The End of my Love Affair with Facebook…

Update- well hasn't the world changed since this post? Now that we are in the midst of a pandemic- facebook contact is really important to keep me in touch with people. It was good to have a break though. Keep safe folks, and wash your hands!!

The Crown

An artist I followed on Facebook who had over 1200 ‘friends’ and kept us glued there by increasingly making bolder and more provocative posts designed to shock, announced one day ‘Heads up, tomorrow I am committing Face-icide.’

We were all shocked and upset, ‘But why Tali why?’ because she was the most interesting person in our feeds and we waited for what amazing crazy thing she would be doing in her life, like we were watching a drama series on Netflix with a box of popcorn.

Her answer baffled me ‘Because I just can’t keep up with wishing people happy birthday, giving encouragement and advice, likes and smiley faces and most of all because I am getting no painting done whatsoever. You can follow me on my blog. So long and thanks for all the fish.’ Or words to that effect, I wish I’d known how to screen shot the conversation at the time. I’d have printed it on cotton and made a dress from the fabric. I’d have called it the ‘FB F-off Frock.' I was very upset that she left us so blithely, and then after a week or two, forgot she existed at all.

This new year though, I did the same, I killed off my personal page of 350 odd friends and family.

Nine years of dedicated daily posts, and now I’ve gone from their news feed- if they ever saw me at all amongst the torrential algorithmic news, fake news, and relentless advertising. I put a much less attention-grabbing headline as a post, murmuring that I was going to take a break. A few people replied with ‘yeah right’ because I’ve said this before and then I’m back two days later. I have no self-control. Unable to just log in and out once a week, I suspended my account.

So why did I do this more permanent thing?

BF (before facebook) I have always been a communication junkie. I hung out over my fax machine back in the day, and before that hours on the landline. Mobile phones were a godsend with texts, so I could be always yakking. It was the thing I got told off for at school the most- talking. Even at home growing up, the catchphrase in my family was ‘Shut up Fif!’ so garrulous I am. My blog was the next tell-it-to-the-world platform on a weekly basis or more.

I’ve always had an opinion too, though now as I get older, I find myself like Prince Charles, in that Episode of The Crown.

Charles: ‘But Mummy, I have a voice’

The Queen: ‘Let me let you into a secret, no-one wants to hear it.’

Facebook for me started off innocently enough- a way to find the best photos of a band I was doing a poster for- my kids had to teach me how to use it, how to disable the pesky and abundant email notifications and how to connect with friends. Wow, what a cool thing it was- how easy to share photos with the family. At this time, I was also on The Good Morning Show, and connected with all the other presenters and crew. Then my tiny fan base wanted to be facebook friends too and I accepted. And my publishing editor, all the people I had ever met anytime at festival events, worked with, friends of friends, my kid’s friends and even a rabbit. I will never forget Tog, RIP.

Facebook is important for your work profile all our publishers say, you HAVE to market yourself. Because apparently that’s our job now, as well as creating all the content, we are responsible for selling it too. Things got awkward around election time. I couldn’t annoy my followers and colleagues with my views in case I lost a sale or a supporter, I also felt very uncomfortable seeing posts of a stranger’s family funeral, wedding or birth in my news feed. So I created a public page and gently moved the kind but unknown people onto that, and invited others to join me there. But many refused to change one page for the other and, like the situation when you realise you left it too late to say ‘sorry I made a mistake letting you into my personal life,’ I was stuck with the relationship.

I tried a policy of unfriending people who rarely posted and never commented- I broke up with them through a cheery private message, and got some really offended replies of ‘I thought this was where we could be friends but obviously you want me gone from your life!’ Note, these were people whose only posts or location alerts were about coming to my city for a holiday, yet never called to catch up for coffee. They would be entirely unreliable to help you in any personal crisis.

I tried restricting some people so they couldn’t see any of my posts, and that just felt mean, even though they only used your facebook friendship to promote their work. Merely unfollowing them means you don’t see their posts, but they can still trawl through yours if they've a mind to. There is nothing more unsettling to bump into an distant acquaintance on the street and them say ‘I hope you managed to get some work/new drains/bury your father/sort out the problem with your home loan’ and you realise ‘Fark, they are a facebook lurker friend!’ TMI, TMI everywhere.

