Writing in the age of Instagram: who are we really writing for?
A like is straightforward, decisive, easy; you don't question it. And you, on the other hand, constantly question yourself, tormenting yourself by doubting your own judgment.
PalmEvery week, when I sit down to write this section, I do so with the latest article still fresh, recently published. I share it, and my personal torture begins. We are healthy children of the internet and social media, so I can't help but measure my effort by clicks, messages, likesShares. I analyze my work through the eyes of others. And I make an effort to ensure this doesn't stifle my writing; that it doesn't dictate the rhythm of the keys in the next installment. I write each new article as if it should be the last. Every week, I start with a clean slate. And yet, I survive another week. Without remembering that the previous week was exactly the same.
Social media is too much junk for a controlling and impatient person like me. Social media constantly gives us what we need: results. We are too vulnerable and at the same time too self-centered to commit to something in vain. And the insights Meta's efforts make it all a little worthwhile. They give us just the right dose of validation we need to believe in ourselves. It's too tempting to have a simpler, more comfortable justification nearby: what others like. I like It's straightforward, clear-cut, easy; you don't question it. And yet you constantly question yourself.
How do we write in the age of Instagram, in the age of instant gratification? Is writing compatible with the turbo-consumption of the digital environment? Or should we reserve a sacred place for it, where our dopamine levels aren't depleted? I no longer know if we're really saying what we want to say or what we know will reward the algorithm. Titling a text is no longer about cleverly summarizing its content; it's about thinking about what will make people read it. Because now we know, instantly, if they're reading us. In my case, I like to think it helps me push my brain, to find the most unexpected way to say things, to say things without saying them. But I'm not sure this makes us better writers either.
What was writing like before all this perversion? Sometimes, I think about the title of Carme Riera's story. I leave you, my love, the sea as a pledge like a complex and mysterious writing artifact. Its cadence, the sound of the words, and the intrigue of that garment are, for me, exquisite ingredients that announce something imminent, like an invitation to discover it. I wonder if, now, such a formula would work. Now, when we no longer want guests, now that we expect them to come looking for us. What would happen if we launched this fragile title into a search engine? Would it have mercy? Would it lack SEO or keywords?
Turn everything we do into a consumable product
I don't even know if all this matters. Perhaps we're missing the opportunity to create good writing, good music, good painting. And all because we want to filter it through social media. All because now everyone has to communicate: we write to communicate, we make music to communicate, we draw to communicate. Creation has become a megaphone, when perhaps it should remain a more intimate act, a refuge where others come to find you, something decipherable, the satisfaction of connecting with an enigma that you feel was made for you, a mirror.
I see how we dissect and chew over everything we do to find a consumable form. And more than consumable, shareable. We've all signed this pact, based on reducing what we do to a 30-second reel or package it in a carousel. As if this were the only thing separating us from success and not the fact that, simply, what we do It's not that good.It's not that we doubt the public's capacity for understanding and judgment. Let's be honest: good movies fill theaters, good books get reprinted, and good albums sell out.
It's that we sell ourselves to immediate numbers, as if this were the best way to know we're doing it right. We don't have the patience to screw up, like Susan Sontag: "I don't care if it's terrible. The only way to learn to write is by writing." The alternative is paralysis. And, for that reason, a point of unconsciousness, of letting go, is necessary to create anything. "You have to write for yourselves," I've always heard. How do you do this in the age of Instagram?
I'd like to believe that we don't need social media. That what we do will reach where it needs to reach on its own. But I've already said that we are a healthy child of the internet. So, for the moment, I find solace right there, in articles like Flor Tundis's in the little oasis that is Substack. Don't be obsessed with people: be obsessed with writing"When we're obsessed with writing, it's essential not to use Instagram too much. Because you compare yourself and think you'll never reach the heights of others who seem more successful. You think your time has passed. Stop. What generates real dopamine is what you do with your time, not what you waste with it."
