Let me tell you what I love about social media.
I have, under my real name and persona, several social media accounts – Google+, Twitter, and Instagram to name the ones I use most. I follow some of my favorite authors on these entities, reposting and commenting on their activity as occasion warrants. None of them know me from Adam’s off ox, but it doesn’t matter. When one of them responds to me or favorites a tweet or just in general recognizes my existence, it’s like getting a nod from the coolest kid in school.
Sometimes I wonder if any of them have visited my own account(s) as a matter of curiosity. I mean, if I were responding to a comment, I’d want to know who it is that I’m responding to – to make sure I’m not conversing with a crazy person. Seems reasonable to me. If anyone were to check out my profile, they’d likely see a whole lot of nothing in the way of published work. I keep believing that someday there will actually BE published work, but until then I’m just toiling along in obscurity. I’m also not working very hard at accomplishing published work, since practical realities like a real job and real parenting seem to have the forefront at the moment. I can only hope for a long life at this point.
But the thing I love about social media is that it gives me access to my favorite contemporary authors in a way that 20 years ago was unheard of, unthought of. Sure, it removes them from a pedestal in many ways, and frankly, that’s great. It makes them a real person in my estimation. It makes me feel like it’s possible for me, at some point, to be a real person with a real life and still eventually be published.
Like I said, I can only hope for a long life.