, and can survive even my more mature theatrical/literary scrutiny should I choose to apply same.
Other aspects of it however, do not hold up, and it is only my deep sentimentality that allows me to continue appreciating them. To be more precise, the George Washington one is the weakest of the three presentations. Consider that it claims to be about his life, but skips decades at a time and ends with the conclusion of the Revolution, making no mention of his presidency. Granted, not every chapter of his life could be included in such a production, but even as a kid I thought that was a large chunk to leave out.
Especially when for about 15 minutes near the end of the presentation the script leaves Washington entirely to concentrate on two other historical figures of the same era, jumping from one into the other with virtually no segue whatsoever. Then again there may have been a better transition at one point in time; the entire thing feels like a longer production the fell victim to severe if not haphazard editing. Certain parts of narration fade out in the middle of a sentence and yield to something else. And the two narrators that had told the story for 90% of the cassette are suddenly replaced by a third narrator for one scene, who does not appear again afterward. (Jarring for a kid with as much attention to detail as me!) The regular narrators themselves play multiple parts within the narrative itself, as does the actor who plays Washington. As a child I didn’t notice this, but listening now it’s clear that one guy plays at least three different roles, one of them with an atrocious French accent. On at least one occasion, the incorrect name was used.
But these things don’t take away from it, despite the low production value. As a kid I did notice some of the flaws, but still enjoyed it. As an adult I notice all of the flaws, and still enjoy it. Truth be told in some ways I admire it more now, because I can sympathize with trying to produce something with no budget. Looking back on it now, it feels like it could have been a labor of love that well meaning but underpaid acting company with not enough time might have put together and produced the best they could out of someone’s basement. If they did so in the middle of the night, maybe my image from childhood about the creation of the tape wasn’t so far off after all.
The one about Ben Franklin is much better, as is the short one about Danial Boone tacked on at the end. Still simplistic, but with a tighter presentation and somewhat better acting. Certainly better editing. I’m not hear to do a product review, but the difference between the first tape and the second is palpable.
Whatever their issues, those plays, (which last about 45 minutes, but to a kid at bedtime seemed to last all night) have obviously done more than simply entertain and educate me. They inspired me. Focused me. Made me think about things beyond the here and now and made me think it was possible to produce that sort of effect on other people. It’s more than probably that those tapes, warts and all, planted both the seeds of writing and acting in my heart before I knew it was happening. It would not be silly to suggest that those audio plays are in large part responsible for who and what I am today.
Now if I could just find a copy of that third one I lost…
Thank You For Ten Update
My work continues on my short story collection, Thank You For Ten: Short Fiction About a Little Theater. Not without it’s headaches, but I expected that.
I mentioned in a previous post that I had decided on the order of the stories in the collection. That remains true, and I don’t see that changing.
Then I joined Smashwords, which is where I will probably publish this collection. Which meant downloading and studying the style guide for same. I have been doing that for the last week or so.
There is much to learn! One of the biggest things I have learned is that basically, everything you know about typing before you work on self-publishing e-books is wrong. Common buttons I have pressed while moving things around for print since the fourth grade are in fact detrimental to creating epub manuscripts. (Or whatever the proper term is. That’s one of the things I’m still working on, terminology.) That realization alone was cause for some slight muscle tension in my neck. Kind of. If you have published anything online the “right” way, you know what I’m talking about, probably.
But a bit of a debate raged in my head. Do I buy Word, for which Smashwords was designed, and for which the style guide was written? Or do I use open Office, which I got for free only a few weeks ago and am still playing with, since I have only had this computer for just over a month. I like free, and after all my friend and fellow author J. Lea Lopez told me she used Open Office for her publishing. She just had to remember to…(insert something that is too technical for me to understand at this moment of my education.) I like Open Office and was getting used to it.
I went back and forth over the decision, reading an adequate but not impressive Open Office guide to Smashwords that a pastor had written online. (Actually several of these were written by pastors, and I am trying not to spend too much time determining why that is.) After studying that a few times, and having a conceptual breakthrough as to why and how e-publishing manuscripts are different from standard manuscripts I actually decided to bite the bullet and buy Word.
