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The Good, The Bad, and The Virtual Part I — the UPside by spike gillespie Right around the same time I was reading that essay, I caved in to pressure from friends who kept telling me about this thing called the Internet. "You could be the Madonna of the Infobahn," said Jason (who eventually became my webmaster). Jason had followed my essays in the Austin Chronicle and insisted my big day was right around the corner, courtesy of the '90s equivalent of the '50s television revolution: the World Wide Web. Initially, I thanked him, but my thanks were polite and dismissive. I had then-stereotypical girl-phobia of computers. I defended my archaic Smith Corona word processer as keeping me more kindred to the "real writers" whom I aspired to emulate — like those ex-patriates in Paris in the '20s who pounded out great works on manual typewriters or, better, ink to paper. Eventually though, after continued prodding, I let Jason take me shopping. Jason reviews computer software and writes computer books for a living. He whipped through the aisles, picked me a lovely Macintosh, set it up in my bedroom and then, feigning an appointment, left me with this advice: "You can't break it. Just click around, you'll figure it out." And so I did, aided in great part by my then four-year old son, who had no pre-concieved aversion to technology. Soon enough I got a call from my oldest friend who lived in NYC and was acting as editor-in-chief for the electronic magazine WORD, then in prototype phase. Jonathan took a letter I sent him — in truth, I'd written it to the man I was dating but had the good sense not to send it to him — and showed it to his fellow editors. They all agreed — it was real, it was intense, it was heart-wrenching. They asked permission to publish it. Nervously, I agreed. Enter snowball effect. Without going into too many details, let's say I met an editor at a cocktail party who soon went on to work for Prodigy Services. This was when "content" was first becoming a hot commodity. More and more "regular folk" were tuning into the Internet — and service providers needed to give them reasons to return. Thanks in part to the fact I had already been published online, I was invited to write a weekly listserv: a weekly column combined with a profile of a different cool woman, which would be sent out to anyone who requested it. I viewed my role as similar to that of people who create programs for public-access TV channels. When a cable company wins a bid to provide cable to a city, they are obliged to also provide a local station for free programming. My column went out sans advertisment, and you did not have to belong to Prodigy to receive it. Essentially, I thought of myself as good-will ambassador for the company, a way to draw subscribers. Much, much better than that, I considered myself steadily employed for the first time in the three years that I had been freelance writing full-time. Granted, the money-per-word was significantly lower than what magazines paid, and there were no guarantees about how long the gig would last, but there was the implication that it would last awhile. In a sense, I felt like the Vidal who departed to TV-land in the early '50s. Clearly, Internet writing was stylistically different than that found in print magazines. Not only that, those of us who chose this route avoided the annoying heirarchy found in the magazine world. Dues? What dues? Persistence, a loud virtual mouth, style — these were all it took to get noticed. You didn't need to be a published author or of a certain age or belong to a certain literary circle. If you wanted in, you were in, much to the chagrin, I believe, of "serious" writers who no doubt dismissed me and my ilk as sloppy hacks. I had no time to fret over such opinions. I was too busy weeping with joy. Unbelievably, I was getting paid to write about my personal passions, in essence to electronically publish my journal. Sure, I was to stick to women's issues. But the humorous truth was clear: I'm a woman who takes issue with everything. It was a coveted position and, until it ended two years down the road, I fully appreciated this miracle. Few writers, I think, get such opportunities to just take off with their thoughts and be assured of a paycheck. I was ecstatic. In addition to this, and actually prior to my first column, Jason had — out of sheer love and devotion — set up a personal Web site for me. The Web site provided an outlet for my more radical stuff — I had agreed with Prodigy to avoid serious profanity or anything deemed "too offensive" in writing my columns for them — that type of writing remained on my private site. These two outlets combined to not only give me well-rounded satisfaction as a writer, but also to net me a fairly large following on the world wide web. Before long, USA Today dubbed me a cyber-celebrity. C|Net listed my Web page as a "hotsite." The requests for interviews came rolling in. I have written since I could hold a pencil. I have been published "traditionally" — in print that is — since I was 19. But it was not until the advent of mainstream Internet usage that I got to realize my dream: to write what I really wanted, without having to shape my words to meet some preconceived audience or to cater to the needs of some editor whose view differed dramatically from mine. And I proved my vision was on target. Week after week the letters poured in — people related to my tales, and, even better, they related their own tales. The immediacy of the medium was bizzare. The only analogy I can make — and this cannot precisely capture it — is that Internet writing is something between radio and print. It's words on a "page" but with the immediacy of a smart-ass radio talk-show host delivering a live, call-in show. The distance between writer and audience is negligable. I can write an essay tonight, post it moments after completing it, and look forward to feedback within the hour. Compared to more traditional writing, the instant gratification (or instant condemnation) is titillating. By comparison, I have been working on a memoir for Simon and Schuster since mid-'96 (aside: ironically, the contract for this traditional type of writing was a direct result of my electronic writing). If I'm lucky, the book will come out in early '99. From there, it will take months to hear from readers. I wonder, after all this fast-paced electronic feedback, if I can wait that long. (As if I have a choice.) Most interesting of all, on this long strange virtual journey of mine, have been the people I have encountered. I have had a half-dozen romances that were all, to varying degrees, e-mail dependent. Once, I actually married a guy I met online after a mere six weeks of electronic correspondence (more on this in Part II: The Downside). While my electronic relationships with men have netted me questionable results, I have bonded with countless women — both those I have profiled and those who have written to empathize with my tales of "life as a woman." I've gone so far as to meet some of these women in real life. I've not once been disappointed. In fact, I've translated electronic into a number of real-life, deep friendships. Aside from interactions ignited by my "cyber-celebrity" status, I've found the Internet to be a helpful tool for non-professional purposes. My Uncle Jack and I keep in touch regularly, whereas before we spoke to each other only once every couple of years. The same is true of old friends — my best friend from high school, Anna, found me and we have picked up where we left off. My high school counselor — whom I once loathed — also found me. And we used e-mail to work through my grievances with him. This never would have happened via snail-mail. There are days I swear I will toss this computer of mine (actually, computers — I am so over my techno-fear that I now own three and look forward to buying my fourth) out the window. And I insist, fervently, that real life beats virtual life hands down. But then I get an e-mail, an IM, an electronic writing assignment to tackle in a fashion that might never be accepted by a print magazine. And I admit to myself that I am a permanent fixture here behind my keyboard, my modem like some umbilical cord. I adore the intimacy and freedom the virtual world offers me to share with others around the world, yet I'm grateful for the comfortable, real life distance between us. Spike Gillespie is a freelance writer based in Austin, Texas. To view her other writing and pictures of her much-more-exciting-than-yours life, tune to http://www.spikeG.com. Spike is currently working on a memoir for Simon and Schuster. |
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