Listen, Russian spammers, I know I haven’t been posting a lot at all lately, but this blog is not defunct, so lay off the vodka binge for a second.
Yes, this is my feeble attempt to make yet another excuse for not posting. Wait, have I made a genuine excuse before? It doesn’t matter.
I’m so bored with my own excuses that I’m not even going to bother making any. But I will make lists. Because lists are nice, and everyone loves a good list, right? Oh, and lists aren’t excuses. They’re awesome. Just like me.
Top 11 Reasons Why Fayza Hasn’t Been Blogging Here
- She’s scheming. Okay, that might be a given, but still, she’s definitely scheming. And she doesn’t wanna tell you about it. Na-na-na-boo-boo.
- She’s un-fattening herself. She’s been training for an adventure race with an adventure racing team. It’s all very adventurous. And frankly, she loves it and wishes it would take up even more of her time than it already does. That isn’t sarcasm, actually.
- She’s a tool. She’s adopted a third-person-only method of addressing herself, but she’s not that smart, so it gets really confusing sometimes.
- She’s replaced I’m Awesome. with greener pastures. So, okay, not entirely true, but she is blogging over at the Houston Press (yes, a real, live, legitimate publication, can you believe it?) as its new social media columnist.
- She’s a slacker. She’s trying to pull her weight over on the Schipul blog. Because she doesn’t work hard enough at Schipul as is.
- She buys into the hype ’cause Oprah told her to. She can’t blog from her BlackBerry very easily at all, but she can tweet from it (so she does that instead). What a sheep.
- She sucks now. She misses being a real snaggletoothed jackoff, like she was on her old blog (which she will not reveal to you).
- She’s boring. She has nothing interesting to say. Okay, this one’s a bold-faced, Arial-fonted lie.
- She wants you to miss her. What, something wrong with good ol’ fashioned beggin’ for attention?
- She’s been livin’ up life as a $30,000 millionaire. Jetsetting to San Francisco, like, every other weekend. And you know it.
- She’s pretty sure this blog is all about her. And what a vain concept that is.
As if anything further needs to be said, well, I’m sayin’ it. I’m going to stop taking this space on the interwebs so seriously and let my hair down. All six inches of it. And maybe go without underwear while wearing a skirt on a windy day, too. Life’s too short to care so much, isn’t it?
I’m taking suggestions for making this blog more interesting (subject to my overarching veto, of course). ‘Cause gawd only knows we need another blogger out there with absolutely nothing to say.
I am a new woman. Yes, a totally, completely changed lady. Can you tell? Whaaa, you can’t tell? What if I spin around in a circle? Throw my hip out like this? Pivot on my left instead of my right foot? Now do you see it?
Pfft. I’m different, man, I am! To me, it’s quite obvious. You see, from here on forward, I am no longer writing as a SXSW (that’s South by Southwest, to those of you that don’t speak acronymic geek) virgin. Yessir! A mere weekend ago, my SXSW cherry was popped. Pop! Just like that. It didn’t hurt at all, even though it was my first time (what a relief!). In fact, it felt quite good. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
While the omnipresent Jeremiah may have compiled some killer tips for doing SXSW on the cheap, and the adorable Cindy Li has authored some kickbutt survival tips for doing SXSWi right, all I’ve got for you are my own accounts of what I’ve dubbed “Mardi Gras for Geeks.” And not all of them are of importance to the masses. My failed attempt at universality, for shame! However, they do hold, at the very least, minimal entertainment value for at least 57.8% of you. If we (wait, who’s “we”?) weren’t being difficult, we could call them “Lessons Learned,” but gosh, how boring would THAT be? It might be pretty darn boring. Dammit.
So, without further ado, here are Fayza’s Top 20ish SXSWi Takeaways:
- Sure, panels are good. Some panels are even great. But spending quality time meeting people outside the panels? Even better!
- If you’re gonna hang out at the Convention Center for an extended period of time (as you probably should), the TechSet Bloggers Lounge is the place to be. For serious. I only wish I’d known that before the last day.
- Except, if you’re gonna do that, you must also know this rule: Do. Not. Sit. At. The. Chair. Above. The. Power. Strip. A.R.G.H.
- Well, helloooooooo, techie boys! Where’d you come from and when’d you get so kayooooooote? I’d take one of you over a doctor or lawyer or famous actor any day. Can you say “yummy“? CALL ME! Ahem.
- It doesn’t matter WHAT you’re wearing, except that you’re wearing comfortable shoes. Wearing a dress? Wear comfortable dress shoes. Wearing a camouflage muumuu? Wear comfortable camouflaged muumuu shoes. You’re going to do more walking than you ever dreamed possible, you’ll be on your feet longer than you’d imagined when you packed your suitcase, and you’ll only spend time in your hotel room getting ready and sleeping. And getting ready and sleeping will take up about 0.000018% of your entire stay in Austin.
