Twitter is a weird place and—were I involved in a profession that didn’t involve book sales and Q rating—a place that I would probably be best served ignoring.
Over the past two days I’ve been attacked by two writers—both national, both people I’ve never met and took a second to place. They hated my stance on PED, on Mike Piazza, on Barry Bonds. One, rightly, noted that I was wrong to re-Tweet a photo of Barry Bonds looking skinny. The other just said he doesn’t respect me … blah, blah, blah.
Bark. Bark. Bark.
Here’s the thing—how can I be angry? Hell, I’ve done the same thing. I’ve written negatively of other writers; of players; etc. I’ve mocked and scored and criticized. So what right do I have to say, “Hey, that was harsh” or “That was really unfair”? Answer: None. I have no right.
Truth is, I hate Twitter. I really do. It sucks time, it brings out the nasty (in me and in others) and it’s disposable. I hate that I take note of how many followers I have; hate that the words of a stranger might irk me. I mean, what difference does it make? If I never read Twitter, do the insults even exist? Do they matter?
I’m babbling. As always. People have told me, repeatedly, that journalists have thick skin. I have thin skin. People have told me, repeatedly, that I can sound mean and vindictive and unhappy. I am one of the most blessed and fulfilled people I know.
There’s no point here. But maybe, with Twitter, that is the point.