I’m not more happy about it than you are! But Smashwords advises it for anyone who plans to publish multiple things with them. I figure this is all new and strange enough to me as it is, without trying to add a bunch of extra steps to determine the spirit of the Word-based style guide and apply it to Open Open Office. (Which is also pretty new to me.) And since I don’t know any pastors that could help me, I decided the shortest distance between two points was a straight line.
Generally I am willing to trade some inconvenience for saving money. I tried to do so here. But publishing my stories is too important to spend days or weeks dithering over what to do. The time for theories and speculation is over in my author life. Time to get on with everything. I’ve had a chorus of “publishing/marketing is coming to get you one day!” for long enough. It’s not going to take care of itself, and if I am going to have to slog through things such as formatting and meatgrinders and rewiring my brain when it comes to typing, I want as few steps as possible. So, Microsoft Word it is. Just know what a dedication and commitment I am making to my fiction writing by taking such a step.
Outside of the mechanical, I spent about 90 minutes the other day coming up with an author’s note for Thank You For Ten. It started innocently enough, as I was just planning to put some space filling text in the document to test some of the formatting rules I’ve been talking about. Then in another minute I find myself slaving over an introduction to the entire collection. I’m sure it will undergo a few more changes before the final draft that gets published, but I’m quite happy with it. (After 90 minutes on less than a page, I should be.)
I mentioned this on Twitter but it’s worth repeating; I cut myself a lot of slack for the author’s note. That is to say I didn’t worry about rules or trends when i wrote it. (Not that I let myself get too worried about those anyway.) I’m happy with just about everything I write, but sometimes one has to consider structure or expectations or deadline or style guides. Not with my author’s note. This, after all, was not a narrator speaking, but me, directly. If convention says it is too long, too poetic, too philosophical, or distracting from the rest of the book, so be it. I’m the author, and I have a note for my readers.
So what with said note, and with learning, (slowly) the specifics of formatting for e-publication along with what I already learned earlier in the year from using my coupon on Createspace, it’s all starting to feel real now. Starting to feel that I may not have to be buried by the information and the technology after all. The learning curve remains steep as I go further into this process, but it doesn’t feel like a cliff to be scaled anymore, and that is progress, believe me. When/if I self publish my first novel, Flowers of Dionysus the process will be even longer and more complicated. But for the first time, it feels possible, and that makes me lean more towards self-publishing the novel and skipping the agent process than I have ever felt before.
An Open Letter to a Would-Be Constituent
For the purposes of this letter, the subject will be referred to as Miss Madsen. —Ty
Dear Miss Madsen,
My apologies for the curtness of my previous letter. While I will confess that I still find some of your presumption to be a tad annoying, and that your timing was not the best, I could and should have handled it better. I can’t undo my comments, but I can perhaps explain them.
You see, early in life I thought I had had an epiphany of sorts. I legitimately came to believe that I had been called to public service by the Universe. Specifically, to public office. Despite obviously not being built for such pursuits, a mixture of inspiration and encouragement from educators and peers planted a seed so deeply in my mind that for the longest time, I felt it was my destiny. Not that I was owed an office, but that I was built for it, and that it was my duty to follow through on that nature.
That was a mistake, and by the time you voted for me, I already knew that. In fact I knew that before I even announced that misguided campaign.
Going to a mediocre college whose political science department showed me no respect whatsoever contributed to that realization. As did several years of failed attempts to use a diploma in political science from said college to secure government employment on the local and (what I thought) was the most impactful government levels.
It was just not meant to be, and it took way too much of my life for me to realize that. The signs were there all along. The entire business is anathema to me and I should have known it. In high school teachers conspired with athletes to make sure I lost and they won a student government election. Colleagues with whom I had studied government in college wanted me as part of their group. The head of the department thought my questions in class were antithetical to a political scientist. The president of the college Democrats sent me on a goose chase by giving me wrong directions, so that the rest of the club could carpool and meet Al Gore and a rally while I stood in a parking lot waiting for them to show up.