- Piggybacking on that, SXSW certainly isn’t the time to catch up on your sleep. Nor is it the time to eat healthy, start your detox program, worry about hygiene, complain about the weather, chill out, or decide that you want to be moody and independent.
- You see that big escalator at the corner entrance of the Convention Center? It does not go to the 3rd Floor. No, not at all. And that elevator over there? Well, it only goes to the 3rd Floor, but not the 4th. But you can take the outside staircase to get to the 4th Floor. Or is it the 3rd Floor? Hey, has anyone seen the 2nd Floor at all?
- It’s pretty effing cute to see guys getting all fluttery and stuff about Guy Kawasaki and Tony Hsieh.
- Unless you have a lot of time to spare, don’t walk down the street with “A. Hughes” and his camera. If you must, go to a town where it is guaranteed that he knows positively no one, and where there are absolutely zero pretty girls in sight. Trust me on this one.
- Adding, “That’s what she said!” after, um, almost everything remotely suggestive never, ever gets unfunny.
- Oh yeah, and “server rack,” too.
- What’s Twitter?
- Did you know that you can cook Spaghetti-Os in a coffee maker? Yum. Breakfast.
- You wanna meet people at SXSW? You’d better get yourself to some parties. Or hurdle chairs to get to the panelists before they call security on you. Or call you “cheap.”
- If there’s ever a mass button disappearance in America (and I mean “buttons,” as in the ones with the pins attached to the back), I have located their secret bunker. They’re all hiding out on the tables at the SXSW Film & Interactive Trade Show. Talk about buttons like whoa! Even Joey would’ve whoa-d.
- Maggie wore her hair differently at SXSW. No one noticed.
- So yeah, it kinda sucked not having an iPhone. It was the equivalent of everyone wearing satin undies, and I was the only one sportin’ cotton. With dinosaurs on it (okay, actually, that’s kinda cool). Until AT&T proved to the geekiest throng in the world how badly its service actually sucks, making my incredibly uncool Verizon Wireless BlackBerry look pretty damn sexy when I got data and voice service, like, everywhere.
- Apparently, my vocal chords aren’t a fan of heavily imbibing for four nights straight. What started off as a sexy morning voice quickly devolved into an enviable smoker’s rasp. Pfft. Lightweights.
- There is some brilliant technology on its way into the mainstream, my friends – lemme tell you! – but my favorite, by far, was Empressr. A browser-based, rich media presentation tool? And it’s FREE?! Swoon! I’m in love! Marry me?
- If you become internet-famous enough, you, too, can land yourself on an Internet All-Stars Trading Card. Ahem. Yikes.
- All of Austin’s bars are outside. This doesn’t bode well when it is, um, FREEZING.
- Err, clearly there are parts of #6 to which I did not abide.
- I really must learn how to spin boobie tassels.
- Dear Mr. Boss Man, if we ever, you know, needed to open, like, a satellite office in Austin, I would take one for the team and help establish a Schipul branch there. You know, ’cause I’m, like, a team player ‘n all.
Why, hello. HELLO HI!
Okay, we have to talk about it.
Being the bashful blogger that I am, I awoke early with the specific intent that I was going to write a blogpost. You know, seeing that I haven’t done that since December (I’m ducking your gunfire as we speak). Err. Okay, okay, you caught me; that’s a total lie. I was rudely shaken from peaceful slumber by my feline companion’s mewing, which, when unanswered, graduated to howling, which devolved into sucking on my hair and kneading his claws into my head (yes, this behavior is quite regular for him). I decided to jostle myself into the real world by hoisting my laptop onto the bed, and almost immediately, he fell asleep next to me. He’s been completely silent for about, oh, let’s say, an hour? That’s about as long as I’ve been up, anyway.
Sucker.
So instead of dwelling on the fact that my waking hours are likely to completely suck based upon the fact that I haven’t had a restful night of sleep for about a week, I decided to turn lemons into lemonade (yum, lemonade sounds great right now!) and write (wouldn’t it be great if the expression was “turning milk into cheese”? I think I like that one better; I’m going to use it from here on out).
Ahem. Except, like, I can’t.
You see, my brain is broken. I’m blaming Twitter. ‘Cause there has to be something to blame, and it’s pretty much required to be some sort of social media that psychologists will argue is changing my traditional social behaviors for the worse. I mean, I only think in brief, bite-sized, followable quips anymore! Everything else worth saying is either retweetable, overheard, or a link to a website! And it’s amazing that the limits on what I have to say are 140 characters or less! I know, it’s a Christmas miracle!
