Me, back when I met some of the people on Facebook.A lot of people want to know why I don't "use" Facebook. I do. I have an account and I use it to join groups such as the Former Students of PS 203 and
Dancing Ink Productions and "
I'll Have My Facebook Portrait Painted by Matt Held." He's an artist looking for 200 portraits to paint. He estimates that it will take two years to complete the body of work, and smartly, he's selling the paintings (with each subject having the right of first refusal).
I was group member 190, but I don't know if I'm eligible for participation because each person was asked to do two things: join the group, and offer friendship to Matt Held so he can view profile pictures. I admire his entrepreneurial chutzpah and creative panache, and I'm sure it would be great to hang out with him some time at a party at
Collective Hardware while
DJ Spooky hits the turntables, but I won't be his friend on Facebook, because I'm not anybody's friend.
It isn't because I'm extending some kind of misanthropic campaign from the physical world into Facebook, or in protest of the fact that
Facebook wants to own all of my posted content forever. It's because dozens, maybe even scores of people on Facebook have been characters in my fiction.
My father is a novelist and writer, and he got me started young and kept up his momentum over the years. On December 18, 2002, he gave me a card with a picture of a skeleton on the front, typing on an old-fashioned typewriter. Here's what it said inside:

This picture reminded me of a poem my father had given me years earlier, "The Writer," by Richard Wilbur:
In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash
And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,
And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,
It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.
Every year, since I was twelve years old, I've written a manuscript for a novel. I wrote most of them long-hand. Had I known about
the archives in Texas I would have held onto those notebooks, but alas, I have only boxed reams of paper,
draft after draft after draft. I've also written dozens of short stories. Hundreds, depending on how short a story can be. Thousands, if fragments in notebooks represent, like a drop of rain reflecting an entire forest, a holographic whole.
People who know me intimately know that I write about them. Their patterns of speech, their passions and fears, turn up in my stories. I document fits of rage, jealousy and euphoria, moments of saturated silence, weather from a wedding day, the sound of bagpipes and children, all snippets in the twisting path of my invented characters over the course of the past twenty years.
My friends are just regular people, of course, we all are, but they are also a collage of characteristics that have shaped the way I've spent nearly every truly free moment of my life, and they have become mixed-media, mixed reality, real people--combined with my imagination. My friends are the cast of characters who together embody the ideas they have put in my head. When I see my friends on Facebook, I almost think of them as avatars. The people that they know paint portraits of the relationships in their everyday lives. I see them, however, in a mystical light because they have each illuminated some facet of my psyche that would have remained dormant if not for the unique light provided by each person.
I emailed Matt Held, the artist, and I attached my Facebook profile portrait. I hope that he'll consider adding it to his body of work. I never offered him friendship in Facebook, but I've written about him.