In 2008, or maybe 2007, the instructor at a writing workshop I attended, said, “You’re not a serious writer unless you’re on Facebook.” Serious writers, she continued, need to make themselves more visible to potential readers.

I wanted to be serious about writing, so I signed up for Facebook.

On Facebook, people I barely knew wanted to be my friend. Who are you again? Confirm. Friends forever.

My new friends posted their vacation pictures on the sands of Waikiki or hiking in the woods. Pictures of smiling kids with the ocean or beautiful forest in the background lit up the screen. Some friends posted pictures of whatever they had prepared for dinner.

No one posted pictures of their kids screaming at each other or of their own smiling face while cleaning the toilet. No one wrote on Facebook, “I’m in the bathroom cleaning the tub with my Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.”

I moved over to Instagram where no one wants to be my friend. People I don’t know followed me or wanted me to follow them. I started following writers in writing groups. Writers, I discovered, want to tell you what they are writing and don’t want to hear what you write.

I ditched the writers and followed a precocious six-year-old girl who lives in the U.K. and has curly hair.  Her mother records her daily life in short videos. Last month, I watched the child open her advent calendar, which had paper envelopes for each day in December until the 25th. One of the envelopes revealed a cardboard picture of frankincense. The child’s lips pressed tight as she held it up to the camera. Hard to get thrilled over carboard frankincense. On the 24^th  I saw a smile on the child’s face as she held up the cardboard baby Jesus. I have no idea what she got on the 25th. What’s better than baby Jesus?

I also followed a goldendoodle named Jazzy who rests on a wingback chair and stares directly into the camera showing off her cuteness. I followed a Millennial who performs parodies of her Boomer mom. Attired in an old flannel shirt with heavy-framed glasses perched at the end of her nose, she impersonates her mom by speaking in a hoarse, nasal tone. Hobbling to the Christmas tree, she plucks a Space Needle ornament from tree and says quite nasally, “Remember when we took you kids to Seattle and your sister punched you in the face?” She then snaps a felt owl ornament off the tree and says, “Remember this ornament you gave me? (long pause) Interesting choice.” I hope her Boomer mom is laughing.

 

Ernest Hemingway didn’t have Instagram and Facebook to suck up his time. He wrote most of The Sun Also Rises in Paris, probably while sipping coffee at a sidewalk café. I could be serious too if I could write in Paris. I’m pretty sure I could do some serious writing while sitting on the banks of the Seine chomping on a baguette slathered in Brie and escargots.

Back in the good ol’ days, the 80s, none of us had social media to distract us from important goals. We had New Coke, fanny packs, and the latest episode of Mash and that kept us plenty busy. Especially the fanny packs stuffed with New Coke bouncing on our backsides.

We had landlines, not cell phones, and they made no claim to be smart. Our yellowish telephone hung on the wall near the kitchen and erupted into a jangling chorus of annoying bells quite often, I had to answer it. No one had caller i.d. and I never knew if the ringing phone meant the school was calling to report my son and his friends had lit cigars at recess or what? For all I knew, the playground caught fire and I owed for a charred jungle gym. It was the “not knowing” that compelled me to answer every call wondering if it would bring horror or delight. Back then, I had little knowledge of what my neighbors ate for dinner or if they were somewhere enjoying an ice cream Blizzard while I stood at my stove heating canned soup.

Back to me becoming a serious writer.

 

I somehow managed in between Jazzy and the Millennial performances to revise and update my story of recovery from an acute anxiety disorder. Titled Five Minutes For France and published in 2014 and my memoir is now retitled, Sliding Down the Mountain in a Basket. I had to retitle the book because people thought my first memoir was a travel guide to visiting France in five-minutes or less.

My book focuses on what led to my anxiety condition, flashbacks to my childhood, a cruise to the Mediterranean, and practicing strategies that has helped me learn to live a more fulfilling life. I wrote the book to help others suffering from the condition. It’s a story, however, that will interest everyone–no matter what their experience in life is.

Anxiety disorders affect one in four men and about 40% of women.* The good news is –this is the most treatable of health disorders.

My book is out now on Amazon and other online book retailers. It’s even translated to a Chinese version. (You can Google my book and you’ll see for yourself.)

Over 1.40 billion people speak and read the Chinese language and someone thought it necessary to translate my book just for them.

This all happened without any assistance from visibility on social media.

Who’s serious now? (Mic drop.)

* Chris Iliades, M.D., "Do You Suffer From Anxiety?" Newsmax, January, 2023, pages 76-78

 

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