Woof.
I’ll be the first to admit that I pretty much suck at this blogging thing. I didn’t always suck, but now, I do suck. Sure, I have topics to write about. I mean, I returned from the fun-and-learning-filled time warp that was SXSWi on…um, was it yesterday? No, no, never mind, it doesn’t matter. The point is, I have plenty to say about that, but perhaps not the time to gather my thoughts. Or perspective? Errr, perhaps not the motivation to gather my thoughts. Oh, oh, and I know, there’s always time for me to further litter the blogosphere with my ideas on social media! Because there’s not enough out there already!
Why am I lying so much this morning? Any constructive thoughts that need to be written about have been completely overtaken by thoughts of boys. Particular boys, theoretical boys, unspecific boys, but there you have it – boys, boys, boys. Hey 30, is that you a-knockin’ or what?
Crap. This is going downhill fast. And my boss is going to read this. And he’s going to shake his head, and maybe his cheeks will turn a little red. O HAI BOSSMAN!
The truth is, the tunnels leading in and out of my head are pointing in a million, cajillion, bazillion different directions right now (why does this feel like a cop-out email that I’ve written to my friends back in Ohio when I can’t make it to their baby showers?). So, think of this as a placeholder. No, no, actually, think of me as the cute, wholesome, strangely attentive frat boy that diligently kept supplying you beers at that kegger (you know the one), who graciously got you wasted and encouraged and supported your idea of dancing on the couches topless while making out with your sorority sister, who offered his bed to you when you were too drunk to make it back to the dorms (with sheets that hadn’t been washed since his freshman year, and was he a fifth-year senior already?), and who left the house for “class” before you could even roll over to ask him where your socks and underwear landed. You’ll tell everyone it was love.
Moral of the story? I’m using you, dear readers. I’m using you and this blogpost to get my blogging groove back.
Was it as good for you as it was for me?
The Definitive, Absolute, Best, 100% Accurate Rules for Being a Social Media Expert (Or Not).
Social media this, social media that. Are you tired of hearing about “social media” yet? Well, if you are, my heart aches for you in advance. With the financial chasms in this country deepening and marketing budgets being the first to get slashed, expect social media to go the route of Icarus until it reaches its tragic meeting with the sun.
These days, it seems like everyone – theoretically speaking, at least – is doing social media. As a result, there are dime-a-dozen self-anointed social media “experts” everywhere. Everywhere, I tell you! Overindulged “social media gurus“ (the less faint of heart despise the word “guru,” yet don’t hesitate to describe themselves with it) navigate the sinewy entrails of the interwebs, flaunting and strutting their proverbial feathers for anyone who’ll pay at least a backwards glance. “Look at me, I’m a social media expert! I know everything there is to know about social media! I have the answers! I set the tone!”
There are gobs and gobs of ambitious and savvy Internet users out there – cutting-edge marketers, calculated enterpreneurs, impatient get-rich-quicks, critical executives, curious public relations personnel, bushy-tailed college graduates, tentative self-employeds, and so on – confidently asserting that they know social media. Hell, I’m pretty much one of them! We’re all out there claiming to be the definitive voice on social media. Asserting our opinions like the deciphering Rosetta Stone to those social media hieroglyphics. We’ve articulated how-tos, promulgated guidelines, set the acceptable standards. We’ve engaged each other in the “echo chamber” via self-serving, back-patting discussions. But by and large, social media “experts” really love to create copious – which, translated, means often indigestible and inconceivable – amounts of rules, rules, rules, rules. Because, well, you know. We social media folk know what social media is and we know what social media expertise is all about.
But c’mon – who’s really an “expert” at this, anyway? An “expert” is defined at the core as someone “with a high degree of skill in or knowledge of a certain subject.” Fair enough. So those of us that “specialize” in “social media strategy” or “social media consulting” are then de facto “experts,” right?
Really? For a subject that’s been around for such a short period of time that’s ever-evolving (as in hourly and daily – this is hyper-time, baby), just what out there can we possibly be “experts” on, exactly? What’s the subject matter? Okay, what’s the subject matter now? Even the ever-influential Malcolm Gladwell claims that we need at least 10,000 hours of dedicated practice to really master a subject area or skill – that’s 20 hours a week for 10 years, folks. Has there even been enough time to become an “expert” on these tools, in these conversations, in these interactions that are always, always, always changing, and never, ever, ever constant?
So I ask again: Are we the experts? I’ll speak for myself; I’m certainly no social media “expert.” I didn’t go to social media school and my Juris Doctor specialization certainly wasn’t in social media. I’ve learned everything I know through an insatiable enthusiasm for the trends, ascent, and usage diversification of social media, becoming a heavy user of the social media tools, and through trial and error. So is it still acceptable, although I’ve had no formal education on “social media,” that I hold myself out as a social media “expert”?
