Like many in the internet age, I have most of my “connections” online.It’s somewhat of a rarity to be invited, for example, to connect on LinkedIn by someone I actually know.I remember the early dissemination of information from that network—it was strictly for people you really did know in real life, because they could help or hurt your career.I took that seriously for a year or two, but it became clear that this was another Facebook with a more professional cast.I’ve been told of authors who try to build their online platform by adding thousands of connections on LinkedIn.The website, however, is not intended as an advertising venue.It has, however, become one.
I’m not denigrating LinkedIn.I’ve found two jobs through it and I’ve had recruiters reach out to me because they found my profile there.For a religionist that can be quite flattering.Academia and society tend to tell you that such a skillset is okay but basically useless.Having others who know the wide diversity of human employment these days can be a sign of hope.Nevertheless, advertising has crept into LinkedIn.I’m not talking about the frequent invitations to go professional on the site, which will only cost a small fee that will suddenly show up on your credit card bill when you least expect it and thought you were in the clear.No, I’m talking about connections contacting you to do gratis work for them.Advertising their book, or their services.Letting others know, they ask, that they can provide this or that service. (Just to be clear, I’m not referring to people who contact me personally because we have an actual connection!)
For those of us working stiffs not in a position to hire anyone—professionally or personally—this is another symbol of how any form of communication becomes commodified.Fully over half of my email is soliciting money in one form or another.Hearing from an actual person with an actual message for me is so rare that I’m stunned to find one in my inbox.Capitalism just doesn’t know when to let go.And it doesn’t have a good read on what little I actually do buy.Underwear (and just using that word will color the tailored ads I receive for weeks) vendors seem to think I’m concerned about the fashion of garments others don’t see.The books Amazon suggests, based on a solid track record, are generally far off from my interests.What hope do those who don’t know me have of selling me their wares through LinkedIn?The dream of connection without cash changing hands nevertheless remains alive.
When does the day start?Years of awaking around 3 a.m. may have distorted my perceptions a bit, I suppose.Here in the mid-Atlantic states, the sun is never up that early.Year round I get out of bed when it’s still dark.I’m not complaining—this is generally a peaceful time, a rarity in New Jersey.If the bus didn’t come so early I’d get an awful lot done in a day.But when does the day really begin?I rise early to write.Computers have changed my writing style quite a bit.I used to write everything by hand.Even as a kid with a second-hand typewriter, I preferred longhand first.I still do, truth be told.It’s slow, though, morning’d gone before I got too far.
So I get up and boot up.I’m not sure that I’m crazy about my computer knowing so much about my personal life, but one thing it simply can’t understand is that I’m an early riser.Many days my laptop will condescendingly ask me if I mind if it reboots—it’s been updating software when it thinks I’m asleep.For the computer, day doesn’t begin this early.Sometimes I worry that my blog doesn’t get readers because the new posts come up around 5 a.m., before I jump in the shower and head for the bus.If things don’t appear in the feed at the top of the page, well, they’re old news.I admit to being guilty of that myself; yet knowing when it’s day has consequences. Maybe I should be posting a bit later?
For some reason my computer likes to send me notices.Like I’m not already paying attention.I’m sure there a setting someplace I could change, but I’m busy most of the time and figuring that sort of thing out takes longer than I have time for.Birthday notices for complete strangers—maybe they’re connected on LinkedIn?—appear, at 9:00 a.m.I’m at work already by then.I think this is my devices’ way of letting me know that it’s a nine-to-five world.As an erstwhile academic I never cottoned onto that.I started getting out of bed at 4 a.m. when I was teaching so I would have time to write before daily chapel.I also taught classes that ran from six-to-ten (p.m.) while at Rutgers.When does the day start?When does it end?The decision’s not mine, as my laptop’s only too happy to remind me.
The internet, while it’s no longer free, still at least offers many opportunities to connect. No matter what your obscure passion, you’ll find others who share it online. In my own little shadowy corner of the web, I’m keenly aware of the time requested of others. When you stick a piece of writing in front of someone’s face, you’re demanding a real commodity of them—their time. I keep the vast majority of my posts here under 500 words. Google will now tell you how long it’ll take to read my musings, so I won’t even ask 15 minutes of your time. Others, however, don’t always get the message.
The internet has also granted those who write copiously the ability to send long messages to complete strangers. People I don’t know find my name and send me lengthy emails, perhaps supposing an editor simply chooses material at random to publish. I even get requests on LinkedIn that begin with “Seeking representation.” I’m not an agent, and I’ve had a great deal of trouble finding one to represent my own fiction. Those who know me sometimes ask why I don’t write something longer (I do—my third book is on its way), but the fact is I respect your time far too much. My thoughts about religion in modern life ask only a few moments of your time to think, I hope, about matters profound and important. Then click off to another site. Besides, this blog contains well over a million words by now, and that is plenty long.