Politics and political people wanted no parts of me even back then. By the time I decided to run for Congress, I had years before come to the realization that my epiphany had been a false one. The trajectory on which I had built most of my life lead me into a dead end, nay a vortex of despair and uselessness. Believe me I am still suffering the consequences of so much time and thought wasted during my young adulthood in pursuit of such a life.
But I was determined to do it at least once. I was going to seek public office, and officially close a misguided and poorly written chapter of my life that for years I had thought was to be the novel itself. I got a ride to Annapolis on an ugly winter day, (I’ve ever been good at driving to such places), and I filed to run for the United States House of Representatives. My signature was right below Senator Mikulski’s on the same sheet.
“I’ll raise issues,” I thought. “I’ll get attention for the things that this district never pays attention to. I will, by my presence at least force a few people to ask and answer different questions, instead of accepting that people on my end of the spectrum had no purpose. I would not win the party’s primary, but I would make sure people on society’s fringes were represented in the campaign. They would matter. I would matter.
The district I grew up in proved quickly, however, that I did not matter. No connections, no support, no money.
Each day of the campaign, I knew I should have left well enough alone and dropped out, leaving government in my murky and uninspired past. I knew it when nobody but family showed up for my campaign launch party and announcement. When People in town halls tried to nail me with the blame for everything wrong with the country, without allowing me to explain what I might do about it. When nobody ever called the campaign phone, except the belligerent, asshole editor of a local Washington County paper threatening to sue me for doing what candidates had done for decades…leave fliers in the newspaper boxes of houses. When no party machinery or candidates for other offices or issue organizations so much as returned my emails to engage in conversation. When they only email I ever did get were from people telling me I was shit for putting up signs they could see from their car or house and reminders that they would not be voting for me.
All of these things and more, removed any further doubt in my mind that I was never going to hold public office, and that such a life is not worth living. That is was not and is not a noble pursuit, even to lose. Not only that, it proved that it is a waste of time for someone such as myself to even be involved in the pursuit of public service by way of elected office, at least in these parts. It was not even worth showing up to raise the questions or to make people think about what I had said, because they didn’t think. Ever. The small-mindedness and bile of the average voter I encountered in my one and only campaign for elected office had made it clear to me that even before it was over, I had made one of the biggest mistakes I had ever made in my life.
The occasional reporter or more decent voter offering high praise for my excellent public speaking skills did nothing to counter these realizations.
So on election night, when the “party” consisted of two sisters (one of whom went home before any returns were announced) and my mother waiting for notoriously tardy returns to come in saw me coming in last (even behind someone who did no specific campaigning) I was not exactly in good spirits. Losing I could accept. I don’t know if I could accept coming in last in the field had the campaign been noble and had I been treated with any respect, because that didn’t happen. I came in last having gathered no respect, no attention outside of a few speeches, and not even so much as a notion of satisfaction. I vowed to never again partake in local elected office, and I have kept that promise. (I even recently refused to apply for vacancies on a few volunteer public commissions, despite encouragement. I knew what the result would be, and I wasn’t going to go through it again.)
And the morning following the election, I get your email.
The email, as I understood it, in essence revealed that you weren’t too worried about the election, and that you knew I didn’t “have a prayer” but that you liked my “pithy” answers to reporter’s questions, and you wanted me to tell you more about my future plans, or something.
I remember thinking that I had gone through enough less-than-helpful emails during the long, pointless campaign. I remember thinking at that moment that your interest, such as it was, would have been far more suited during the campaign, by way of a donation, (of which I got none from anyone) or at least from a few encouraging emails when it would have mattered. But to be standing there in the charred remains of not just a single campaign but what I had at one point thought was my destiny, I had to read about you and your wanting to know about my “future plans” even though you knew I didn’t have a chance?
