I've written a book. Like me on Twitter. Follow me on Facebook.
I have spent an embarrassing amount of time tinkering with a book about the year I spent making an ass out of myself in Japan. Now that it is finished (and perhaps even tolerable), I'm toying with strategies on how to get it published by fancy cigar-smoking New York types. But to reach premium attractiveness to agents and publishers, I have to have what is called "a platform," which, as far as I understand it, consists of two things:
To accomplish the above, I have embarked on a journey to become what I loathe the most...
a Person Who Internets.
A Person Who Internets commits fully to the idea that she is interesting all of the time, even when eating a bagel on a Tuesday or getting stuck in traffic. A Person Who Internets has Deep Thoughts(TM) and isn't afraid to share them multiple times a day. A Person Who Internets is a borderline narcissist who wants ALL the attention without ANY of the grammar--or at least that's what I see when I see people celebrating anniversaries on Facebook, hash tagging "blessed" on Twitter, or engaging in the socially acceptable habit of posting pictures of nachos to Instagram. I scoff at their navel-gazing: Do these people actually think strangers care about their lives? And then I realize I've written a memoir, which is like the world's most self-indulgent tweet. I am banking on the fact that strangers care about other people's lives.
Any Freud could tell you that my distaste for oversharing is rooted in an overwhelming fear of being rejected: if an outfit is worn without photo documentation, can anyone definitively say you looked like shit? The vulnerability associated with becoming a Person Who Internets is terrifying. Anyone who's ever posted a resume to LinkedIn or crafted an OKCupid profile or Snapchatted a dick pick is clearly screaming out into the void, "Am I worthy of love?" This is followed by: am I ready for the answers? Can I handle the truth?
At the very least, a platform proves to agents and editors you have the balls to promote yourself, which is well and good assuming you have the balls to promote yourself. I don't. I have itty-bitty balls, teeny-tiny BBs rattling around a scrotum of self-doubt. It's hard for me to say "I'm good at this," or "My thoughts are important," or "My nose is beautiful." Beneath my hamming and vamping, I'm just a girl, sitting in front of a laptop, asking a bunch of other people with laptops to follow her on Twitter.
You can also like my writer page on Facebook while you're at it, even if you don't like me in real life. You can read this blog sometimes: I'll post on social media when I update it. If something I write catches your eye, share it or mock it with your friends: Google analytics can't tell the difference. You can share it without even reading it: it's OK! I'll never know. If I am acquainted with you personally, I promise to never talk to you about my writing IRL. Considering I probably never have, you can count on this.
In conclusion, this is me: promoting myself. I'm telling you I'm cool, and I write some mildly entertaining stuff, and I'm going to put it out there on the Internet even though it kills me to do it, because I'm worthy of love, or at least a Like. I'm asking for your help: follow me, forgive me when I suck--help me prove to a frightening, judgmental world that my book is good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it: my balls are yuge.