Bullshit

I Have Seen the Future and It Is Largely Bullshit

I’d never claim to be anything like a technology guru; as a matter of fact here’s a typical conversation I have with my friend Jeof all the time:

ME: What time is it?

JEOF: With my new IPHONE TOUCH, I can have the time read to me by Clive Owen any time I want. (Waves hands in magical gestures over iPhone)

CLIVE OWEN: It’s 3:15, mate.

JEOF: My IPHONE TOUCH also makes cookies whenever I want.

ME: (Looking down at his own ancient Nokia phone). My phone lets me play Tetris.

So whenever I stumble up to the podium to say anything about technological issues, keep this in mind. Still, I’ve been Twittering for a few weeks now and thus I imagine myself to be an expert, the same way I read one book on Chess in 2001 and played a free Chess game on my computer 5,982 times until I finally beat it, using the same opening each time (Queen’s Gambit), and decided I was a Chess Grand Master. So what I’ve noticed about Twitter – and, dare I say it, social networking software in general – is this: The name of the game is making yourself seem smarter, cooler, and more informed than you actually are.

Social Networking Stuff like Twitter or Facebook is sold on the idea that people want to be more in touch with each other, and since we live in a world where you’re in front of a screen of some sort (PC, phone, PDA) most of our day, the best way to do this is via Teh intarwebs, which Jebus sent to save us all. This may be true; just because I’m a dislikable bastard who doesn’t actually want to be more connected to people, since people frighten and confuse me, doesn’t mean the rest of you aren’t tickled to have an always-on connection to your (possibly imaginary) digital friends. But once people are one the social networks, they seem to spend most of their time trying to convince you that they’re smart, funny, and knowledgeable, when we all know they aren’t.

Twitter is the worst: Everyone on Twitter wants me to think they’re an expert on something. Writing, real-estate, Search-Engine Optimization, or – in a funky twist of the space/time continuum – Twitter itself. You can’t call yourself KINGOFREALESTATE without me thinking you want me to believe you know a thing or two about real estate, homie.

Homie? I should stop writing these posts drunk.

The time-delay aspect of these sites allows everyone to massage their public image in a way a live, face-to-face interaction doesn’t allow. Even Twitter, which thrives on immediate, apparently lag-free interactions (when the fucking site is actually working) allows everyone a small window for quick googling to pull up facts, quotes, or links that would have to hide behind a vague statement if you were, say, in a bar. Even someone like me can seem erudite and informed, when obviously I spend my days drinking at inappropriate hours, playing guitar badly, and giggling.

That time-lag is important. It’s short enough to appear instantaneous to our wetwork brains, but long enough for quick, broadband research. If it was perceived to be any longer, the illusion would be broken. If it were any shorter, no one would be able to type star wars quote bad feeling fast enough.

This is what technology is being applied to, kids: Making us look good. More and more, I figure this is what technology will be exclusively applied to. Eventually I’m sure we’ll all have earbuds which will supply information to us on the fly, solely so we can impress first dates, which would be pretty cool. Although I would probably use mine solely to have my own quotes piped into my ear, which surprises no one.

A week or so ago I was sitting in my agent’s office, signing some contracts. Since I infect everything I do with incompetence and laziness, we had some trouble getting things going in the right direction:

ME: Uh, was I supposed to sign this page?

AGENT: (peering through cloud of brimstone and smoke that swirls around her perpetually) No! <thunder rolls> Does it have your name next to it?

ME: Uh. . .no.

AGENT: Only sign the ones that do.

ME: Thanks. <Flips pages and signs several> Uh. . .it says here sign in blue ink. This is black.

AGENT: Lord, give me strength.

ME: Also, I’ve been signing a fake name. I don’t know why.

AGENT: What?!?

ME: And I was a little nervous. . .coming here. . .so I drank a whole. . .bottle of whiskey. . .

<JEFF PASSES OUT>

You’d think, after having several books published, having appeared on radio shows and on Con panels, after being interviewed and cashing all those advance checks, I’d feel like a professional. or at least an adult. The sad truth is, I don’t feel much different than I did a decade ago, when my biggest published credit was a comic book episode of Sliders (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I still usually feel like a kid, and a socially awkward one at that.

I don’t have business cards. Every time I go to some official event as a literary guest or something, everyone else has nice, professional-looking business cards to hand out and if I have anything it’s just some quickies I dashed off on the home printer. And that’s unusual; usually it’s just me stuttering and writing my email address on slips of paper.

The fact is, I still think of myself as a zinester who’s photocopying his latest issue on the company machine after hours, and writing mostly for himself. No matter how many people send me emails telling me they enjoyed the books, no matter how many books I actually publish, I still feel like I’m faking it in some way. The constant endrunkening is part of it, as is the pantslessness, the tendency towards gibberish, and my rare ability to make my own books sound boring when speaking about them off the cuff.

Oh yes, the pungent scent of incompetence is everywhere.

Except, of course, when I am actually writing. It’s always been the one time I feel absolutely competent: When I put two words together, they are meant to be. Writing the books has always been the easy part. Promoting and marketing–selling–them has always been hard. Which is, I suppose, how it should be. And socially awkward is why Jebus gave us booze, right?

Being a writer of Science Fiction, let’s face it: You’re making predictions. Now, of course, no one takes us seriously. First of all, we drink. A lot. My experience with writers is, stereotypes be damned, we’re all sodden with booze (or other things) all the time, and it’s actually surprising that we create anything worth reading. Secondly, despite the word science in our job title, the shocking truth is very, very few of us actually have advanced degrees. In anything. Even our unAdvanced degrees aren’t worth much, as a rule.

Still, despite this kind of deep unreadiness, I’ve made it my business to predict the future every day. In a gonzo, unserious way, of course, but still a prediction. Thankfully, no one really expects me to be accurate about these things. I write about a future where cyborgs eat your brain and steal your knowledge, and no one starts building anti-cyborg bunkers (that I know of; if you have, let me know immediately). However, some folks make predictions for a living in a more serious way: Pundits. There are always going to be people in this world who want to tell you what’s coming, and, like Nostradamus, people tend to only remember when pundits are right.

Thankfully, someone thought to start up http://wrongtomorrow.com/.

I think it’s great to track the ridiculous things people say are gonna happen and have some sort of serious statistical report concerning pundit accuracy. I have a feeling that the scores are going to be really, really low.

All I ask is that no one add me to the site for predicting brain-eating cyborgs and such.