It was too much for a disillusioned, insulted and ignored former idealist. It felt like too little, too late. It felt like more of a jab than a congratulations. (Here I have to point out that it is never a good idea to tell someone for public office, even after they lose that you never felt they had a chance.) So I snapped back at you.
“Who the hell are you anyway?” I asked. “I’m not a candidate for public office as of this morning, so I don’t even feel obligated to pretend that your assessment of me and my future is important to me. Perhaps you should mind your own business.”
All this time later, I of course know that I didn’t understand the intention behind your email. I incorrectly defined what you were saying and doing. True, you could have been a bit more considerate in the manner you chose, but the responsibility in the end lies with me. In the midst of fatigue and anger and general disgust with people, especially locals, I misinterpreted you. That is the first thing for which I am sorry.
The second thing for which I am sorry is for being so angry about it. I should have waited a day or two to respond to you. By then I probably would have had better insight into what you were trying to say. Or, if I were that upset about it, I could (and should) have just ignored your email. Left you to wonder if I ever got it, but I would assume not being that bothered one way or the other. But instead I left you with a parting shot that may have defined who I am in your mind in the years since. You have every right to think of me that way. I formed that image of my own free will and ignorance. If you see my name in a paper or a magazine or online today and think of how unpleasant and shallow I am, so be it. I accept it.
But perhaps as you read this letter, and combine it with what I have done with my life, my words, my energies and my time since my ill-advised foray into elected office, you will see the real me. The me that had no business running, and will never do so again. The me that now has a far better disposition, one that matches the humble, patient, helpful and forgiving person I try to be each and every day. If you can see that now, Miss Madsen, and you are willing, I hope you will accept my apology.
sincerely, Ty Unglebower
This post is part of the Open Letter Continuum.
Can I Avoid Being a Sycophant on Twitter?
One of my Twitter lists is called “Tolerable Famous People.” It’s a short list.
Yes, that sounds like you give when presenting at the Oscars. But the impression you probably get from this is partially true; celebrities these days tend to be less tolerable to me than they were in the past. I have standards for this list, and not a lot of people have met them. A few that have don’t even tweet that often. Maybe that’s one reason I find them tolerable as celebrities. Chew upon that irony for a bit.
It’s also a short list because some celebrities with whom I have no problem have lousy Twitter accounts, to be honest. Nothing but canned comments about products the whole world knows they’ve been paid to endorse. Or all they do is retweet. Posting links and retweets is a great way to find information, but if all a celebrities does is retweet other peoples stuff, (or worse, retweets other people’s stuff about them) it’s not interesting to me. Their name and image on the account does not make up for this.
But another reason for the shortness of the list is actually related to why the list exists in the first place; I’ve not yet come to terms with following famous people on Twitter.
That’s right. I don’t follow even the few people that are on this not-so-coveted Twitter list of mine. Partly because I don’t want my main feed to be too cluttered. But the bigger part is it feels like I’m somehow desperate, pathetic, or sycophantic. I want to avoid that appearance, even with celebrities I respect. Especially with them.
A few years ago, I was able to attended a Broadway performance of Spamalot, the Monty Python musical. It had only been open for two weeks, so it was the original cast. Tim Curry, David Hyde Pierce, Hank Azaria. Pretty wild to be that close to them.
But some in my party wanted to wait outside the backstage door to get their autographs after the show. There was nothing prohibiting this, and the rope that was in place there indicated that it happened after each show. Some in my party couldn’t believe I wouldn’t go.
One reason I didn’t was that I didn’t want to stand out in a chilly night for all that time, only to possibly never get an autograph or even see the aforementioned celebrities. And partly because I felt they’d done all we should expect from them…they performed a show. As an actor myself, I know that can be exhausting. The main reason, however, was probably that I didn’t want to appear enamored or needy to the very people whose show I just enjoyed.
