We Don’t Lose Friends…

…we just learn who the real ones are.

I’d like to start by saying hello and thank you to the Grippers for giving me the opportunity to join their ranks. My official bio is in place, but there are some details it doesn’t cover.

I’m joining you here all the way from sunny Australia. Brisbane, to be precise. Capital city of Queensland, or as those born here call it, QUEEEEEEENZLAAAAAAND! I love this city, and this state, but I was not born here. Which brings me around to the current topic: Losing Friends.

For as I mentioned, though Brisbane is now my home, I was born two states away and have gradually migrated north. For those unfamiliar with Australia’s makeup, our states are mother-humping huge. Our smallest mainland state is almost the same size as the entire UK. My current home is approximately 1,700km (over 1,000 miles) from where I was born. I know what it means to leave behind all you knew.

Now, I’m no army brat. And I probably only moved about a dozen times in my life. More than Princess Di, less than Madonna, I hope.

Or y’know…something.

But as anyone who’s moved a bunch of times will know, it becomes difficult to maintain friendships. You scar up, your skin thickens. You become inured to saying goodbye, and it no longer hurts so much. Without that hurt, there’s not so much drive to maintain contact.

I’ve lost a lot of friends over my 45 years of existence. It's been forced upon me by interstate moves in childhood, or even by just moving a few suburbs away on occasion. Many tears were shed in childhood over such matters.

But the worst part is that in recent years it’s been carelessness. Friendships which have fallen down the back of the couch, or haven’t been put back where I picked them up from. Ones I left in my pockets when I put my jeans through the wash.

There was no great soul-breaking cataclysm. No lying or cheating or stealing (mostly). They were simply absences that gradually made themselves known. It made a lie of the old saying "nothing ends well, otherwise it wouldn't end". These friendships just stopped breathing. They whimpered into non-existence, when I'd kinda rather they slapped my face and slammed my door. 

So these days I try to maintain focus on the friends I do have. Most of my friends live in that magic picture box on my desk. Some of them are friends from the past, from other places I've lived. Some were mere acquaintances at school who've become close friends through re-connection. But the friendship is no less intense simply from the absence of a physical component. These are the friends who are closer than family.

Thoughts About Friendship in the Digital Age

Spencer Dryden

I describe myself as a gregarious loner. In this realm, many things only exist in contrast, so an oxymoron seems appropriate as a self label. If you met me—and it's unlikely, given my reticence about people—you'd probably find me to be a witty, engaging and delightful person. I am, to a point, but I am not comfortable around people, less and less so as I get older. I especially avoid crowded places. I have that figure/ground hearing thing. Hello, is anybody in there?

I think it would be odd to meet a writer who is a glad handing extrovert. Our craft involves introspection, observation, the creation of other realities. We need separation. A touch of melancholy serves me well.

To paraphrase the professional golfer, Fred Couples, I hate the sound of my phone ringing. Inevitably, there is someone at the other end and they want something from me. I like texts. Send me a text anytime.

My standard of friendship is my partner in failed business ventures, John Young. Among his many talents, he was (too disabled now) a skilled DIY'er, having restored several turn of the century homes. He loved them and loved the craftsmanship. When my wife and I bought a Victorian home sadly in need of repair, John loaded his tools and drove all the way across the country to help me and infect me with the DIY bug. A friend knows what you need without you asking, and shares what they have without diminishing themselves. While we failed in business, John's gift to me has been a great source of security for my wife and I, and  part-time cash to support my writing jones. I am Homo Habilis Rex (The Handyman King) You should have a friend like me. I can fix stuff. I have shared my partner's gift to me by always making time for widows and single moms who don't have anyone for those annoying household repairs.

Facebook has distorted the meaning of friendship. I embraced Facebook at first, as a way to connect with long lost family and friends. Lately, in the real world,  I've been unfriending as much as friending. I'm really not interested in your latest rant on guns, abortion, or your definition of a patriot. You're not my friend, you're just someone who has my address. Go away.

As an emerging author however, under a pen name, I have frequently wished I had 50,000 friends who could be urged to read my book and pass it along to ten friends, qualifying them for the blessing of angels, fairies, or what ever—and don't break the chain. Not.  I hope you don't want that kind of friend either, no matter what dimension you occupy.