What do we – we, the self-proclaimed social media strategists, the social media consultants, the social media advisors, the social media evangelists – what do we really know, anyway?
Frankly, we know as much as anyone. And that “anyone” is any of you.
Dearest random Facebook user, darling random Twitterer, querido random Flickr user – you specialize in social media just as much as I do, just as much as he does, just as much as we do. You’re out there in Social Media Land, just like me, experiencing and experimenting with these tools and platforms daily, letting them transform your careers, your relationships, your leisure time, your hobbies, your social calendars – your very lives, at their most fundamental. You’re in it, just like me, in the thick of it, having the conversations of Jane Everywoman and Joe Everyman, fueling the engines of social media. You have no desire to analyze behaviors or value or ROI. You don’t care how to participate in and massage conversations for marketing purposes. You don’t care about tracking your brand. And yet, you are what makes this whole thing go. You are social media!
So then how can there be rules for this when the very nature of social media depends upon the spontaneity and unpredictability of human interactions, human conversations, and human experiences? Are there rules for that? Well?
Let’s extrapolate for a second here. What rules govern your offline interactions with people? For instance, do you consult a handbook before you lean over your cubicle wall to greet your co-worker? Do you conduct extensive online research before going to the bar for drinks and idle banter with your friends? Chances are, you probably don’t, because hard and fast rules don’t permeate your everyday relationships. Not with flesh and blood, anyway. Unless, that is, you’ve deemed the generally held notions of common decency “rules” by which you conduct your daily activities. Normally, you’ll find such nonsecular edicts buried deep within the foundation of many holy institutions. But for those of us that aren’t particularly religious, these mere proposals for human conduct are not transcribed nor housed in some public repository for all to see and admire, nor are they universally honored. Besides, it’s a matter of course that these sorts of behaviors are subject to wild variations in interpretation from individual to individual.
Social media, my friends, is a study in sociology, at best. It’s merely “an effort to use systematic methods of empirical investigation and critical analysis to develop a body of knowledge about human societies and human social activity.” And it is chaos, at worst. This is the humanity, and its actions cannot be prescribed, dictated, or controlled. Social media, at all times, is a snapshot of the human condition.
Why? Because there are no rules in social media. There are norms. There are customary behaviors. There are habitual behaviors. There are recommendations and suggested guidelines. But there aren’t rules.
We “social media” folk study you. We study your interactions, we study how you relate to each other in the sphere that geeks have most aptly dubbed “social media.” We want to know what you do before you do it, so that we can say, “Yeah, we knew you were going to do that! Because we know you! We know what you did, why you did it, and we know what you’ll do next! It’s social media!” It’s amazing we social media folk have any breath left after proclamations such as those.
But fellow social media “experts,” we’re not the teachers here. We’re the students. Do you realize how much the public at large is educating us about our very own craft? About our area of “expertise”? We are learning our jobs from them!
Those people out there, blogging and using Facebook and YouTube and Flickr and Twitter? They don’t call this stuff “social media,” kids. When I tell people what I do, I usually have to say, “I help companies and organizations use Facebook and Twitter to market their businesses and interact with their clients.” Because if I go into any additional details, I run the risk of alienating anyone that isn’t in the industry. You know, those people for whom we created this term, “social media,” remember? Yes, them. The meat and potatoes of “social media.”
Yes, we social media “experts” are heavy users and early adopters of the social media applications about which we preach and gush. Yes, we take part in the conversations swirling around us. Yes, we push out well-written, meaningful content (which probably isn’t of interest to anyone else but us, but that’s outside the scope of this post).
But who creates this? Who makes it so? Who makes it “wrong,” for example, to follow someone on Twitter and then, after you follow them back, you’re unfollowed immediately? Who makes a social pariah out of the users that are constantly intruding with invitations to Vampire Wars and Lil’ Green Patch applications on Facebook? Who makes it “wrong” to fail to credit the usage of another Flickr user’s picture in a blog post? Who makes those practices “norms”? Who ushers them into “custom”?
Not me. Not Chris Brogan. Not Shannon Paul. Not Jeremiah Owyang. Not Laura Fitton. Not David Meerman Scott.
You do.
Photographer: A Schipulite
I generally try not to be a big ol’ buttface when it comes to being tagged for online memes, but actually, I’ve been a big ol’ buttface when it comes to being tagged for online memes.
Between Imelda tagging me back in – gasp! – November with a sixer, and Magsies tagging me at the beginning of the month with an eighter, well, I have squarely missed the window for a timely and polite in-kind reciprocation. Damn me.