No insult to autograph hunters or my friends from that group. I just happen to think it helps dehumanize as oppose to humanize famous individuals, and I like to see them as human as I can. So I was content to stand across the street. I did see the cast members come out and greet people. (My friends reported later that they were all friendly and accommodating.) I could have gotten their autographs, or their pictures. I did not choose to do so, and I don’t really regret it these years later for all of the reasons I described. If ever I would have a chance to interact with such famous people, I would prefer it to be in the confines of a more civil, organized, and equal setting.
I know what you will say next. The whole point of Twitter is for people to follow you. That’s why they do it. Stay with me a while; I will be faithful.
At least behind the theatre on Broadway, Tim Curry was literally standing there. Think what you will about autographs, a real person was there signing them. Though I don’t share it, I understand the appeal. The guy was right there to talk to, albeit it for just a few moments.
But on Twitter, they aren’t “right there.” To follow a celebrity on Twitter, one literally announces to the world, “I’m following them!” and I don’t know how I feel about that. It’s one thing to check in on them, to see what they might be doing any given day, of see their impressions of a current event. It’s another to be standing at the ready for the moment Sir Patrick Stewart mentions his breakfast. (Yes, Patrick Stewart is one of the Tolerable Famous People actually on the list at the moment.) So I list them. It feels less fan-clubbish.
But even then, it’s a short list because I’m still reluctant to engage in celebrity culture for its own sake. I think someone will be interesting, based on an interview they gave or a book they’ve written, and I see if they’re on Twitter. If they are, here is where is gets neurotic; my cursor hovers over Add to List for a stupefying amount of time. I ask myself, “Will my life truly be enhanced and deepened in a significant demonstrable way if I follow this alpine skier from the Olympics?” (Sorry, not follow. List.) Yes, I really ponder it.
Now here’s the possibly goofy part; more often than not I actually talk myself out of it! Never mind I like the way the skier spoke on television, and respected their worldview. Forget that the high-ranking member of the U.K. government I heard on the radio offered thoughtful comments on public service. It couldn’t matter in the least that the guitar player for Top Band seems to be a hilarious dude. I don’t ski, live in the UK or listen to Top Band. To add them to my list and review their tweets would be mere celebrity culture, I start to think. So I don’t.
Sound silly? Probably is. But consider an account I stumbled onto the other day on Twitter. I’ve altered the handle slightly, though this too may be one. Probably is. We’ll call it, “JUSTINPLEASEFOLLOWME.”
The entire purpose of the Twitter account was to get Justin to follow them. So much so that is the name they used for the account. No identity as a human being, other then some tweets about homework, weather, cheer practice, and some shout-outs to personal friends sprinkled into the feed. Almost the entire account was thousands upon thousands of pictures, posts, links and other tweets from or about Justin, and the (as yet not attained) goal of having Justin follow them back.
That’s a sycophant.
An extreme example, I know. My Twitter obviously does not revolve around any one celebrity, or even celebrity itself. If it did, I might have more than 420 followers after all of these years. But I just can’t seem to shake this feeling that I am contributing to celebrity worship in some small way when I follow someone famous on social media.
This also means that even when I do list someone famous on Twitter, I cut my nose off despite my face in a way. Even when a famous person’s tweets end up being just as advertised and continue to entertain, provoke thought or impress me, I don’t reply often. One big aspect of Twitter is of course engagement, and a few people just under the A-List have, on occasion, responded to my tweets. But almost every time I think I might just offer a quick thought to Eugene Robinson, (yes, he’s really on the list as well), I can’t get JUSTINPLEASEFOLLOWME out of my head. And if on the off-chance a famous person let’s their eyes rest on my tweet for a moment (among thousands) I want them to be entertained, educated or impressed by me. I don’t want them thinking about JUSTINPLEAEFOLLOWME.
So, I may be missing out in not following or listing famous people on Twitter whom I respect, or more often engaging those I do list. There may be a way to admire the work of a person that has become famous, or to enjoy who they are, without appearing either to them, or the rest of the world as pathetic. In fact, I probably reside well on the proper side of that line already. I just can’t ever be sure.
Ty Unglebower 