I’m addicted to my mobile phone

Imagine you’re sitting in a pub on a Thursday afternoon, waiting for your friend. There’s nothing to read, and you don’t really want to talk to any strangers; you’re just killing time, waiting. What do you do? Play with your mobile phone, right? You check your messages, maybe text someone, or play whatever games came pre-installed on your phone (I don’t trust people who specifically seek out, download, and then actually play games on their phones on a regular basis; that’s just weird).

I used to run out of things to look at pretty quickly and end up scrolling through my phonebook, deleting any stray contacts I didn’t like any more. Your phone, in these kinds of situations, isn’t providing you with much to actually do; it’s just a defence against awkwardness, something to look at so that you don’t accidentally make eye contact with a stranger. Playing with your mobile phone says “Don’t bother me. I am a person who has friends; in fact, I’m waiting to meet one of them now. It’s all cool. Just ignore me. Seriously, I’m fine, please leave me alone.” The phone is a talisman; it’s just something to do with your hands.

Or at least it used to be. But now I’ve got a smartphone, and that means that while I’m waiting around and killing time, I have access to the internet. The entire internet. I can check my email, my Facebook, my Twitter. I can catch up on my RSS feeds. Or I can log into Foursquare and see what my friends are doing and what stupid names people who live nearby have given their homes. There’s an endless amount of information I can look at on my phone while I’m waiting for my friend to arrive. Or my bus, or my food, or whatever I’m waiting for. Because now, I look at my phone all the time.

Whenever I have a spare few minutes, I’ll check my phone. It’s almost a reflexive action now: oh, gotta wait in this queue for a while: I’ll check my phone. I’ve woken up in the middle of the night: I’ll check my phone. My bus won’t be here for ten minutes: I’ll check my phone. My brain can’t cope with being unoccupied for more than about a minute. I’ve got to be connected, constantly. It’s not something I do because I’ve run out of other options; it’s the first thing I turn to. I don’t look out of the window on train journeys any more; I look at my phone. (I’ve even done it when I was a passenger in a car, which is just rude, really.)

It’s become an addiction, and I don’t think I’m the only one. In restaurants, you see people pull out their phones if their partner/date/friend gets up to go to the bar or the toilet. Even people just walking along the pavement are looking at their phones instead of looking where they’re going.

I need to break the habit. I’m trying to ignore the impulse to pull out my phone at every possible opportunity; I’m working on being able to be out in the world without doing anything other than sitting and looking. Doing nothing is underrated. I just hope no-one talks to me while I’m at it.

The end of usernames?

I’ve never been good at coming up with screennames or handles for myself. I’ve had a lot of them, over the years – and no, I’m not going to tell you what any of them were, because most of them are incredibly embarrassing – but I often used random generators, and never really felt comfortable with any of the aliases I chose.

More and more, though, I’m realising that I don’t really need them any more. I use my real name here, on my blog. I use my real name on Twitter, and I use my real name on Facebook. My MySpace and LinkedIn accounts are under my real name. I guess if I commented much on blogs, websites, or forums, I might still use an alias of some kind, but generally, most of my internet presence uses my name. Is that normal? I think most people I know online blog under their real name, and tweet under their real names, and Facebook doesn’t really stand for pseudonyms…

I’m sort of nostalgic for the days when knowing an online friend’s real name was a sign that the two of you were close. People didn’t disclose their real names often, and they would only post pictures of themselves very occasionally, so getting to know the person behind the screenname was something that took time and effort. Now I can easily pull up at least 20 photos of everyone I know via their Facebook account. I’m not sure that’s a bad thing: using our real names and faces helps us to remember that there are people on the other side of the screen, and might help to discourage some rude or thoughtless behaviour online, but there’s something sort of romantic about using a name you’ve given yourself. It was another way of controlling the way you presented yourself to other people; your username would represent your interests or characteristics or … something. I’ve lost touch with a lot of online friends over the years, and that’s partly because I only remember their usernames.

I love the internet, I love social media, I don’t want to swap Twitter for ChatPlanet or any of the old IRC channels of yore, but … sometimes, I miss the internet circa 1999.

(SSJ Valmar, Warboss Alex, or 420allday, if you’re out there – and, for some reason, Googling your old username! – drop me a line?)

On social media and accountability

I’ve been thinking a lot about business use of social media lately, and the recent Twitter fiasco over Paperchase and plagiarism has brought everything into a particularly clear focus. Social media has made consumers expect more from businesses; specifically, it’s made us expect everyone to be accountable for their actions.

Social media is all about conversations: conversations going on in comment fields, over blogs, over Facebook profiles, or over Twitter. (Twitter is really more like one enormous, slow chat room than it is a blogging network; it’s about expressing ideas immediately and succinctly, about conversing in real-time or thereabouts.) But conversations go both ways, and that’s what’s difficult for a lot of companies to take on board.

It would be easy to see social media as a way to access your customers directly and get your messages out quickly and widely, and to expect to be able to foster goodwill just by existing in the social media space. And that can work. But in order to successfully use social media as a promotional tool, you need to have your house in order. You need a strong product, and enthusiastic people who believe in it. Hoping that social media will somehow make up for a lacklustre product, or expecting to be able to create a positive buzz without believing in your message yourself, will end badly. Social media won’t work miracles. And if you’re going to open yourself up to the social media arena, you need to be prepared for people to criticise you. That criticism is a lot easier to deal with when you’re confident that you’re doing good work, as long as you’re humble enough to admit it when you’ve made a mistake.

The thing with Paperchase was that they initially dealt with the accusation of plagiarism badly, by trying to ignore it and hoping it would go away. If they’d listened to Hidden Eloise when she first approached them about the copied image, assured her that they were investigating it, and then actually investigated and done something about it, the story wouldn’t have blown up on Twitter. But they didn’t. And then Neil Gaiman got involved, and suddenly there were thousands of people demanding that Paperchase answer to them.

The final sentence of the public statement they issued said it all, really. “It is worrying that such an allegation can create such reaction and again, Paperchase apologises for any ill-feeling caused.” It is worrying that such an allegation can create such a reaction: it means these allegations have to be taken seriously, even when there’s no legal clout behind them. Well, it might be worrying for businesses; for everyone else, it’s great. It means there’s a way to hold businesses accountable, a way to publicly ask them to live up to the standards we expect of them.

I guess I should amend my earlier statement, and say that to really make a success out of using social media, you need a strong product, enthusiastic people who believe in it, and the ability to listen to your customers, admit mistakes and make changes where necessary. Social media isn’t just about PR; if you’re going to talk to your customers, you need to be prepared to listen to them, and actually do something about what they’re saying.

In many cases, it might just seem easier for businesses to stay out of social media entirely. It requires time and investment, and getting involved opens up the possibility of making large and highly public mistakes, like the recent Vodafone blunder. The problem, though, is that more and more people are joining up to social media sites, and staying out of them entirely means you risk letting the conversation go on without you. Paperchase decided they couldn’t let that happen, but it took a PR crisis to get them there.

We’re starting to expect more, from everyone. Is that scary? Maybe it should be.