When I owned my own business, I had a very clear understanding that I was my brand as well as my own boss. I don’t mean “brand” in the way that so many young professionals mean it when they talk about their “personal brand” on social media, but as an extension of my business and livelihood; if I chose to publicly support a political candidate, or take a stance on a controversial issue, or have a total meltdown on social media, I understood there would be consequences. I might offend or turn off potential clients and effectively lose business.
As a result, while my partner and I never shied away from openly supporting political candidates and causes, the practical need to eat and make prospective clients feel like they were handing over their money to someone relatively emotionally stable tempered me a bit. I never saw social media as a place for me to verbalize my uncharitable thoughts about senior GOP Trump enablers, shied away from sharing too much of my personal life, and most certainly did not air dirty laundry about other clients. Because yes—people were doing business with my company, but they were also doing business with me; the line between the two was razor thin. My business and I shared the same values, morals, logic, and psychic energy.
I’ve been thinking of all this during the last few weeks, and particularly these last few days, as I’ve observed—along with the rest of the world—Elon Musk’s public behavior in his new role as the sole proprietor of Twitter. From changing his bio to “Chief Twit” and dragging a literal kitchen sink into the company’s office, to tweeting conspiracy theories and calling former executive staff members jerk-offs (with emojis, but still), he’s made it clear that his personal brand is “Frat Guy Planning Pledge Week.” Life’s a big kegger, and he’s serious about making it epic—and happy to do some hazing along the way.
And why shouldn’t he have this attitude? Unlike for me and my former business, Musk doesn't need Twitter to succeed in order to put food on the table. He can afford to alienate a large swath of the populace before it would likely affect the platform’s performance. And yet, in being so transparent about his feelings, his attitudes, his allegiances, and his (kind of awful) personality, what he does risk is not so much alienating Twitter’s users as much as dramatically shifting how they see their role in the Twitter-verse itself. Somehow, we are not just individuals utilizing a service; we now are individuals working in service of one man’s whims.
We aren’t just sharing content on a social-media outlet subject to investor and regulator scrutiny, but are now guinea pigs for Mr. Musk’s vision of the future—for what he thinks the “public square” should look like and what he wants X to do for the world. The challenge, of course, is that with every tweet that the Chief Twit makes, I have less and less confidence that I want to be along for the ride.
Which is to say nothing of the economics of it. I am not naive; Twitter, and other corporations, have always made money from users’ engagement with the platform. But suddenly, the line between my usage (or my lack thereof) and the bottom line of Musk’s bank accounts feels uncomfortably direct.
Unlike when I buy a subscription to the Jeff Bezos–owned Washington Post, for instance, or shop at the Jeff Bezos–owned Whole Foods—where I walk away with a tangible product that, down the line, enriches Jeff Bezos—at Twitter, we are the product. Sure, Musk now provides the platform. But it’s our thoughts, memes, jokes, articles that populate it with content. Participation is what creates Twitter’s value; Twitter’s value is what lines Musk’s pockets. In a strange way, you could say that time spent on Twitter is time spent working for Musk. And even if I’d consider giving my business to an asshole, I certainly don't want to work for one. (As for the idea of paying $20 a month, count me on team Stephen King.)
All of this is part of my own personal musings over whether I should stay or go in this new era of Twitter. I’m not, for reasons outlined above, a very good tweeter. I have a lot of followers who don’t care what I have to say, because the truth is that I don’t say a lot of interesting, salacious, or bitchy things on there, which are the kinds of things the platform rewards. I keep my interesting stuff for this newsletter, my salacious stuff for my novels, and my bitchy things for text threads with my friends. Despite my blue check, I don’t think anyone would miss me when I go. But go I might, without ever looking back.
When I quit Facebook in 2016 over ethical issues related to the platform’s role in spreading misinformation leading up to the election, I never looked back. I found my life happier and myself more engaged with people in real life. I read more books, and I picked up writing—first as a hobby, and then as a profession. I stopped thinking about all the friends and distant relatives who had lost their minds and gotten on the Trump Train all day, every day. In short, it made my life better.
Elon Musk tweeted the other day that “the bird is freed.” Maybe this is the nudge that will enable me to be, too.