Photo: Man Ray. Lee Miller, 1930
Writing in Public
Writing in public is hard. It’s not technique that’s hard. Writing on the internet does involve certain structure and technique, but I haven’t heard any words like nut graf mentioned in my writing course once. Instead, it’s the exposure that hits me, then drains me. Learning to write is like the act of undressing. We learn to share. Then a bit more. We learn to share glimpses of ourselves more intimately. Vulnerably. And appropriately. With tension. This tension may exist between two sentences in an essay. It may exist in tension within a body of work. The breadth, the range of voice. The diversity of ideas and the consistency of voice. Whatever it is, there is a thrill in choosing to show. To be seen. There is a privilege in having something revealed to us. While moments of self-revelation can at times feel almost sacred, when we are in revelation and witnessing with another human being, there is something transformative in the exchange.
The art of the Striptease
You might guess I aspire to write in the lineage of Glennon Doyle, Elizabeth Gilbert, or Anaïs Nin. Maybe. Brene Brown or Esther Perel? One can fantasize. But the Art of the Striptease isn’t only for memoirs with a confessional tone, or for research-based books for lay people on fascinatingly vulnerable topics, like infidelity. Striptease is needed in non-fiction essays and in technical pieces, too. I’m not saying the reader needs to know the writer’s deepest, most intimate thoughts in technical pieces. Or maybe I am. I want to know who you are. Why are you writing about this? If you’ve started to amass a certain body of work, what are the tags and the categories you continue to mark, and why? Why do you keep coming back? What’s your angle? Why does it matter? Why does it matter to you? Tell me about the moment you knew, the incident or series of events that made it impossible for you to leave it behind.
RUnning into each other
Writing online doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Its nature calls for it to be discovered. While I knew social media and Twitter in particular can provide the necessary spontaneity and opportunity for discovery, I realized I might be the only person in the course without an active Twitter account. I felt self-conscious. I’d abandoned Twitter after one tweet in 2016. Being visual, I’d moved to Instagram to join the designers there, and some moms I knew. It would be more accurate to say the writing course is less about writing than it is about learning to think and communicate our unique perspectives clearly. It uses the act of writing publicly as a vehicle. As a result, we learn how to become citizens of the internet. I’m learning to become visible.
The idea makes sense and I’ve embraced the possibilities. But it still makes me feel like someone who's been on the inside for nearly a lifetime, being rehabilitated for life on the outside.
Private PERSONAS, Public Writing
The writing I’ve experienced so far has been personal. The passages I’ve written so far are archeological finds for my future self. It’s for me, and no one else. I’ve treated writing as a way to process emotions and experience. A meditation of sorts.
The rules for writing publicly require something entirely different. Walking into a virtual classroom of people who are organized and understand the art and science of information capture and logging. Seeing people who are able to deliver punchy thoughts concisely, accurately, and economically. This intimidates me, especially as someone who feels inadequately introduced to technology. Tweets feel scary and fast. Being invited to tweet felt like the first time I was first offered a line of coke. I enjoy long descriptive passages in a notebook. It’s more like being at the perfume counter and asking myself what each scent reminds me of. Where it carries me to. In the time I’ve been carried to destination by the base notes, hundreds or thousands of tweets will have been tweeted.
When you make a strong case for, or against something. About a certain piece of technology. About crypto. About a movement. When you’re hitting that idea home, what are you feeling? Where do you feel in your body? Can you name it? Name it. And then tell me. What does it tell you? Because along with all the facts and perspectives you’ve offered me, I’m going to walk away with a sense of who you are. Why you wrote the piece. Why it matters to you. Whether I choose to adopt your perspective or not, I’ll walk away with a piece of who you are. It will linger on my skin, the same way the base notes do with perfume, on to the next day. And sometimes beyond.
Does that make sense?
MASTER CLASS and BrEAKS
I'm sold on the idea that being on Twitter is the online equivalent of walking in a big city designed for pedestrians. Serendipity abounds. We can sit in a cafe on the street. Catch the conversation at the next table. Slide in a smile or a word when I turn to find the waiter. And on the rare occasion, join that table and make friends out of the encounter. Or, it might end in making friendly acquaintances at the restaurant or in the neighborhood. I love a good chat with a stranger who’s become a friend. Something tells me, though, I should focus on being seen through writing first. At least until there's minimum critical mass.
In the end, writing publicly offers us the chance to own who we are. It offers us the opportunity to see and defend the potential of our ideas and thinking. It challenges us to claim it, to cultivate it. It asks us to show up to it, especially when it’s hard. Becoming a writer is a master class in becoming.
Back to work. There’s more writing in public to do. And giving myself permission to be seen.