But what’s that saying the young folks use? The one that validates being late? Oh yes. Better late than never! Word.
And so, without further ado, I present:
Six (to Eight?) Random & Awesome Things About Fayza
1. I never buy the first thing off the shelf. Never. Ever. I can’t even force myself to do it. Trust me, I’ve tried. I’ll immediately circle back around and replace the item on the shelf where I found it. Then I’ll take the third one, which is now the second one (because, you see, the second one became the first one by virtue of me taking the formerly first one, and now the old second one is the new first one and is thus disqualified for purchase). And, um, yeah. I swear I’m not psychotic.
2. I wanted to be an interior designer, but my college career counselor talked me out of it. I marched into my career counselor’s office early in my freshman year in college (and barely a semester into my Political Science major), and said, “I want to change my major. To Interior Design.” She skeptically peered down her glasses at me, ruminated for a bit, and proceeded to sling every reason in the book as to why that was a bad idea. Perhaps it was; I settled for an International Relations and Spanish major instead. But I’m not convinced of the truth of her words to this day. You should see my apartment; I had promise, dude. Even my mom, who wasn’t a proponent of the switch at the time, has since eaten her words.
3. I’m an All-Ohio actress and an All-Ohio cheerleader. Err, well, I was in 1996. The acting honors came from my performance as Emily Webb in Our Town at a one-act invitational competition at Ohio Northern University. One of the supporting actors? None other than Jonathan Bennett, perhaps better known as Aaron Samuels in a little movie you may’ve heard of before – Mean Girls. The cheering accolade was awarded while at a statewide cheerleading camp at Muskingum College called – you guessed it – Cheer Ohio.
4. My most favorite book in the whole wide entire world is The Hundred Dresses. I read it when I was in second grade, and no book has taught me more about being a good person to everyone, no matter what. Read it yourself; you’ll know why.
5. I’m deathly claustrophobic. And I don’t mean that figuratively. I’m not afraid of much, and I have few phobias, but tiny, tightly enclosed spaces? Yup. That’s probably the highest on the Holy Shit List. I once voluntarily allowed someone to put me in a locker in high school (mostly because I could stand up completely straight while inside, and it was awesome), and the person didn’t let me out immediately. I went out of my mind with hyperventiliation and hysteria – to the point where I couldn’t even vocalize my fears. As a result, I live in Texas (where everything’s bigger, yeee-haw!) and I do not do those hamster tube slides at waterparks. If the mafia ever wrongly fingers me and I’m buried alive, rest assured I won’t be once they realize the mistake and exhume me.
6. I’m allergic to cats. Surprise, surprise, right, since I have one? I know, but ’tis true. Itchy, watery eyes, stuffy nose, the whole nine. I know what an allergic reaction to cats feels like. It must be my luck of the dander draw, ’cause his doesn’t (and never has) irritate me a bit.
7. I don’t think I’ll ever get married. I certainly don’t. Truthfully. And not in a woe-is-me sort of way. Not at all. More like in a geez-I’m-difficult-and-pretty-inconsistent-plus-I-love-love-love-my-independence-a-whole-bunch-and-I-don’t-think-I-want-kids-so-why-bother-really sort of way. I’m okay with that. I know you don’t believe me. But I am.
8. That’s enough, Fayza, that’s enough. Eight’s too many for me. I’m already drunk on myself. I didn’t eat dinner (okay, that’s a lie) and I haven’t consumed enough water. I’d better quit while I’m ahead. I don’t wanna wake up with a Fayza hangover in the morning.
And now, you’re it!
- Perky Boobs – If anyone can rattle off six (to eight?) random things that you really wanna read (and can never find the chutzpah to say yourself), lemme tell you, it’s her.
- Maisnon – Always a first-class meme responder, but methinks it is time for some fresh new memesponses!
- Dr. Miggy – I am a robot. I would like to meet other robots. Thank you!
- Yasmine – The original rockstar.
- Jun Loayza – Hey, his last name’s 80% of my first name (just gloss over the math), and he’s an Angeleno. He’s already a winner, in my book.
- David Kadavy - Yet another David that will not take part in this, I’m pretty sure. But you can’t fault a girl for tryin’.
- George Smith – ‘Cause, ooh, ooh, how exciting is it that friends from my past are movin’ up into the future?
In a bit of a wild departure from my typical existential and meandering blog posts, I actually have something incredibly useful to share with you this time ’round, especially for the Facebook socialite in you.
In response to my desperate tweet, “Could someone please invent an app that’ll integrate my Facebook events with my Outlook calendar? I can’t keep things straight!” Eloy shared some great knowledge with me that I simply should not, will not, and cannot keep to myself.
