I got my handle a few years ago. The day my friend Melissa explained to me how she manages her twitter account, makes lists, what she posts, and what a hashtag is, my heart thudded in my chest, dully as I listened.
It’ll get easier, I kept telling myself.
Sometimes, this is true. It’s like cold swimming pools: steel yourself to dive in and start moving, and voila, you forget your shivers.
So I set goals: post this often, on these topics. Make sure to prioritize promoting others’ work, which makes me feel like less of a douchebag. Be funny! Be sincere! Ask questions! Say something!
But Twitter still frightened me much so that I had a nightmare about it.
The day after the dream, I wrote this down in my journal: Why does Twitter terrify me so much?
And there are a lot of reasons. Introversion, not liking to speak off the cuff, and feeling overwhelmed scrolling through others’ feeds.
But the main reason is this:
I assume no one is interested in my words.
No, actually, I don’t just assume. I am positive no one is interested in my words. Why the hell would they listen to me?
That’s not the end of the story, of course. Won’t you read the rest at The Mudroom?