I try to read every email from an actual human. I also read about 100 books a year, not including those I read all day long at work. My world is made of words. I do not, however, have unlimited time. Sadly, when I walk into a bookstore I often look at how thick a book is. How much of my time is an author demanding? Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of books with a weight problem on my shelves, many of them read from cover to cover. Still, they’re asking for my trust. Trust that the time spent won’t have been wasted. The web is a great place to kill time. It’s also a place, occasionally, to pause and reflect. This blog is no super-site with myriad hits every day, but it’s a place that makes little demand of your time. And it is my sincerest hope, dear reader, that time spent here is never simply killed.
There are right ways and wrong ways to get your book published. When approaching an editor, there are a few things to keep in mind. For one thing, we’re human. Yes, I know that I have something you want. The usual career track for an academic is Brown, Harvard, dissertation published by a certain academic press with which I’m familiar. I get that. The internet, however, has made publishing into something different than what it used to be. First of all, you can self-publish. Sorting through all the self-proclaimed experts can be a full-time job when you’re trying to find the latest authoritative treatment of a subject. Also, the internet has made research into publishers much easier than it used to be. My first book, back in the day, was simply sent off to a European publisher that specialized in academic monographs in my subject area and then I moved on. Today authors see flashy first books online and want just that. You can have it all, they’re told.
My LinkedIn profile took a definite boost once I became an editor. Now I often think it would be great if someone asking to connect actually knew me. But I digress. One way not to get your book published is to state right on your LinkedIn profile—or other social media—that you have a great book and you’re letting all publishers know. You then invite them to connect on LinkedIn and your book announcement, like a peacock’s tail, is supposed to attract the hungry editor. In reality what attracts an editor is professionalism. Research publishers, find out what they actually publish. That’s pretty easy these days; there’s more than funny videos on the internet. Even browsing titles similar to your own on Amazon can help. Pay attention to the publishers of the books you’re using for your research. If a publisher has done several books in your area they are more likely to be interested in your proposal than a publisher who’s never ventured into those waters.
It may be easy to think of us editors as sitting bored in our lonely cubicles, awaiting the next great thing. The fact is we receive plenty of submissions and we have to sort through them. Treat the subject professionally. Many of us hold doctorates and are keenly aware of hyperbole when we see it. You don’t need to tell the editor your book is ground-breaking. They will make that decision based on the evidence before them. And trust your editor when it comes to things like how a book should be titled or placed or marketed. Publishers—some of which have been around for centuries—daily face the harsh realities of producing books in an era of YouTube and online television. We know it’s difficult out there. Many of us want to help. Some of us write books and have to go through the same travails as other authors in finding publishers of our own. Do your research on publishers. When an editor offers free advice, take it. A little bit of extra work by an author goes a long way in helping a book proposal succeed.
In New Jersey you can’t pump your own gas. If you pull into a station with a line, you have to wait your turn. Once, on my way to an adjunct job, I pulled up to the next available pump. It was the only one free, and a car pulled up behind me to wait. Meanwhile the car at the pump in front of me pulled out. The attendant signaled the car behind me to the vacant pump and then walked back to tell me that my pump was out of order, I’d have to wait my turn. I left that gas station and have never gone back. I think about that a lot. I don’t mind pumping my own gas, and I certainly don’t mind waiting my turn. If someone is given preferential treatment, however, my primate blood starts bubbling.
Although I’m middle-aged, I keep starting my career out again at entry level. I’m sure I’m not the only highly trained professional in this boat. In fact, I keep an eye on LinkedIn so I know that it’s not at all rare. As I sit and watch the available jobs go to those younger than me, I wonder about the ethics of it all. After all, I’m very nearly the same age as the President, and that makes me shudder. Here’s the ethical quandary:
When I was a student in the late 1980s and early 1990s, those of us in doctoral programs enrolled because we were encouraged to do so by the academy. No one can see the future, of course, but in academia it seemed if it was status quo ante from here (then) to eternity. There would be lots of jobs, and those of us with the talent were actively recruited to enter doctoral programs and—here’s the ethics part—help meet the need that was about to come! Did we want to see university positions vacant? Of course not! So we gamely stepped up, read our brains out, defended theses (far more than 95 of them) and found ourselves in a world with no room for us. I managed to get a job, unlike many of my colleagues. When I was let go, however, I discovered that the viable jobs were being snapped up by younger candidates. These were students who’d entered the fray after we already knew it was a dying market. They had the virtue of being younger, and therefore cheaper, and so the academy blithely moved on to forget those of us who’d gone through when everything short of a promise told us there would be jobs. There’s an ethical issue here. If you know there are no jobs, should you be giving first shot at the few there are to those who entered the system when there was a future? We used to call it paying our dues. Now, it seems, those who’ve paid into the system all their lives will get nothing from it. I’ll be the guy at the gas station ready to fill your car. If you pull in behind somebody else, you’ll have to wait your turn, however. I’ll insist on it.