Ever find yourself wondering how in tarnation you’re going to keep all of your Facebook engagements straight? Are you double-booking yourself left and right? Do you have friends asking you whether or not you’re going to such-and-such event that you already RSVPd for (but can’t remember doing so)? Yikes! I feel you. Fear thee not, fellow Facebook Events-lovers! Your Google Calendar can save your day, your week, and your social life!
First, you’ll need to login to Facebook and go to the Events module in the right-hand sidebar.
Then, while you’re in the Facebook Events module, go to “Export Events.”
When you click on that, you’ll be given a pop-up with a link. You copy yours, I’ll copy mine, and we’ll keep them to ourselves like hands of poker. Now let’s head on over to Google Calendar.
Hello, Google Calendar! Scroll down to the bottom, and click on “Add,” as shown by the disco-inspired arrow above.
When the pop-up, um, pops up (why, what else would it do?), select “Add by URL.”
Now here comes the magic. Paste the Facebook Events URL that you copied (and kept to yourself) into the box. Oh gosh, oh gosh, presto change-o, you’ve got yourself some Facebook events on your Google Calendar when you click “Add”!
Most wonderful invention since, um, Facebook and Google Calendar, right?
Get this – it live updates as you accept or decline invitations on Facebook, too, so now you’re completely and connectedly plug ‘n play. No more missed happy hours, no more feeling completely overwhelmed by Facebook’s endless list of things you said you’d attend, no more friends one-upping you on your own social calendar. You are in control of your social life yet again. And hey, so is Google, but whatever.
About four years ago (i.e., “way back in the day,” in the chronology of the interwebs), before the advent – or perhaps just the mainstream acceptance – of the term “social media,” I was a blogger. Sure, I blog now, as you can plainly see (albeit woefully infrequently, I know), but I wouldn’t call myself a “blogger” at this point any longer. A “writer,” yes. A “blogger”? Hardly.
What did being a “blogger” entail then? Well, it was a special, personal role that I embraced, and one that I relished. I defined myself by this luminous and ambiguous “blogger” status. I wielded my power to persuade, entertain, enrage, and educate mercifully. I created a community around my blog. I nurtured this community by participating and reaching out to the members of it via commenting on their blogs, including them in my blogroll and blogposts, corresponding with them in the comments, and taking an interest in the blogged and unblogged parts of their lives. You see, they were all personal bloggers as well (as opposed to professional bloggers), and the trials and tribulations they faced became intertwined in my online presence and persona. I tailored my writing style and content to this community so that they would remain engaged and invested, and so they’d encourage others to do the same. I made new friendships (both online and offline), and I revived dormant ones via blogging. Some of my closest and dearest friends originated from the days that I flourished as a blogger.
I wrote under a pseudonym, and it allowed me to write with unadulterated abandon. It was PG-13 at best, and at worst, it was…well, it was never pornography, let’s put it that way. It was both freeing and cumbersome to be so upfront and honest. I allowed every minutiae of my existence to be examined by those that wanted to relate to me, those that wanted to understand human interactions through me, those that wanted to be amused by my debacles, and those that wanted to scrutinize and judge me.
After awhile, I made the executive decision that this approach was unsustainable, and besides, it way too close for comfort. Perhaps I had not formally attached my given name to that wealth of documented failed dating escapades, for example, but did I really want to cement my reputation in the online world as the quintessential bachelorette, faltering and wobbling and second-guessing her every step in all things life and love?
In a word: no. While my former blog depicted (and might still be) who I was at the time, it certainly wasn’t the way I wanted to go down in Google-cached history. I’ve got too much brain, too much heart, and too much soul to make a voluntary and unpaid livelihood out of exploiting and poking fun at my own shortcomings. As intimately enriching and soul-searching as it might’ve been for me.
And so I began using my real name in all forms of online communication. My Flickr profile disrobed first (where I was always “Fayza,” but I strictly separated it from my existing online persona). Twitter followed suit shortly thereafter. Eventually, the protective blog wall collapsed as well. Without the veil to hide behind, I
was forced to take more responsibility for my words. Not that I was an irresponsible author of online content in the past, but blogging under my real name made it clear that admitting to various singleton trysts and tribulations would be infinitely attached to both my personal and professional reputation. In essence, it was time to grow up a little, and the statements I made public for all to see on the interwebs would have to reflect that. The highly self-analytical, introspective, sacrificial lamb in me had to be gated and penned for the preservation of the Fayzablogging species. Despite the fact that there were things I wanted to say – generally still being an older version of that haphazard, uncertain, frivolous singleton – there was a better home for those thoughts and observations; namely, not my blog.
