With Little Left To Say

I might look back in the morning and feel foolish. Or I might look back in anger. I will know the answer to that in a few hours, I suppose.

I went to deactivate my Facebook account tonight, several times. I stopped myself the first time because I wasn’t sure what would be involved if I chose to reactivate. I stopped myself the second time, because I had notifications, and my nosiness won out. But the third time, I was ready to pull that plug. Until I reached the bottom of the page that indicated that my pages would lose publication since I was the sole admin.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to do that. Pull the plug on them. I couldn’t find any information that detailed exactly how permanent deactivation is to a page. While I have found it hard to gather likes for my author page (which is ironic, because it’s not hard to find friends on Facebook), my ferret page continues to grow, without any attention from me at all. I don’t want to take that page down. So I cancelled deactivation. For the moment, at least.

Writing, by the way? Not a cakewalk. I know, on the outset, it seems like it would be easy. I don’t think I’ve met too many people who didn’t fancy themselves some kind of writer. But the fantasy and the reality are two very different things.

Being a writer isn’t particularly intriguing. It’s not especially romantic. Writers don’t spend all their time sitting outside quaint little coffee shops with their moleskin, sipping  their cafe au laut. They might be slumped on their couch, or laying in bed. Not in beautiful silk jammies, sipping earl grey. But likely in a t-shirt and shorts. They might be days overdue for a shower. Bent over a crumb covered laptop. And almost always stressed over a looming deadline, or waiting for a publisher to crush their dreams and spirits.

Because most of writing is rejection. If you meet a writer who isn’t struggling with rejection, then they’re likely self published. And that carries its own form of rejections. No one escapes with their pride intact.

I spend so much time on Facebook. Largely so I have a place to market myself when I do manage to achieve some modest success. But in the meantime, it’s a place rife with turmoil. I’m not the kind of gal who can sit on her hands, though I really should try to do so more often. Because having an opinion usually means upsetting people who were assuming you were someone else entirely.

And that’s perfectly fine. UNLESS your number one priority was to market yourself.

Facebook can be a sinking weight, in that case.

Few people on Facebook really know who I am, anyway.  I wouldn’t be losing too many actual friends in the process of deactivation. Would it help me as a writer? Who knows?

But, at this point, I don’t think it would hurt any more than it already has, so…

0477_wave_goodbye_to_the_sun

 

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