And then there are work contacts who see you comment on a friend’s post about something that affects a community you are involved in, and they personally message you with admonishments and warnings. Basically saying, ‘You can only be vanilla, you can never be honest. How very dare you!’

I spent so many wasted hours trying to organise my personal facebook page into some sort of sense where I could have meaningful and fun interactions yet maintain some sort of privacy. Privacy and facebook of course are a nonsense, as Cambridge Analytica showed us.

All of this aside, the sharing of information even when you think you have it well locked down and the addiction to the little red notification flag, nothing prepared me for the overwhelming sadness I experienced over this Christmas period. Not long after the Whakaari/White Island tragedy, my feed was flooded with the heart-breaking Australian bush fire climate change disasters, road accidents and family violence reports. Then Trump bombed Iran and #WW3 was the end of Facebook days for me. That and people’s holiday snaps of their endless luxury holidays jetting away abroad, posting photos of their food, fiddling whilst the planet burns. I put my phone down.

Of course, like the Hotel California, you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. The minute I log back in with the password and username, there I will be, resurrected and 3567 notifications of activity I’ve missed, all my comments and posts back like magic. I plan to go in though, in the dead of night, rescue my photos, delete all but very close family and the handful of friends I can utterly count on to bring food and love to my family if I suddenly die and will help organise a funeral. I'm going to Konmari the feck out of it. Or push that 'permanently delete' button altogether. 

In the meantime, the real me has found peace in choosing what bad news floods my way. I don’t have to look at other people’s seemingly fortunate wealthy lives and perfect families and have jealousy twist like a knife in my gut (my problem, not theirs). My husband says I’m far less grumpy now, but quietly wagering that Twitter will replace my addiction. I’m also sorry if I have put up aspirational posts in the past that make my life seem like a bunch of goddamned daisies. Nobody’s is, yet nobody wants to admit it in the highly curated life online. Yet we circle like vultures for a hint of weakness, or mistake made, ready to pounce and gossip.

Since quitting my personal page, I’ve had actual coffees and catch ups in person with people I like and care about, invites to stay and long walks along the wild coast of Wellington. I miss the banter from humerous like minded friends, but I don’t miss how utterly miserable Facebook made me feel.

Ironically, this post will also go up on my public page where I hope I don’t lose followers. Ah the duplicity...

Cheers, and thanks for all the fish, love Fifi xxx

Last Post

Hi all,

I’ve written a lot of blog posts here over the years, pouring put my thoughts and feelings, sweating over my grammar and writing style. I think I probably always secretly hoped that it would be picked up and I would get a regular column/following. It didn't! But I average 4000 post views a month- mostly for free templates I've put up.

Blogging was fantastic in its day, and there are many I still follow. Maureen Crisp’s Craic-er excellent links on writing, Melinda Syzmanik’s I Should be Writing, for when I need a fellow author to articulate how tough this children’s book industry is and feel not so alone, Jane Bloomfield’s Truth is Stranger Than Fiction  which is funny, irreverent and really should be more widely circulated, and of course Emily Writes Mama Said , she is the Chuck Wendig of motherhood- everything I wanted to say and was too afraid to... and I am not easily terrified. She makes me lol, which apparently is such an old hat expression, I am showing my age.

There are many more besides that I read and get a laugh/information/inspiration from, but the blogosphere has changed for me as a medium.

When I first started, it was all about being able to have a say, somewhere people might ‘hear’it. It's so hard to get published and it was such an instant medium, I was instantly gratified. I think that was true for a long time. But as Facebook, Instagram and twitter have taken over, so have my means of self-expression. I adore Facebook- I post on my personal page (no sorry you can’t join me there unless I know you very well) on everything from the weather, our cat’s antics and my horror at various international politics.