For all my grumbling, the web has brought me the opportunity to participate in a community of writers, that is both engaging and helpful. Writing is a solitary craft. I'm happy with that. I write my best stuff when I am simply entertaining myself like a kid in a sandbox— piles of dirt become castles, sticks are spaceships, ants are invading armies. My wife is kind enough to let me play there. She only requires that I wash my hands before eating. She doesn't particularly like my stuff, she prefers the bodice ripping romance of Bertrice Small. But I knew I was getting somewhere when I had her down on the floor laughing at my send off to the undead, "The DVLZ Do". She's not much use as a critic or editor.

Then the day comes when you get this absurd idea that you'd like to try to publish. That's when you realize you need lots of people—people who can see the blatant errors in spelling, grammar and construction. More people who can tell you if your characters and plot are working. Still more people to offer suggestions on how to achieve your dream.

When I finally admitted to myself that I wanted to write erotica, I went searching for resources. The Erotic Readers and Writers Association was the first or second item returned in the search. I clicked the button and like Alice falling into the rabbit hole, I fell into a different reality, full of helpful and supportive people, many mad as the Mad Hatter, dedicated to advancement in the art of storytelling. There are many days when I don't want to return to the real world.

I don't know what it's like to be an addict, but I got a whiff of the experience the first time an editor said 'yes' to my anthology submission. The idea that someone, a professional no-less, was entertained by something I wrote, had me as high as I've been in many years.

Today, Spencer Dryden has more Facebook fiends than the guy who adopted the pen name of the first drummer for the Jefferson Airplane. Many have been friends in the truest sense—people who have helped me without expectation of repayment, people who have listened without judging, people who have rejoiced in my success and patted my hand during disappointment. If there was more of that in the real world, maybe I wouldn't be such a misanthrope.

So please feel free to  'like' Spencer Dryden and pass it along to your ten thousand closest friends, then angels, unicorns, fairies, mermaids, shape shifters, even zombies will shower you with blessings.

Resistance

by Giselle Renarde

No, you can't be my Facebook friend.  Sorry.

Was it here or on Twitter that Annabeth Leong and I were talking about not having a Facebook account?  I don't remember.  I don't remember much, these days.  But yes, it's true, I am a (relatively) young person (or, at least, I keep telling myself I am...) and I don't have a Facebook account.

How did I become a Facebook resistor?  I remember having reasons, but I can't recall what those reasons were.  I think I always felt like I didn't want my whole life on the internet but, honestly, if you read my posts here or at Donuts and Desires, or if you follow me on Twitter, you know I tell the internet everything.

Oh, and my life is in my work, too. Duh. There's a reason my writing has been called "scary honest."

There are lots of little reasons I still resist setting up a Facebook account, despite pressure from those who care about my marketing efforts. Thing is... I'd feel sleazy establishing a social media account for the sole purpose of selling stuff.  People with low self-esteem shouldn't be allowed to run businesses.  My self-deprecating brain is always thinking, "It's going to bother people if I keep telling them about my new book."  (Although, to be honest, it does irk me when someone's Twitter feed is a steady stream of book ads. I usually unfollow them.  So I don't want to be that guy.)

There's an obvious solution: set up a Facebook account and don't be a dick. Ta-da!

But, you know, it's just one more thing to babysit. It's one more password to remember.  One more goddamn online presence.  One more thing I need to remember not to forget to sign into and keep up with and provide content for on a daily basis.

It's exhausting, all this, isn't it?

I went to a St. Vincent concert last week (See? I told you I was young! I go to concerts... just like young people!) and a lot of the songs on her new album speak to the digital experience.  In Every Tear Disappears, she sings, "Yeah, I live on wires. Yeah, I've been born twice."  Every time I hear that, I'm like tell me about it!  I spend most of my life as this internet incarnation. I miss the days when, if you wanted to know something, you had to read about it in a book... or experience it, first-hand.

Anyway, I'm swerving a little off course.  I came here to talk about why I'm a Facebook resistor.  And now that I've talked about it, I realize that none of my reasons sound all that convincing.

When it comes right down to it, I just don't want an account. I want to hold on to what's left of my privacy.

And as I write this I realize these concerns about the online sphere extend seamlessly to my personal life. Why would I invite Facebook friends in when I can't even invite flesh-and-blood friends?

I've always kept people at bay because I'm still afraid (after all these years!) someone might get a little too close and see a little too much of my ugliness, my messiness, my unsavoury-ness. It's funny how there are some things you never quite get over.  This pushing people away is a blatant leftover from growing up in an alcoholic household. You know (or can imagine) how it is: we were all too ashamed to bring friends home. My family was so insular because we had a secret to keep.  As open as I seem to be, I'm still haunted by a wide variety of demons.

Sorry, potential friends, but I'm just too psychologically damaged to join your social network.