Privacy Lost

I miss my privacy. This may seem strange coming from a blogger (with tens and tens of readers!), but as a writer I choose what I share. Only the better recipes make the cut. The funniest stories, the cutest pictures of my kids. Even my foibles and heartaches are carefully selected - this isn't a trip to the therapist after all.

At my previous job, my boss often accused me of being afraid of the Internet. I think he based this on my resistance to embracing every new technology that was introduced. Little does he know, I also dislike the old technologies. I don't tweet, and unless you are a professional comedian or a food truck, I don't think you should either. Wanda Sykes has my favorite take on Twitter - "No one cares. Get a diary and lock that shit up!" I concur. And don't get me started on FourSquare. I think I can pass on being the virtual mayor of my local Starbucks, and the world at large doesn't care where I am having dinner. And quite frankly, I may not want them to know I'm there.

Facebook is the bane of my existence. We have a love hate relationship and I've almost called the whole thing off more than once. On one hand, it's a great way to get a snapshot of what old pals are doing with their lives - especially ones that live far away, or friends that used to trigger that "I wonder what they're up to now?" brand of nostalgia. But it's impossible to keep a tight lock on who sees what, and suddenly "friends" of "friends" (AKA dirty pedophile creepers) are commenting on pictures of my kids, and where we've decided to move, and I have to make triple sure I lock all the doors at night.

Youtube. That sweet sweet mecca of voyeurs and exhibitionists alike. Unless I am entertaining my kids with bootleg episodes of Ninja Turtles (thanks, cartoon nerds, I owe you) or learning how to sew a zipper, I avoid it at all costs. You will not find my family there. Why? Because the Internet never forgets, and the general population uploads their lives, and yours, without a second thought. It is weird, and wrong, that my boys will never have the experience of making a fool of themselves at a party and then 20 years later the only evidence being a friend's hazy memory and your word against theirs. I have a great video of Jude making up a funny little song about diarrhea (ah, boys) which could have been the next "Charlie bit my finger," but is it really fair if I open up his life to general consumption for a few moments of faux fame without his knowledge or permission? I say no. Parents of Youtube Sensation Kids make me a little ill.

Then we take these small annoyances, and add the greater infringements on privacy with Google Analytics (doesn't it ever bother you that after typing a mere "substi" the first search option provided is an eerily correct "substitute tomato paste for tomato sauce"?), Apple's ability to track your movements even when your phone isn't in use (not kidding - this is actually a default setting on Angry Birds - WTF?), and the NSA's interest in the phone conversations and grammatically challenged emails of the general public. Even our grocery store loyalty cards, while providing a cheap gas incentive, create profiles of our general likes and wellness based on buying habits. I despise this, and I want a way out. Or at least some form of protection.

So maybe you think I am being extreme, but for people who don't mind this infringement on their privacy, I would counter that you are being naive. Did you know that ad agencies utilize mapping software for their clients that will create a profile when you log onto the client's website that then tracks all of your keystrokes and mouse movements while on that site? From hospitals to online porn shops, they all know you were there and what you did. And what if you are one of the citizens whose phone is being tapped? Do you want someone else listening in on a fight with your spouse, or that embarrassing medical question you eventually had to call a nurse about, or your last two-hour marathon conversation with your best friend during which you finally told her the truth about that "blackout" night in college? These moments may not be incriminating, but they are intimate. You, as the owner of your life, should be the sole proprietor of your stories.

On a darker side, it does not take a great leap of the imagination to see the connection between a person Googling "herpes," to visiting a medical website, to that website selling your information to both the herpes pharmaceutical companies as well as the healthcare industry, resulting in a computer full of Valtrex ads and a higher medical premium. DuckDuckGo, a slightly inferior but far more private search engine, explains this really well on their site. Knowing that the things I do in the "privacy" of my home are stored by a corporation and are available to the government, or shifty employees, does give me pause before I delve into all that the web has to offer.

So what do we do? It is impossible to completely unplug without becoming a hermit, or a parent whose children will take advantage of their technological incompetence. I am constantly struggling with ways to take the best of what technology has to offer while trying to keep my privacy and my physical - and virtual - life intact. So yes, I use duckduckgo.com for all my herpes research and my husband has switched to an ad-free fastmail account in an attempt to start extricating the omnipresent Google from his life. We've locked down our picture websites so that only invitees can stalk our children. We've asked friends and family to be a little more cautious with their smart phones, Facebook, and Instagram accounts especially in reference to our kids.

