A colleague of mine said to me at the end of a lecture the other day that she wished I would start a podcast. I felt two immediate reactions: the dopamine-hit-rush, what Anne Lammot calls cocaine for [the] ego, of feeling seen and noticed, quickly followed by a hermit crab-like crawling back into my shell. ‘But what on Earth would I talk about?’ I said. ‘And who on Earth would listen?’
These are almost identical to my reaction when Cliff Yates encouraged me to start blogging about poetry some 16-or-so years ago. To be fair to him, he meant it well. He wasn’t to know that he was sowing on fertile soil. Only a day or two before, my friend L–, who is very well connected in the arts world, had more or less said the same thing, only with the slightly different emphasis on using the internet ‘to be found’.
So I started a Posterous page, back in those lovely days before it was bought up and scrapped by Twitter, before Twitter became X and… (you know the rest). I had the idea that my blog ought to be about education, becuase that is what I do and have spent 30+ years doing. I came home exhausted one Friday evening and posted something about the then government’s policy on the teaching of early reading, only to get an earful from two very well-known educationalists with completely opposing views on the topic, which they, ahem, shared in the comments boxes below my post in a full-blown argument. That was the night I decided I would no longer blog about education. For one thing, I did not have the chops for that level of confrontation, and for another, my heart wasn’t in it.
One day, I posted a few words about Alastair Paterson’s beautiful poem ‘Fishermen’. And nothing happened. There were no rows between very senior British poets in the comments boxes below the poem. I took it as a sign that the universe was telling me to keep going. Which I did, finding amateurish ways of linking this magical technology to my then Facebook page and Twitter feed, all without having to lift a finger. It was very exciting and affirming, and I met some great people (Hello Josephine! Hello Shawna! Hello Nell!), all of whom I consider friends and whose opinions I trust.
But I wasn’t massively happy with the whole thing. I quickly found myself in the habit of waking up and reaching for my phone to check who had retweeted me, which more often than not was no one. Worse, I began to resent the people, poets and normal, who had more success in this area, i.e., everyone. A chemical memory surfaced, that feeling of dread during double maths or at the edge of the playground: why did everyone else know the answers? How had they emerged from the egg with such confidence?
Having said all of that, it still took me two or three years to quit. I would love to say that I predicted the onslaught of certain presidents and their tech-bro cabals and that it was this that prompted me to leave. But no. It was good old, bad old mental health. I was much happier without it. Crazily, stupidly, in the year I had two books coming out, I left. And then the pandemic happened. And then my mother died. And then I really hit the wall. All without social media. Bar one episode of what I now think was manic ill-health, during which I went back on for one day, I have stayed away.
But what about the Instagram and LinkedIn and tumblr icons at the head of this page, I hear you ask. Good question. I think they may be about to go as well. Maybe. Perhaps. I’m just no good at them, you see. The Instagram I set up so I could feast on the photos and art of my friends R–, R–, and D–. But of course it is more complex than that. In an ideal world, I would follow only them. Once the cat is out of the bag, you have to follow everyone else you know who knows them, even the ones posting about their jam making. LinkedIn is harder. And I’ve been using it much longer. But it is useful. For example, it is the only platform of anything that my activist friend W– uses, and the only way I can see what she’s been up to around the world. So it has its uses.
But as Martin Stannard once said about picking up a copy of a very well-known poetry magazine, I can sort of feel the depression rising up through my fingertips and my arms as soon as I start using them. I’m back where I started, with that edge-of-the-playground-feeling of marvelling at the utter confidence with which everyone shares the minutae of their lives. Five minutes, tops, that’s all I can manage. Then the double-maths-feeling hits even harder. Everyone else has the answers: why not me? I have nothing to say. And who on Earth would listen?
Lifesaving Poems 
Wonderful ♥️
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Bless you for saying so, Caleb. Anthony
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I always listen!!!
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Thank you Sarah! That is amazingly encouraging to hear. With much appreciation, Anthony
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I always listen too.
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Hi Pam and thank you so much for this encouragement. It reminds me of that Robert Pinsky line in one of his essays about poets needing not so much an audience as a ‘need to answer’. Sometimes that is a person, or a cause, or an experience. But sometimes, knowing there is an actual audience out there really helps as well. I appreciate you saying so. As ever with best wishes, Anthony
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I listen to you, in part because yours is an introverted yet deeply introspective voice that resonates with my own. And you have a passion for discovering and exploring poetry, a world that intrigues me but one where guided tours are much appreciated. Being blind has perhaps saved me from the chaos of the social media world, WordPress is the only such site I interacdt with regularly. I am also fortunate in that my small town world provides most of my interests and entertainment outside my front door within a short walking distance. That said, I find tmyself procrastinating in jumpng into my next book project knowing that my way of writing is a long and lonely process. Always seeking balance, but knowing the digital world never provides the intimacy I yearn for so I must continually reach out to the real world. But, you must be thinking, I’m reaching out to you. Sometimes I take connection wherever I can find it.
