Don’t tweet your heroes
Irecently decided to upgrade my Twitter status from full-time lurker to part-time engager. Oddly enough, the transition from lurker to engager doesn’t demand any greater time commitment from me, and I am finding that I’m getting something back — an unmistakeable buzz from people favouriting my little 140-character gems of wit and what-not.
Also, due to pregnancy insomnia, I have all this extra time to carefully craft these nuggets. “Well, two nights as an attic-dweller and I can already identify with those people who hoard their urine in jars #35weeks” is just one example of the wit I deign to bestow on my followers, who number in the dozens.
Twitter is also allowing me greater access to some of my idols, which, for someone who is basically a hobbyist stalker of a vast network of writers, artists, directors, and Instagrammers, is probably not the best idea.
The idea of tweeting someone I admire first occurred at my book club when, a few wheels of cheese in, the Book Bitches decided to tweet Chad Harbach, the author of The Art of Fielding, and basically fangirl the shite out of him. After trawling his Twitter, we decided that, seeing as he only has a couple of thousand followers, the New York Times Best Books of 2011-nominated author would be only chuffed with our interest.
The exuberant tweet went unacknowledged, but we were undeterred, and began a campaign of tweeting all the authors we read. Andy Weir, Liza Klaussmann, and Maggie O’Farrell all understandably ignored us. Even when (or perhaps especially because) we began attaching snaps of ourselves in varying states of inebriation and cheese comas.
I had all but given up on my dream of connecting with one of my heroes when, on a whim, I tweeted a previous column I’d written concerning my borderline unhealthy obsession with the author Jon Ronson. In the piece, which was titled Bunny Boiler, I proudly displayed the creepy bank of personal information I had gleaned about Ronson, his family and his dog. I snapped a pic of the page and sent it off into the Twether.
Lo, in the dead of night, and awake due to the foetus refusing to let me sleep, none other than Jon Ronson himself tweeted me back. I spent the next 45 minutes crafting the perfect pithy response. Then the next two hours waiting for dawn, and what I felt sure would be a reply from the great man, cementing our new friendship, as I fantasised about having Jon and Elaine, his wife, over for dinner. And the last hour, when still no response was forthcoming, coming to terms with the fact that Jon and I are not friends, are never going to be friends and that, yes social media can cause depression.
I made these herbed wild mushrooms pizzas, below, for the Book Bitches, to cheer us all up.