Why am I having feelings about Twitter?

Twitter seems to be dying and, to my surprise, I find that I actually care about this. It hurts. I’m in mourning.

This is so stupid. It’s just a silly social media platform where people post pictures of their lunch, right?

Well, no, it turns out Twitter has become much more than that for me.

For one thing, it’s one of the ways I stay connected with other people. Human contact at just the right distance, and just the right microdose.

I’m someone who is quite happy with his own company. I spend a lot of time in my own head.

When I’m at my desk writing, designing, or pursuing some creative project or other, it runs in the background reminding me that the world is still out there.

That was, of course, especially helpful during successive COVID-19 lockdowns. Life was going on behind those closed doors.

Though I’d have scoffed at this a few years ago, and am cautious of forming unhealthy parasocial relationships , there are also people from Twitter I now consider friends, and/or serious creative collaborators.

As in, I’ve gone out of my way to have pints with them, and made myself vulnerable by sharing works-in-progress. Their support and advice has been real and helpful.

When I’ve been down, they’ve messaged privately with just the right amount of support for a shy, uptight relic of the 20th century like me.

So, a bit like on the day of my last GCSE exam, we’re over there swapping email addresses and following each other on Mastodon : “Let’s stay in touch!”

But will we? Twitter made it so easy. Effortless, almost.

Democratising marketing for creatives

I’m also sad to be losing a platform that’s helped me live a second life as a somewhat successful writer. (For some definitions of ‘success’.)

Writing about beer and pubs, my partner and I have gained more than 10,000 followers on Twitter over the course of about a decade.

When we post a link to our blog, several hundred people click it.

When we wanted to write a book, that Twitter following helped us get published. When the book was published, it helped us sell the book. Which helped us get a second book published.

As a writer of fiction, Twitter allowed me to find the exact 300 or so people who would want to read a ghost story in the form of a 1960s architectural guide. Every time I Tweet a link to the collection in which that story features, I find a couple more, and sell another copy or two.

So this isn’t just goodbye to an app – it’s potentially the end of an entire no-middle-men business model.

Visual artists can ramp up on Instagram, if they’re willing to battle the algorithm, or pay to play.

For writers it’s… Goodreads, maybe? We’ll have to wait and see.

What does it mean to be good at social media?

Part of my affection for Twitter is down to how good I’ve got at driving it.

I know where all the hidden features are, all the hacks and tricks and tips.

My timeline is finely tuned with a long list of muted words, muted accounts and blocked accounts. I follow new people all the time, and stop following people who’ve changed track, or soured.

I barely ever went even slightly viral, and never got above 1,800 followers on my personal account – but that’s not what mattered to me.

And now you’re telling me I’ve got to learn some other platform? With different rules and buttons?

The fact is, I’m quite enjoying learning how Mastodon ticks, just as I’ve enjoyed trying to crack the LinkedIn code in recent years. It’s the dorkiest, lowest-stakes version of gaming there is.

Twitter was so comfortable, though. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to go to another school and have to make new friends. Wah!

Lessons learned

This dependency crept up on me. I don’t want it to happen again.

I’m going to try to use a wider range of social media platforms in future, but also use them less.

And when people from social media become friends, I’m going to find better ways to stay in touch. I don’t want my friendships mediated by tech giants, especially when they’re so fragile beneath the surface.