I Only Exist On the Internet

Why we are (probably) never meeting in real life.

Welcome to Everyday Distractions, a new newsletter from writer and author Emily Farris. It doesn’t actually go out every day—or even the same day every week—but if you miss the glory days of personal blogs on Ye Olde Internet™, you’ve come to the right place.

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My tax guy recently posted one of those engagement trap questions on Facebook:

Why do you do what you do to make a living?

I wanted to comment: “Because I feel like if I don’t write, I’ll die.” But I don’t think people who aren’t writers really understand what that means, so I toned it down a bit and settled on: “Because no matter what else I try to do, all I want to do is write.”

My flower mirror selfie at the end of a solo staycation/write-in at No Vacancy last weekend.

I’ve done enough therapy to see how growing up in an invalidating environment led to me becoming a writer. When it was just me and a piece of paper, I could make my entire case, interject humor in the most inappropriate places, and process things on the page (well, as much as I was able to at the time) before anyone could cut me off to tell me why I was wrong for feeling the way I did. 

When I started putting my thoughts on the internet for anyone to read and people began to connect with my words, it gave me the kind of validation I craved then and continue to crave today. Twenty years in, I’m still genuinely thrilled whenever someone comments on or shares my work… even if my most popular content to date is a video of my baby startling himself with a fart.

Because I have enough privilege to feel safe being my most candid and vulnerable self in my personal narratives, my work is often regarded as “honest” and “relatable.” And I’ll never stop telling people that my mother-in-law, who got a sneak peek at my memoir, called it “too TMI” (yes, that’s too too much information).

I’m a person whose livelihood depends on connecting with readers, yet if I sense one trying to take our parasocial relationship to the next level by crossing some nebulous, invisible boundary, I usually start to panic.

It’s not because I think a person is creepy for wanting to be friends with me after reading something I wrote—I full-on stalked Julie Powell after I finished Julie & Julia—and I do not for one second believe I’m better than anyone who reads my work. The truth is that I simply don’t have the energy to be the person I am on the page, because being that honest and vulnerable (and don’t forget charming and hilarious, please and thank you) already takes so much out of me. And then there's all the other stuff the world demands of me because apparently, I'm a Woman Who Has It All.

The big difference between the Emily Farris you get on the page and the Emily Farris you encounter IRL is that the fleshy version is slightly more reserved (until she’s had a few drinks anyway); already anxious about not meeting your expectations; and likely counting down the minutes until she can extract herself from this conversation to go home (alone), take off her bra, and fall asleep watching something on Hulu—unless you bust out a karaoke machine and then I can go all night and that is not a joke.

Most days, being mentally fun and fabulous while typing on my couch in the same clothes I’ve been wearing for three days and taking breaks to pee or eat or yell at my dog for barking too loudly at the UPS man is the most I can give. And it’s always at the expense of something else, like sustenance, sleep, exercise, being present with my family, an article that was due yesterday, or that shower I keep threatening to finally take.

So I try (and often fail) to keep some things sacred. The main thing is my time, which I’m already terrible at managing. Time blindness is a real problem for people with ADHD and it inspired my memoir’s title, I’ll Just Be Five More Minutes.

Right now, my job, my family, and maybe my health get first dibs on my time, and sadly, in that order. When I add Intense Book Promotion Duties to my schedule (which I should probably already be doing and if you haven’t pre-ordered please, please, please do it now), that will take the number-one spot, at least for a bit. And if the book does what I hope it will, there will be a whole lot more people in the world who feel like they know me. I’m both excited and terrified about that because I’ve historically not been great at maintaining boundaries, and if someone takes the time to read my work, the least I can do is respond to their message—or let it stress me out for three years while I don’t respond—right?!

Of course, there are the rare exceptions—mostly bonds with other writers that develop naturally after years of DMing on Instagram or being equally active in the same close-knit Facebook group. Still, it can take more than a decade for a face-to-face meeting to happen, if it happens at all. And even if we get close enough that these folks come to know the Emily that everybody else sees on the page, I eventually let their texts pile up in my phone too.

So in this season of life, I’m reminding myself that my writing is the best form of friendship I can offer. I may never reply to your email and I will absolutely blank on where I know you from when we run into each other at Whole Foods (then spend days obsessing over how rude I must have seemed), but I can write articles and captions that make you laugh and essays that make you feel seen. And for my own mental health, that has to be enough right now.