I went from five to thirty followers in one day. Posted using hashtags and at symbols. Joined a chorus of talking voices all hoping to be heard. If they follow, I follow too. We chase each other around, yelling into the crowd: notice me, like me, see me.
Mundane observations become the fuel for the fire. I had one that could have tracked better. “Three cigarettes burning, I must be writing.” I forgot to add a hashtag, so no one read it.
Few follow you, they follow a theme. A tag, a definition at their disposal, to qualify your posts. Maybe it’s #writerslife or #wip (work in progress) or so many others. There are tags for every moment. Classifications we should all see and apply. So many boxes we have to fill in. For you are nothing if not categorized.
Labels define us. They speak more than the words. You are gay, or short, or bald, or fat. You are white, or black, or somewhere in between. Don’t worry, we will struggle to apply the right tag, for each and everyone of us must fit in somewhere.
In the world of hashtags and at symbols everyone has a voice. We have all been defined and quantified on a network of millions. Find your place and start yelling. Maybe a few of the many might follow you. Click a heart on the things you say. Send you a notification that adds up on your profile.
Carefully curated for maximum impact in twenty or thirty words, you chirp and tweet out on a platform who’s mascot is a bird.
Twitter. It’s calling you.