When I first joined LinkedIn, the notes about adding connections you didn’t actually know were pretty dire. People could trash you behind your back, ruining career opportunities. It turns out that I don’t really need any help ruining career opportunities, so after a couple of years on the social network I started adding people if they had a legitimate reason for wanting to know me: they were academics, they were religion specialists, they were in the book business. I still wonder why investment bankers and others who must have better things to do with their time bother to ask me to connect. It’s not like I have anything to offer beyond adding a number to their 500+ connections. It stokes my perpetually low self-esteem to think that maybe 500 people would like to be connected to me, at least electronically. Low risk friendship—I’m not going to bad-mouth anyone.
LinkedIn, like most social networks in this highly visual age, offers the opportunity to post a picture. I don’t have many pictures of myself, and even fewer that I like. Still, I picked a selfie I snapped in Herald Square after an overnight flight from Phoenix to New York. I was meeting someone in town and I look a little worse for wear, I suppose, since I can’t sleep on planes. Nevertheless, there’s enough of my character there to give people the idea of who they’re linking up with. The other day I was scrolling through suggested people with whom I might want to link. A surprising number of people blur their pictures, so they look like just about everything did after that flight from Phoenix. Then there are those who select an image that is meant to be funny, or whimsical. I was surprised when I saw Jesus’ face above the name of a priest.
Don’t get me wrong; I’ve got enough theological sophistication to know that many clergy wish people to “see Jesus” when they look at them. To set Jesus as your personal image, however, seems a bit presumptuous. Of course, I may be missing something. Perhaps Jesus sent a connection request to this priest, with the offer to use his likeness. Still, I find it ironic to suppose that anyone would consider themselves worthy to use the image of their deity as their own. Growing up, I was taught that people shouldn’t name their kids “Jesus” (we knew no Hispanics in our small town), but then I learned that “Jesus” is just the Greek form of “Joshua” and I realized there were an awful lot of Angelos in trouble too. Don’t mind my rambling. It’s probably just sour grapes. I haven’t received any invites from any deities on LinkedIn, so I’m feeling rather like any guy who has only 500+ connections.
Of cultural innovations, none rivals the internet. Engulfing the world in its wide web, the constant availability of signal has changed everything. In the past five years, civilization has become something that it was not. Take today’s northeast blizzard, for example. Apocalyptic meteorologists (are there any other kind?) are sincerely telling the camera that nothing like this has been seen in recorded history. Meanwhile, my wife’s company sends a Honeywell alert to our phone saying the offices will likely be closed, and please make arrangements to work from home. The snow day is dead. One of the simple joys of life, that delightful naughtiness of playing hooky, is now extinct. Work knows where you are at all times. You are being watched. Sound paranoid? I have known people who had firsthand knowledge of employers following them on Facebook to make sure they didn’t say anything that might make the company look bad. The world is not the same one into which I was born.
I happened upon a web page the other day advertising for an Advanced Assistant Professor in Digital Shakespeare Studies. A poem by any other name we would tweet. So we have become part of this collective mind known as www dot. The internet is aware that it is still snowing, but only in an academic sense, since it’s not going anywhere. The internet has never had a three-and-a-half hour commute home because of an accident on a single highway in New Jersey. Oh, and don’t forget to check your work email when you get home. We may have sometime more for you to do once you’ve clocked out. Maybe I should see what my social network is up to.
LinkedIn, Facebook, Twitter, Google +—they all suggest people that I might know. Someone I might rate, or like. The internet, after all, knows which of its myriad sites I’ve viewed, whom I’ve emailed, and what I’ve purchased. The ads from those companies show up on every website I visit from now on, world without end. ThinkGeek emails me every day. My new best friend. Google + is the more intellectual Facebook, I’m told. Whenever I log on, it tells me with whom I might want to connect. Just now Newt Gingrich showed up in my list. Should I add him to my circles? Or should I just venture out into this blizzard and hope I make it to New York City alive? To me, it seems, the odds are equally good in either case.