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Thank you as ever, Tio for your profound insights. I think I have been called introspective (my family used to say ‘pensif’) since I was nine. And I also recognise my introversion. I do think writing – in every facet of how that happens in my life – is a way of making sense of the world. But it only really makes sense, comes into being if you will, if others join in the coversation as well. Which is you. With very best to you as ever, Anthony
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I love your blog. Don’t stop. Have you considered substack? It feels like social media, but somehow more manageable!
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Hello, and thank you so much for your kind comment. Yes, I did consider Substack – but am too set in my ways now on WordPress, for better or worse. I think this suits me fine. I have been on occasionally, and have liked everything I saw. With thanks again, Anthony
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Thanks for your words. I know I grew up thinking it wrong to ‘blow your own trumpet’ so maybe that’s what inhibits me and I also recognise those in other very prominent cultures have no such thoughts! I like considered and trustworthy writing so please do rock on with your writings whenever you feel moved to do so.
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Hello Janet and thank you for your kind words. I do think I grew up with, I’m afraid to say, a version of Protestantism which actively disencouraged individuals from allowing their light to shine. Doubtless I am still affected by that. I will continue to rock on, thank you – no one has said this to me in years, it put a big smile on my face!
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Social media has turned into something not for the faint of heart, that’s for sure. I just blog for myself, as a kind of history of our lives to look back on lately. Though to be honest, since my husband’s diagnosis, we haven’t done much blog worthy in the last 3 years. I suggest you and I use social media to stay in touch with special people and let the rest go.
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Hi Dawn. Thank you for taking the time to write this. ‘Let the rest go’ – profound advice indeed. I was at the funeral of an elderly neighbour earlier today. Listening to his loved ones telling his story, I remembered again Larkin’s line about what will remain of us is love. It certainly won’t be our hilarity on social media. Blessings and thanks, Anthony
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I would definitely listen to you.
Jenny Weaver
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Thank you Jenny. Sending you big hugs xxx
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Your thoughts very much chime with my own misgivings as I start to think about re-engaging with what a nun friend of mine always refers to as “anti-social media”.
Mainly for reasons relating to work, I’ve been reminded that “you are the brand”, and therefore there’s apparently a need to project my human and authentic voice into the world, to project myself as distinct from the automated AI generated chatter by would-be competitors.
But I have very mixed feelings about re-entering that particular bear pit.
Thank you for continuing to demonstrate that thoughtful, honest and well-intentioned content and commentary can find its audience without the need for all the surrounding social “sound and fury”.
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Hi Marcus. It’s good to hear from you. I appreciate you taking the time to comment. You remind me of a recent meeting at my workplace, where we discussed our use of social media. I responded in the anonymous feedback form afterwards that the whole exercise filled me with dread. It’s very hard to get to and then stay in that authentic place of deep work and reflection. Using spaces which distract me from that feels increasingly draining. With appreciation as ever, Anthony
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Your thoughts very much chime with my own misgivings as I start to think about re-engaging with what a nun friend of mine always refers to as “anti-social media”.
Mainly for reasons relating to work, I’ve been reminded that “you are the brand”, and therefore there’s apparently a need to project my human and authentic voice into the world, to project myself as distinct from the automated AI generated chatter by would-be competitors.
But I have very mixed feelings about re-entering that particular bear pit.
Thank you for continuing to demonstrate that thoughtful, honest and well-intentioned content and commentary can find its audience without the need for all the surrounding social “sound and fury”.
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SUCH a good image about depression rising up through one’s fingertips. My fingertips know the feeling.
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Thank you for saying so Lesley. It is a great line, made up on the hoof by the great Martin Stannard in a small press interview (or maybe it was a review?) several years ago. It resonates with me deeply and is now a touchstone guiding me to trust my instincts and responses to art of all kinds. He’s a genius. With good wishes and thanks, Anthony
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As usual, you get to the heart and I appreciate you so much. I’ve sunk into a couple bad depressions in the last five years, one scary one. And I am currently trying to figure out new ways to make social media useful for me rather than the other way round. It’s designed to make us unhappy these days and even though I know it’s good for me to limit it, I also use it for my partner’s art/biz. I know the less I’m on the happier and more productive I am, same as everyone. And I still like the old school blog. This one! But then we forget to go to them…
Anyway, all this to say hello! And thank you.
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Hi Shawna! Thank you so much for your heartfelt response. I appreciate it deeply. I’m very sorry to hear of your depression. And I think of you as an SM exemplar, handling it in just the right way: enough info about what’s going on, without ever boasting or succumbing to dreadful humblebraggery. Such a hard trick to pull off, one that leaves me exhausted. The poems are hard enough work on their own!
Sending you solidarity and best wishes as ever,
Anthony
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I just hide away here with my safe little community on WP—the rest of social media is too volatile and vitriolic for me.
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