Personal Platform: On Loving Social Media, Beyond the Numbers
A few months ago, I submitted a book proposal to one of my favourite publishers.
Since then I have realised that I'm probably not that passionate about the idea of that book, nor am I the right person to be writing it. But the proposal had been sent off, and I was merrily living my life having completely forgotten about it.
Until the response from the publishing house arrived. They enjoyed my proposal! They thought that it was timely and well-written. So...were they going to publish my book? Or were we at least going to have a meeting to discuss it? Absolutely not, and the reason for that was one they were not shy to share with me: "as book sales now happen online, we require all authors to have a strong personal platform."
I can't say I wasn't expecting this response, mainly because I've heard it before. Years ago, before my debut book Vegan Style was published, my then-agent was inundated with reactions like this when she sent my proposal out to her contacts. When I pitched the book on my own, I was often met with the same answer. For a long time, it seemed that Vegan Style might not see the light of day unless I somehow came up with the money to publish it myself. Luckily, it didn't come that - in the end, I got two offers from amazing publishers, and ended up going with the fabulous Murdoch Books, who then also sold the book on the Simon & Schuster imprint Tiller Press in the US. So, all is well that ends well.
But seeing this very honest response yet again made me ponder the act of being on social media. I remember when I first started blogging in 2006 - it was among the most fun things I've ever done. I was part of a blogging network in Italy, writing one of the most popular blogs on the site. Later, I ended up getting a professional blogging contract with the now-closed Cosmopolitan Sweden, where I wrote about "my glamorous life as a fashion editor in Milan", cleverly obscuring the fact that my 'glamorous' days were spent standing awkwardly in fancy showrooms, contorting my feet to hide the worn-out patches on my cheap fast-fashion shoes and dodging coworker conversations on where to go for the holidays - Paris or the Maldives, what a dilemma! - as my plans for the holidays mostly involved traipsing around Milan on my own with no money while my then-boyfriend-now-husband worked double shifts. Already then, I had gotten the hang of faking things for the blog. After all, who wanted to read about a fashion editor who wasn't able to afford sample sales?
When Instagram came along, it became my way of convincing myself. Whenever I couldn't afford something (which was all the time), or when I'd had a fight with my boyfriend, I posted something - a sunset, a pretty view of Milan, a blurry snapshot of me in my favourite dress petting a street cat - to make myself feel better. To persuade myself (and possibly others, but above all myself) that my life was full of beautiful moments. Which it was. But that wasn't the full story, and hiding the ugliness of life behind the alluring sheen of Instagram became a drug I couldn't wean myself from.
But there was more to the story than just carefully curated highlight reels: somewhere along the lines, Instagram became (or was it always intended to be?) an advertising tool. The algorithm made its unfortunate entrance, once and for all transforming social media from a place of connection to a competitive space where all that mattered was that number appearing next to your profile photo: how many people have YOU managed to convince that you’re worth admiring? How many people would buy what you’re selling (and you have to be selling something, otherwise why are you even on here)? In short, how big is your personal platform? Almost overnight, a “personal platform” became A Thing, and unless you had one, you might just as well delete your account.
Today still, in a bizarre dynamic, all that matters about this personal platform is how big it is. Nothing else about it appears to be relevant: who are the people following you? What’s their age, location, gender? What are their interests? Why have they chosen to follow you? A lot can be said about a group of people beyond just its size, but increasingly in our digital society, the sad reality seems to be not only that size matters - but that it’s the only thing that does.
Recently, I listened to a podcast episode where one of my favourite writers was interviewed. This woman is an absolute powerhouse. She is the only writer in her chosen niche to talk about the topics she does, and she dissects them so ruthlessly and brilliantly that I’m left speechless almost every time I read one of her texts. Writing truly is her calling, and her niche is blessed to have her in it. So it was disappointing to hear that when she sent out her book proposal, the response was that...she needed more Instagram followers.
In the last few weeks, I’ve been asked for my follower count when booking potential speaking gigs, despite having guest-lectured at over 20 universities, spoken to audiences of hundreds, gone on a speaking tour of approximately 15 festivals in 2022, and been keynote speaker at Helsinki Fashion Week. I suspect that when job-hunting in the future, sending a CV will no longer be relevant - your TikTok profile will be much more of interest.
“But why won’t you just grow your profile?” said someone I know - a digital marketing expert who truly knows her stuff, inside and out. To someone like her, “growing a profile” might seem simple. But the reality is that in today’s algorithm-infected online world, nobody is actually growing their profile. Countless people I follow (some of them good friends) have had overnight growth spurts in their profiles - or had a steady growth for months until stalling at a specific number. It’s evident to even the untrained eye that those followers have been bought and paid for, which to me is the equivalent of pouring dirt on your ice cream and calling it chocolate sauce. From afar it might look like the real thing - but you know it’s dirt, and eating that ice cream is as alluring as logging in and speaking to thousands of bots and robot accounts. Your voice echoes in an empty room. The reality isn’t there. The connection isn’t there. The magic of social media - what we’re all there for - has been lost.
“I got on the track”, said my favourite writer on that podcast. “And when I had that follower count, I went back to the publisher.” Her book will be out soon, and in the meantime, she has stopped posting on Instagram. It is my dire prediction that, with these dynamics in place, social media will soon become a space where we dutifully deposit creations meant to attract potential clients, job prospects, or even romantic partners. But none of it is for us anymore, or even for the people who have chosen to follow us.
Unless we take our power back.
Today, I’m more active on social media than ever. I post on Instagram regularly, I tweet my heart out, I’ve revitalised my near-defunct Facebook page and despite my grand old age I’m even on TikTok. But - and here’s the kicker - I’ve stopped caring about the numbers. Today, I think: what’s the content I want to see? And then I...realise that I don’t have the skills to create that kind of content and get on with the YouTube tutorials. Because I want to make things that I’m proud of. Even if I never break the 10k mark, looking back on my profile and seeing things I love makes me happy. Making those things makes me happy. Sharing them makes me happy. And since Instagram has introduced the “hide likes” feature, I am feeling more optimistic about collectively breaking free from the shackles of number addiction. Now, if only we could hide follower count too.
Photo by David Camilli