Remember the good old days when the only reason we used the internet was for research?

Now it’s all about trolling for self-worth. Incessantly googling our names (and the names of those we perceive ourselves to be in competition with). Checking facebook every five minutes for updates–or keeping it open on a different tab all day, one ear cocked for the ‘ping’ of a notification that may tell us someone liked our post, liked our comment on their post, liked a story we shared, liked us. There’s goodreads to check for ratings and reviews, amazon and kobo for rankings and sales data. Booknet. Every minute change in our status–and our perception of ourselves–is available instantly–or depending on the time lag, within hours. And it’s turned us into a global village of idiots, obsessively checking in on our worth. Does the world like me? Does the world care?

Honestly? No. And the world almost certainly doesn’t need the book we’ve just written. Sorry, it doesn’t. I’ve thought about changing all the pronouns in this piece to ‘I’, but come on, I’m the only writer who feels this way? Who engages in such behaviour? Really?

All this obsessive checking, this ob-checking, is depressing. Dangerously so. Just as we can believe our own press, we can also just as easily (perhaps more easily) believe in, and start to crucify ourselves over, our lack of press. When did we become so fickle? So fragile?

I think it was better in the old days, when we didn’t have so much information at our fingertips, when there weren’t so many stats to beat ourselves up with, or preen over. When we only found out how well or how poorly our book was selling every six months when the royalty statement arrived (and only then if we could crack the code).

I’ve run with two computers for years, knowing the dangers of being sucked into surfing the net when I should/could be writing. But my new-ish zippy little laptop sits on the dining-room table, within easy reach, while my noisy 9 year-old writing behemoth sits on my desk in my office (all those stairs), and these days I just can’t seem to bypass its siren-call. “Turn me on. Open facebook. Google yourself.”

I was sick the other day. Actually, I’m into my fourth week with bronchitis and feel entitled to piss and moan. A lot. So let’s rephrase and say I was thoroughly defeated by my bronchitis the other day and decided to spend said day in bed, tucked up with several books I’d been picking through but not managing to read with any sustained concentration. What a perfect holiday for my soul! Sure, I was hacking up parts of my lungs every 20 minutes or so and would have to put the book down once in a while to ease the aching in the my back and shoulders. But the palpable relief in not obsessing over facebook and emails and goodreads and sales stats and rankings! (Because they’ll all be there tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.) The luxury of losing myself for hours in the very reason we put ourselves through all this in the first place: books. Reading. Escaping to another world, rooting for, falling for and hating characters engaged in pursuits we don’t have the chops for, or who examine and unravel themselves in ways that draw wonder, envy, admiration, ire and tears from us. Because that’s what this writing gig is all about, isn’t it?

I don’t recommend getting sick first, but take it from me, give the internet a miss for a day. You’ll be amazed at what a tonic it is.