But I do I post on my public page  about my art, useful links to things I like and events I’m involved with (yes, please like me there!). I am getting to grips with Instagram.  I tweet because you are supposed to as an author, but really just go there to get breaking news. I have a LinkedIn profile, but rarely go there- it’s a bit dry for me and it keep suggesting jobs for me like CEO of manufacturing companies (how can their algorithms be so out?) Pinterest is a fantastic resource and I put some of my wearable art and various crafts up there. I also have many secret boards for inspiration. I am, at heart, a squirrel. 

So I have a few bases covered.

So, this blog, as a means for my news, opinions and brags, is kind of redundant. In the spring I’ll revamp it so it becomes a dedicated website for seeing my portfolio and services. You will still be able to access my old blog posts. I think I’ve grown as a writer since my first post 11 years ago. 

Certainly, now I have glasses.

See you in other media J

Your 8 year old self

I was going to write a blog post about the amazing Storylines Festival that I've been part of and touring with for the last week. It was going to be about all the schools we visited and the fabulous kids I dressed up in costumes from my book and the two festival days and how it was a blast (and it was) but then, someone posted this thing on facebook:

I thought back to when I was 8 years old, writing, drawing and making stuff- which is what I do now and I adore my adult life's work. When I was eight, I idolised the likes of Valerie Singleton from the BBC's BluePeter, and Vision On with Tony Hart. These were art heros for me and I never thought back then, that I'd end up as all the arty things I am. I would have, back then, look at me now and say 'I want to be you!' 

It's useful to do that, look at yourself from a kids point of view, especially when the creative industry is full of unfulfilled expectations and bitter disappointments. These mostly arise from a need to be acknowledged and recognised (and paid) and it's like a drug. The more you get, the more you need until you can't see what you've done that was so good anymore. All you can see is what you failed to be (in your head!).

I immediately loved this idea of a young self perspective, and reposted it on my public page, which drew a wistful verging on regretful response. I wasn't quite prepared for that. I realised then that the my post wouldn't actually make anyone happy and might highlight where they thought they had dropped the 8 ball and 'damn that chipper flippin' Fifi for pointing that out. Thanks a lot!' (and lose a few hard won followers).

So let's get real here.

When you were 8, what was life like? This is how it was for me. 

I was in transition from Pom to Kiwi. We had moved- a family of 5 with a father who had his career pulled out from underneath him and no tangible means of supporting us all. We ran away. We were migrants but mercifully not stuck in a container crate and left to die whilst politicians postured and ignored us. We stayed with the only people we knew in New Zealand for the whole of the summer until we were all sick of each other. My parents found a tiny flat. Dad found a job on Christmas Eve and our mother worked for the first time since she had got married at 21 (yes, women mostly gave up their jobs back then and got pregnant on their wedding night). 

We spoke funny, I didn't know what togs and lollies were. I may as well have spoken Greek. I came home from school by myself and wondered if I'd ever fit in. My school report said:

"She is a cooperative pupil and is generally accepted by the other children. She has a sensible outlook but is sometimes disturbed by apparently trivial incidents."

We could re read that to say what was really going on:

"She does what she is told and behind my back the other students ridicule her and when the chance arises do her physical harm. She is terribly lonely and has no clue what to do here."

So, at 8, all I wanted was not to be a roaring success in the art world, all I wanted was acceptance and a friend. At 55 I have it. I have worked hard to get there and when I annoy or upset people and realise it, I try hard to put that right. I don't always succeed, and this is why I don't engage in any kind of way other than very peripherally with Twitter. That's a place that's very hard to put things right once it's out of your mouth- and I have a big mouth!

Child me would be amazed that I have not one community but several- in publishing, wearable art, illustration, craft, walking, old high school friends and of course my family. I love them all. She would be very happy that I had got there (and had she known would have spent less time being miserable and crying into her pillow).

So, look not at what you are doing for a job, but who you are being in the world to the people in your life. And if you are being an asshat (my fav new American expression!) then stop it. Make your 8 year old self proud.

Oh, and Storylines is awesome- I get to meet a lot of kids who I once was.

Photo Credit- Clare Scott