Echoes of disaster

Ten years too late, Emily Hourican joins Facebook, and finds a seductive, unreliable world of thumbs-up, enthusiastic emojis and echoing ‘likes’

Inever did join Facebook, back in the heady days when it all began. For a while, when people asked to connect and I told them they couldn’t, they behaved with suspicion and condescension. As if I was some kind of off-grid type who converted cornmeal into electricity.

Over the years, that reaction shifted. “Very wise,” I would be told. “Total waste of time. Hours spent looking at pictures of people you went to school with and their kids...” I had, it seemed, dodged a time-gobbling bullet. And then the conversation moved on — was I on Twitter? Yes, as it happens. Instagram? Nope. Snapchat? What? — until finally we all stopped bothering, because all of us were everywhere, or so it seemed, and there was no need to ask.

Facebook, I increasingly heard, was ‘over.’ The kids had abandoned it, and it was just a bunch of sad old second-agers showing each other photos of their holidays.

And then we had a couple of disastrous, shocking election results (I say ‘we’ in the global, world-citizen kind of way), and suddenly, it was all about Facebook again. Because apparently Facebook was to blame. Or rather, we within Facebook were to blame (that’s a general ‘we’; not me specifically, obviously).

We had so busily peppered our feeds with like-minded souls, all outraged at climate denial, sexism and LGBT bashing, that we had created echo-chambers, and had made the mistake of falling for this; believing that the right-on-ness that came bouncing back represented a general view of the world. And so we were unable to anticipate Brexit, or Trump; we were shocked, disbelieving, complicit.

Just as the world turned against Facebook and its dangerously cosy consensus, I joined. I have my reasons — a new book to promote — but I understand that it must seem perverse to be doing this now.

So how did it go? Well, day one, I did the necessary: uploaded photos — of myself, and more importantly, my new book; filled in salient details about where I went to school; posted something thoughtful; sent out some friend requests, and sat back.

Within what felt like minutes, the acceptances, likes and comments came flooding in. “OMG u look so great!”; “OMG congrats babe. Amaze”, and so on. I was hailed; high-fived on all sides. People I haven’t seen in 20 years fell over themselves to say how pleased they were for me, and how they would buy the book. Little yellow thumbs-up icons appeared on everything I did, with smiley faces and other cheerleading emojis not far behind.

In return, I busily liked, commented, endorsed other people’s stuff, echoing back to them the same glowing approval they gave me. So far, so Facebook. Finally, I looked up from the screen. I felt giddy. My heart was pounding. I was elated, certain my book was going to be a terrific success, because all around me pinged the warm congratulations of people who seemed to have my best interests at heart. I felt I was surfing a Mexican wave of approval. The book would fall into receptive hands, be read, and loved, and thumbed-up and recommended on around the world until I was a global bestseller...

Then I realised two hours had gone by. Two hours. In the blink of an eye. People were right. This shit was addictive.

I also realised, in the cold light of offline day, that I only have 100 Facebook friends and most of them undoubtedly will not actually buy the book. “I’ve ruined my life,” I told my husband. And I have. Because for all that I’ve seen through the hustle, the playing to the gallery and too-easy approval, I still want more. I’m heading back to the echo chamber.

“I was elated, certain my book was going to be a terrific success, surfing a Mexican wave of approval”