But I struggle with this realization every time I explore possible blog topics now. I wonder who I am based upon the drivel that eventually makes it to your computer screens. And then I inevitably think, “What do I even write about anymore?” If sharing the experiences most innate to me are invariably off-limits, what is there for me to say with any sort of authority or know-how or, most importantly, conviction?
I’ve had these conversations with Maggie in the past, and it helps to understand that I am not alone in the sentiment. They’ve begun like, “There’s something I want to say about my personal life, and I want to blog about it. But I don’t want to blog about it. But I do want to say it. How do you go about doing that?” I echo those sentiments and that inquiry, because I have yet to figure out how to answer that question for myself. There’s content that I want to publish – perhaps because I want your opinion, or perhaps because I want to tell you my story – but, as it seems is a no-brainer, I can’t. I just can’t. Using my real name requires a prudent exercise of restraint when it comes to what I do and do not post on my blog. It comes with the territory; my dirty laundry doesn’t need to hang on a public clothesline. But that sort of self-moderation has been incredibly difficult for me, in the end. Almost stifling.
I mean, do I publicly string up series after series of text messages like a banner of disappointment from failed suitorships, which I did with glee in the past? Not advisable. Do I mourn the details of the professional mistakes I’ve made? Not judicious. Do I selfishly expound upon what I still desire from this existence? Not relevant. Do I want to be defined by my personal life in a realm where I want to be viewed as a professional? Not wise. Do I hold back because the subjects with which I’m the most acutely familiar aren’t fair fodder for this blog’s purpose or function? Absolutely.
Okay, so what I don’t say is generally clear. But then, what do I say?
Note: Screenshots are actual posts from my former blog. The PG-rated ones, that is.
I’m almost embarrassed to write yet another post about Twitter. Sigh. I mean, seriously. It’s clearly documented all over the Twitterverse that I worship Twitter. If it was possible to take Twitter, squeeze it and love it so, wrap it up in a terrycloth blanket, put a diamond collar on it, make it wear a pink fedora with a feather in the brim, and tote it all over town in my classic throwback Marc Jacobs bag, well, we all know I would do exactly that. So, err, there’s no real need in re-traversing old ground here. Right? Ahem. Is this thing on?
There are countless, brilliant informational treatises out there about Twitter – doing Twitter up right for your personal brand, Twittering for business, increasing your blogosphere love via Twitter, maximizing Twitter for marketing and PR, and seemingly, everything else in between. And I mean, everything. Including the kitchen sink. At this point, the wonder of Twitter is indisputable – for those of us that actually get Twitter – and it has become invaluable, irreplaceable, and carries with it an energy and influence unlike any application we web denizens have encountered in the internets of yore.
Since that’s all so well-explained by the Twitterati, then what else is there to discuss regarding Twitter?
How about the issue of diplomacy and courtesy?
Yes, diplomacy and courtesy. Of course, those concepts are ever-present when considering the content you push out through any online publishing platform, whether it be microblogging, on a traditional blog, via consuming and commenting, on forums, or whatever means you use to broadcast your vox pop to the Great Web Beyond.
But that’s not quite the scope of this post. Nope, not this time. I actually wanna get a little more touchy-feely than the words “diplomacy and courtesy” convey. Right now, I’m actually interested in discussing “follower etiquette” on Twitter. Or, rather, “follower psychology,” perhaps. A discourse aptly spurred – but not entirely fueled – by the recent propagation of Qwitter, a voluntary sign-up service that so kindly alerts you as to when current followers become former followers by “qwitting” you. Luckily, I am enough of a sadist to jump into bed with an entity providing such a grim notification. Because, well, I care. Hey, that’s my excuse, and I’m stickin’ to it, yo.
More than mere “follower etiquette” or “follower psychology,” however, I reckon I’ll just attempt to channel Bjork and take a stab at understanding human behavior. In the Twitter context, I mean. I want to discuss the reasons why we do and don’t follow a fellow Twitterer.
Reexamining the strategy behind who I follow on Twitter was an idea posited to me while I, appropriately, was lamenting losing a follower after the heads up from Qwitter:
A follower of mine – ironically one that I had not yet followed – reacted:
Touche, my friend.
For once, I didn’t have an immediate response to that. I developed a few in my head, but none of them seemed right in 140 characters or less. So, I did the unthinkable – I said nothing. I stewed and I stewed, but the pot never boiled over. Not surprisingly, a few days later, I received the infamous Qwitter notification, alerting me that jameskirk was no longer following me. He asked me a direct question, and I failed to engage. I don’t fault him for that.
