Almost Anonymous

In this, my 70th blog post, I'd like to report on a sad state of affairs: I'm having a media meltdown of sorts.

Television has never been my babysitter. I have always been one to prefer a good book over the idiot box or its cooler younger sister, the internet. Oftentimes I'd rather stare at the ceiling listening to music and watching the pictures in my imagination.

Things changed when I moved to Istanbul. I got cable and I generally eat dinner in front of CNN international or E! I can hardly walk away from my laptop and into the next room without rushing to check my email upon my return. I wake up wondering if anyone has emailed me, and I often feel deflated when all my inbox contains is the NYT book update and a reminder to pay my student loans. I've even cried tears of anger over the lack of contact. And yes, on occasion I will even watch The Hills. It’s become a reflex, a need for perpetual contact. I justified my excessive (for me) internet and television usage as a necessary means of keeping up with global news while living abroad; a coping mechanism in a foreign country. However, I must come clean. It seems that I am no better than the other Twitterati whose ever existence is predicated on the fact that they say things, and others are forced to listen. Let's face it. I'd be the same anywhere in the world.

I have a blog and a website; I'm on Facebook and Twitter. I am no longer elusive and mysterious (if I ever was).Unfortunately, I find myself wanting to write numerous versions of a status that involves sitting in front of the computer searching for something of substance, realizing its becoming harder and harder to find.
I know, it’s not like I'm shooting up heroin, but there are side effects: I write less in my journal. I read fewer actual books. I question the very existence of journalism. I wonder if English Lit will be obsolete in a few years. And the information I so prolifically produce? It all just goes into the endless vaacuum of cyberspace, where one cannot see it in its entirety. I never know if it gets noticed, much less read. I never know if I achieve my purpose: to connect.

I've often felt I'm just not cut to be the media savvy type: I write and think slowly so that by the time I finish a post the moment has grown stale. My thoughts go sour before they go public. Nor am I okay with putting anything - a chirp, a status update, a banal blog entry - out in the universe without a bit of polish. I know spelling errors or inane comments followed by "oops, I take it back, that was my subconscious talking" have become socially acceptable, but they seem like attention seeking cop-outs. I like to pretend I'm at an old-fashioned typewriter; no mistakes or I have to start over. No cut and pastes. I don't like to be pseudo-raw on paper. I believe rawness comes not from just putting it all out there for others to sort through, but whittling it all away to the bare bones so readers have nothing left to pick at - just the truth. The latter takes more work. The formal is the literary equivalent of cringe worthy reality television. Call me a literary snob, but I refuse to prostitute language or stop striving for eloquent prose.

And yet, as a writer, unless I want to go the way of the dinosaur, I must evolve along with the rest of the world.
There are pros: there is a certain intimacy in self-publishing; there is no filter, no guarantee that anyone will ever read it. Freedom comes with anonymity. I don't think I will ever want to share everything; I don't care to tell you that I'm really worried the crown on my back molar is going to fall off and I will have to go to a dentist. I don't want to create a cutesy persona where I talk only about the perils of dating or every item I've consumed today and my caloric intake; and yet, it is these details, these images that attract and keep an audience, and I recognize that the internet is a sort of invisible stage. This begs the question: am I just another narcissistic wannabe using the internet as my personal sounding board? I guess I will let you (if you exist) decide for yourself.