I’m not sure about Twitter.
Sometimes I think it’s been a great creative spur, inspiring me to look at things in more detail, at mushrooms and trees, patterns of light, found poetry, birdsong after the rain, a ventilation duct that looks like a steampunk worm. I love the way it challenges me to come up with haiku poems, scraps of conversation I’d otherwise forget, short descriptions, serious notes, trashy nothings. I love the way it makes me feel connected to people doing the same sort of thing, all over the world.
But some days the whole thing flips on its beak. Suddenly I’m using Fritter, not Twitter, and I panic that I’ve fallen under the spell of some giant and insatiable chick, incessantly demanding food, first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and I’m flying backwards and forwards looking for anything remotely digestible to drop into its craw. I worry that I’m actually morphing into this crazy blue chick myself – living on a sugary diet of likes and retweets, dashed when my follower count goes down, happy when it goes up, even though I have no idea who these followers or dropped followers are, and even though I suspect that many of them are living like me, in a nest of scraps somewhere, with a phone camera, snapping anything of interest.
Today I love it, though.
And, of course – hashtag irony – this post will feature on my feed.