I can’t say there’s a set rhyme or reason behind whom I follow or choose not to follow on Twitter. I don’t follow everyone, and I don’t expect everyone to follow me. That much I understand and that much is clear. But it’s hard to explain the exact science behind who I do and don’t follow. Because, actually, it is quite the opposite of “an exact science.”
I suppose it’s easier to define whom I do follow as opposed to whom I do not. As expected, I follow all people that I know “in real life.” I follow people and organizations in Houston, the city in which I live and work. I follow prominent and emerging voices in social media, the field in which I dabble professionally and find fascinating personally. I follow some twittering attorneys – those that understand the medium and use it more similarly to the way I do, that is. I follow witty randoms, because they add a sense of humor to my Twitterstream. That list isn’t exhaustive, by any means, but it does seem to characterize the majority of those that I follow on Twitter. There’s no scheme or method behind that whatsoever. It’s more discombobulated than it looks. Call it haphazard; I simply call it a mirror of the way the world works.
Who don’t I follow? Well, I don’t follow bots or anyone that’s blatantly trying to sell me anything. I don’t follow people that haven’t updated once, unless I already know who they are personally (and I continue to follow them in the hopes that they will tweet!). I don’t follow people where it isn’t clear to me what they’re trying to convey – but that doesn’t mean I never will (case in point: I recently began following a long-time follower because, well, he won me over, and because I paid attention to him, even though I wasn’t actively following him). You know that adage, “It’s easier to hire from within”? When I’m looking for additional people to follow, my list of followers is the first location I consult. I can’t follow everyone, because then I’d end up following no one – the sheer volume would overwhelm me, and my Twitterfeed would become unruly to the point of being painful to read. But I can listen to anyone – following or not.
Frankly, it takes a lot for me to stop following someone altogether. Either my follower unilaterally severed the following relationship, or the follower has repeatedly offended, bothered, or insulted me. Or perhaps the person hasn’t tweeted anything for months and months. Honestly, it takes a lot for me to click that “Remove” button. I use it sparingly, and I don’t take unfollowing very lightly.
That’s the way I do it. I fully comprehend that everyone’s self-regulations on Twitter differ. And perhaps that’s one of the most difficult things about “playing” in this “game” of Twitter – the ground rules vary on each and every playing field. Multiply that by hundreds or thousands of followers, and you see the dilemma.
But my expectations of fair play govern my Twitter field. So, when people never follow me that know me, or when people “quit” me that know me, I’m often left scratching my head as to why. Accepted Twitter etiquette paints crazy the Twitterer that actually asks, “Why aren’t you following me?” or “Why aren’t you following me any more?” Thus, it’s not quite proper to confront the matter in most circumstances.
Qwitter could be argued as one of the worst things to happen to Twitter, and one of the best things for inquiring, obsessive minds since Twitter Search. I mean, knowing that someone isn’t following you any longer isn’t new. You were always able to determine when someone wasn’t following you by the fact that you’d be unable to direct message them, when before, you had that capability. Sometimes, they’re random spammers or entities, and the loss isn’t a big one. But what happens when they’re people? People that you know “in real life”? What if these people that know you “in real life” stop following you, or never followed you in the first place? What would make them choose to take (or fail to take) such actions? Qwitter permits you to elevate your level of knowledge by discovering the exact tweet that made the former follower pull the plug, giving many a creative mind avenue upon avenue to traverse in search of reasons.
The truth of the matter is, these actions (or inactions) make a Twitter user like me second guess myself. I want to ask, “Am I annoying to you?” Yeah, sure, I tweet a lot. Maybe, some would argue, too much. But I have stuff to say! I really do! And isn’t that why you began following me in the first place? Sure, I’m also a marketer. I work for Schipul; web marketing is what we do. But I’m a marketer second; I’m a human being first. And that’s how I approach my tweets – flesh ‘n blood first, everything else second. Did I fail to convey that to you, dear ex-follower?
You may be someone that follows everyone that follows them. You may have a 20:1 ratio of followers to following. But for those of us that treat Twitter as a personal playing field rather than a professional one, we care about the content we’re putting out, and the feedback you’re giving to us. And there are millions – probably more like bazillions – of questions that swirl through the heads of those you unfollow or never follow at all. “Am I not good enough?” “Don’t I add value to your community?” “Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?” “Do you only want me to hear what you have to say?” “Aren’t you interested in getting to know me?” “Am I boring?”
I suppose the beauty of social media is that sometimes, just like any break-up, you never get answers to any of those questions. Your only recourse is to accept it and move on. And find the next set of big brown eyes under which you will swoon.
Proverbially speaking, of course. Next!
P.S. – Check out this incredibly healthy, incredibly empowering, incredibly balanced post on Twitter following and unfollowing, too.