And this is key I think.

When the same government that relies on NSA intel refuses to craft regulations that protect the average person from being spied on and recorded by the new Google Glass (yeah, go figure), we have to rely on each other at the very least. I can't keep the government out of my email, but with your help I can keep my kids off of Youtube. So here is my promise. I hope to have yours in return.

A pledge to my Family, my Friends...and my "Friends"

• I promise to respect your personal boundaries with regards to social media and will not upload pictures of you, or information about you, without your permission. 
• I promise to tell you of the permissions settings on my social media accounts so that you know if a picture is for my personal enjoyment or if it will be beamed out to friends of friends of friends across the world.
• I promise not to take and share pictures of your children without getting your permission, and under no circumstances will I ever use your child's full name or tag our location. Ever.
• I promise not to record and upload funny-to-me-embarrassing-to-you moments before you have a chance to process what happened in real life. But if it's really good, maybe you'll let me use it on my blog...
• I promise not to share personal information about you in my status updates, or to refer to private matters on your Facebook wall. 
• I promise not to judge the abundance of Valtrex ads on your laptop when you let me borrow it to check my email.
• I promise to use common sense when deciding what information is worth sharing with the world at large, always keeping in mind that the Internet is never private and that it will not allow us to forget. 

A moment's respite

When I was younger, and more full of myself and my ideas, I always thought that I would heed Virginia Woolf's advice and never be without a room to call my own. And not just any room. A writer's garret. Some sort of adult feminist clubhouse that admitted only me. 

My grown up reality is that I am lucky to be able to lock the door and use the bathroom by myself. Most showers are accompanied by an infant in his Exersaucer. I share a bedroom with my husband, and our bed often hosts one or both of our sons. If I am sitting on the couch there is a child in my lap, another vying for my attention, and two dogs trying to woo me with "pet me" eyes. I wouldn't trade any of it for that drafty room of my imagination...and yet...

Sometimes I just want to be by myself. And write. 

Most writers, whether they are willing to admit it or not, have grown up with the notion of only being able to tap into our best selves, our most poignant writing, if we are locked away somewhere in total isolation. In addition to my writing loft, my creative dream was a cabin in Maine. Three months alone in the woods and that hidden novel would surely expose itself! And unless I was able to attain that perfect atmosphere, then who could blame me for not reaching my full literary potential? I admit that I fell prey to Virginia's dashing notion that “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” 

And that idea, dear me, is bullshit.

For starters, I am afraid of being in the woods alone so at least 60% of my time would have been devoted to fantasizing about bears, Bigfoot, and either the escaped mental patient with the hook at the end of his arm or the one who licked your hand in the night pretending to be your dog. Also, I have never been to Maine and know nothing about its actual landscape. And most writers aren't independently wealthy. We are average people with mortgages and medical bills, families to care for and jobs that require our daily presence. In our lives, writing is work. It is not glamorous, it is not better with a glass (or bottle) of wine. It benefits from regular practice and multiple drafts. 

And it can be accomplished in stolen moments if we are ready to take them.

My new creative goal does not involve escaping from reality in order to try and recreate it on paper, but rather to take advantage of the wasted minutes that can be gleaned from a normal day. This way I am accountable for my time, and that novel is allowed to grow in fits and starts instead of rotting by the wayside while I wait for an idyllic writing opportunity to present itself. 

I keep hearing my best friend Rachel's voice in my head, saying "Ounces make pounds." It's something she used to tell young hikers on Outward Bound trips when their backpacks would become so heavy after the addition of one more book, one more energy bar, one more souvenir rock. That idea, of one tiny river rock being insignificant but an hour's worth of river rocks adding substantial weight to your pack, can so easily translate into time. If I write for 30 minutes a day while the baby naps for example, I may only see a paragraph that one day, but by the end of the week I'll have 7 paragraphs. By the end of a year I could have 70 pages. It's daunting if I think of it in terms of "then it will take me 3 years to write a book!" But how wasteful I feel when I realize that I could have started this project 3 years ago...

So, I will squirrel away my idle time. Facebook won't miss me. My email will keep. The dishes will get done, dinner will be cooked, television won't notice my absence and no one in my family will feel shorted. These 30 precious minutes will become my room. And soon enough, I will have a book to call my own.