We’ve all heard stories about, we may even know, poor saps who have blithely retweeted some little gem only to regret it ever since.
Or shared a slightly edgy witticism which proved not to be quite as funny as first thought. Or felt compelled to express their opinion and awoke next morning to find themselves overwhelmed by a tsunami of insult and threat. Why do we do this?
Social media is not to blame, but it is a powerful amplifier of our lack of judgement, loud-hailing our casual stupidities far beyond an, if not forgiving then at least hopefully forgetful, enclave of friends and acquaintances to a place where it will remain forever, available to millions who care nothing for us but among whom lurk some deeply troubled trolls. No, to find the causes, we must look not to technology but deep within ourselves.
What drives us, irrespective of the means of communication, to start telling people about ourselves far sooner than we should, to share so much more than is good for us, to comment on things we don’t really understand and to be so woefully incapable of recognising when it’s in our best interests to stop?
It’s as though we fear that if no one else can see our life, we might not actually be living it. That if we aren’t proclaiming our views, no matter how ill informed, we might not have any.
If you don’t see or hear me, how can I be sure I exist?
I readily admit I am guilty of these failings, frequently forwarding amusing gifs and sharing images of my meals.
And I have paid the price. My first effort on Facebook was a sneering comment to (I thought) just an old friend about a mutual colleague’s profile picture. Predictably, not only the subject of the insult but my entire address book received the message. I cannot remember ever having had to eat so much humble pie, which my insulted colleague’s amused magnanimity and the indignity of being lectured about appropriate online behaviour by my two teenage children made even harder to swallow.
The lesson I take from this, other than a deep distrust of Facebook, is that whilst most of what we generate and share is pointless but harmless, the world would be an infinitely better place if we could resist the urge to say just that one sentence too many. If the saddest words of tongue or pen are ‘it might have been,’ the least helpful are ‘Can I just add…’. Lost jobs, failed negotiations, broken marriages and brutal wars: How many could have been avoided if only we could learn when to stop sharing?
Neil McCallum
Author of five novels, Mrs A’s Indian Gentlemen* being the latest
Twitter: @dawoodmccallum
*Writes as Dawood Ali McCallum