Look. I’m just a humble writer who likes to use silly words and crappy photos to relay my anecdotes. But there are so many highfalutin new technologies on social media nowadays. Like Lives. And Stories. And TikToks. I’m not cut out for this shit. I mean, come on, I’ve got unread Instagram messages from 233 weeks ago. I don’t know the difference between Stories and Reels and how the hell you people add all that colorful text to your photos. Shit, I even broadcast the video of my Aunt Ramona’s funeral IN THE WRONG ORIENTATION. (You could see it fine if you tilted your head to the side.)
But seriously. Why do we gotta make everything so fancy and complicated? Isn’t plain text enough? (Don’t mind me. I’m just a grumpy middle-aged woman yelling at you to get off my technological lawn. Not this blog lawn though. You have to stay here. Obviously.)
Okay, back to the point of this story. Recently Alyson Shelton, an award-winning screenwriter and essayist, invited me to participate in her series, Where I’m From. (I don’t know why either.) The series is inspired by the poem “Where I’m From” by George Ella Leon and uses a writing prompt/template created by Fred First.
Basically, it’s like a Mad Lib for micro memoir. I love that shit. Talking about myself? Check. Writing prompts to get me off my lazy ass inspire me? Check. Airing out my dirty childhood laundry to make you send me money for therapy help me heal? Checkity Check Check.
Only, Alyson didn’t just want me to write a poem. She also wanted me to do an Instagram Live to discuss said poem.
***VERY LOUD RECORD SCRATCH HERE***
People. That meant I had to actually use Instagram Live. (I’d never used Instagram Live.) That I had to push the right buttons to make everything work. (I don’t push technology buttons well.) THAT I HAD TO LOOK AT MYSELF WHILE TALKING. (Does anyone actually enjoy that?!)
Alyson sent me very clear and detailed instructions. Multiple times. She made it seem so easy. I spent weeks working on the poem. Carefully selected a childhood photo of myself. Updated my bio. And—before the deadline even—sent all the things Alyson requested for this godforsaken Instagram Live that I really didn’t want to do.
So I was feeling pretty good. And I might have even gotten a little cocky after I successfully shared her story on both my Instagram and Facebook feeds advertising our upcoming conversation.
But the morning of? I was pretty nervous. So I showered (!!!!!). Even put on some make-up. And I spent way too fucking long an absolutely appropriately short amount of I-know-exactly-what-I’m-doing time positioning my phone so I could:
- Show off my fabulous new necklace from Burn Jewels + Vibes;
- Make sure my hair, in it’s awkward growing-out stage, didn’t look like a 70s pyramid hairstyle; and
- Showcase some of the fabulous up-cycled doll art in my office.
Spoiler alert: I failed on all three fronts.
But I did manage to press all the right buttons to join the Instagram Live. ON TIME. And Alyson and I managed to chat for a few minutes before I (accidentally, I swear) dropped out of the Live. Alyson generously blamed wonky technology for the failure. But we all know it was me.
The second attempt was successful … in keeping the connection from dropping. But I immediately noticed that the bottom of my face was cut off.
Instead of just going with what was working, I tried to fix the camera. That was precariously propped against my laptop screen. At barely an angle. You can probably guess what happened next:
And then:
Alyson, the gracious professional she is, again played it off beautifully and blamed technology WHEN OF COURSE WE ALL KNOW IT WAS ME. AGAIN.
I eventually got the phone to stay put, and we had a lovely conversation despite my gaffs and my 70s pyramid hair and my eyes freaking out every time they saw my face on the screen. WHY DO THEY MAKE US LOOK AT OURSELVES? (It’s possible I don’t know how to turn off that feature. Or if you even can.) I read my poem without puking, and we discussed it and our newly released anthology and the importance of breaking the silence on taboo topics.
Folks, it’s a motherfucking miracle. I mostly successfully participated in an Instagram Live. If you don’t believe me, you can watch the video that bitch the lovely and talented and professional Alyson put on YouTube. (I really don’t know what my hands are doing in the preview screen, I swear.)
You can also:
- Read my poem. Fair warning: It ain’t a funny Foxy post. It’s dark. (The first version was even darker.)
- Check out the anthology, The Loss of a Lifetime: Grieving Siblings Share Stories of Love, Loss, and Hope, Alyson and I discussed. Maybe even buy it. It’s an incredible resource I wish I’d had when my brother died. For realz. (My essay, like the poem, is not funny.)
- Teach me how to use TikTok. I once asked my daughter to help me. They agreed but never brought it back up again. I think they know I’m a lost cause.
Even though the Instagram Live was successful, I’m still devastated you didn’t get to see my up-cycled doll art. So here are a few pieces:
YOU’RE WELCOME.
