Two Weeks of Twitter

Twitter Tree, originally uploaded by pandemia.

Twitter, for me, started during ROFLCon. Ever since, it's been an easy experiment: I like trying to figure out how it works. So far, here's what I've got:

Twitter is a good break from wordiness. In a conversation earlier this week, I compared it to taking a picture a day: trying to encapsulate 24 hours in a snapshot, or 140 characters, forces you to choose carefully. This is nothing new. But I was surprised at how that simple limitation made writing an update such a creative thing. Creative, and easy. It is always good to find simple ways to be creative during repetitive or stressful times. Like finals. i.e. now.

Also: the Twitter scene is opaque to me. Or rather, it's transparent, but I don't really want to jump in? The "@" convention makes Twitter updates feel like Livejournal posts used to, back in the day: clubby and scenic, exclusive and public at the same time. This is natural and not terrible and does not reflect poorly on its practitioners; it's just curious that we use our tools that way. Livejournal posts, incidentally, had a similar convention for noting when you were talking about someone who also had a Livejournal account. Since Livejournals tended to be more social, this convention got used pretty aggressively for social signaling.

Along those lines: I've noticed that Twitter is mostly about work and links and domestic life during the week, and then on Friday & Saturday nights, it all of a sudden becomes a scene report! How weird to come home and then write on Twitter that you spent time with someone who is also on Twitter, who will almost certainly read & respond to your post right away. I guess it's not weird. People do it all the time on the internet, especially teenagers. It's just funny to see the practice resurfacing with adults! Twitter must be the platform on which we've chosen to construct our artificial authentic selves. I think the character limit lends a sheen of realism.

Okay, finally: I think what's so striking about this social signaling in Twitter is that it's imbued with intentionality. On Facebook, when you do something or friend someone or post on someone's wall, Facebook just reports it; the "hey, look at me" is automated. Therefore, the person who wants to be looked at is absolved of responsibility, vanity, or attention-seeking. Twitter is all about self-reporting, and so that all-important illusion of absolution is whisked away.

That said, I kind of love Twitter. It's still uncluttered, and people are still pretty enthusiastic about it. The intentionality may make me somewhat suspicious, but it can also be charming. I like knowing what people want me to know, because the wanting is a window in itself. Artificial authentic selves leave traces of the artifice, embedded in the choices you know have been made. In the end, those traces reveal secret selves better than confessions ever could.

(And I'm here.)

ROFLCon: Unknown Quantities

Memes, originally uploaded by Scott Beale / Laughing Squid.

I'm still wandering around rainy streets here, thinking about the conference that blew through. I keep saying that I wish I could have experienced ROFLCon asynchronously. There were too many places to be at once, and instead of being in all of them, I mostly stood in hallways clutching tattered pieces of paper (stained blue by jeans pockets) and my cellphone, in heart-racing fists.

While the conference was happening, I couldn't imagine it ever happening again. It was too surreal to even imagine replicating. At the same time, though, it was so captivating that it was hard to imagine such a strange portal vanishing forever. Only after it was all over—only then did I really start thinking about what made it work, and whether it could be made to work again.

At the Barbarian afterparty, I got a chance to talk to Scott Beale of Laughing Squid. It was all the afterglow, of course, and so people were being generally very positive. But I was still impressed by the strength of people's belief that it could and should be done again. Scott mentioned the fact that the first time, people weren't sure whether it was "okay" or not to attend, follow, believe in ROFLCon; the whole thing was one huge unknown quantity. Now, though, "people needed to know that it was okay, and now that they know it's okay, you'll get an incredibly strong response the second time around." (Paraphrased.)

Scott was right, of course. But when he said that, something struck me. Sure: now that it's a known quantity, it would be much easier to get people to believe in a future for ROFLCon. But what if part of what made ROFLCon work was the fact that the audience didn't need to be given permission to come? They didn't need to know it was "okay." They knew that even if it wasn't okay, it would at least be an adventure.

That sense of adventure permeated the conference, I think. I wouldn't ever want to lose that. I'm glad, grateful, stunned that it was "okay" this time around, of course. But maybe ROFLCon just doesn't have a choice. Maybe it will always have to remain an unknown quantity, in order to be anything at all.

Thoughts on this matter infinitely welcome, as I probably will not stop thinking about it, ever—diana dot kimball at gmail dot com.

(Thanks also to Scott for the very neat picture, which perfectly captures the jankity-crank aesthetic of ROFLCon 2008.)

ROFLCon: It's On.

In a few hours, I'll be waking up, putting on a red shirt, and walking out the door to ROFLCon. This is the conference I've been scheming about all year long, in the company of an outrageously talented and lovable team, chock full of new best friends. All of a sudden, it's time.

If you're wondering whether this blog will come back, and be something that happens more than once a month, the answer is: yes! The truly weird thing about putting together a Conference of the Internet is that it makes it much harder to spend actual time on the internet. Time other than that spent on email, of course—a pursuit which has opened its jaws wide enough to swallow half of every day, lately! It's worth every minute of it, though. But, yes. There are so many things that have drifted past without being pinned down on inked screens. I haven't even divulged my latest historical venture! A short history of home repair magazines and romance. Really.

So. Tomorrow will be exciting. See you there, everybody. Thank you for making this real.

(You can follow some of the action on my brand-new Twitter account! dianakimball.)