The Land of Silly.

A look back at a year of silliness and why we might want to think before we post.

“Buffalo wings? I don’t eat buffalo.” Jessica Simpson

“Yay! I just submitted my manuscript to an agent,” someone wrote last week, which drew many notes of encouragement and congratulations. I noticed she said “an” instead of “my.” Asking for a manuscript is a far cry from accepting one. It’s sort of like celebrating the SuperBowl in June.

That’s the thing, though. In this age of fast information, it seems our lives have become running commentaries. We post whatever we feel at the time. One woman asked “Why do my farts smell?” Later that week, she found out she was pregnant. “Is that why your farts smell?” someone asked.

Given a few minutes of reflection (or years), wouldn’t that individual have thought to themselves: “Wait a minute, farts smell. We can’t all be pregnant.”

Unfortunately, it’s easier to post the question, possibly expecting an explanation that would change world order — or pregnancy tests.

“You absolutely need to read this book. If you don’t absolutely love it, I will pray for you.”

Kim Jong-un just wished South Korea success on their Winter Olympics, even offering to send a North Korean team. Some strategists believe North Korea is doing this to drive a wedge between Seoul and Washington. If so, shouldn’t Kim Jong-un hold off threatening to nuke the hell out of the United States — at least until the bobsledding is over? Kim Jong-un should think this through.

Unfortunately, we don’t think, or if we do, we still say silly things, even if our intentions are good. One person I read, for instance, thought she was doing an author a favour by posting this review on Facebook: “You absolutely need to read this book. If you don’t absolutely love it, I will pray for you.”

Having spent years in advertising, why didn’t I think of this? Prayers are a lot cheaper than money-back guarantees. Can you picture Burger King saying: “If this isn’t the best burger you’ve ever eaten, we’ll pray for you.” How can you go wrong?

John Kennedy Toole revised “Confederacy of Dunces” so many times, he killed himself.

Okay, maybe this isn’t logical, but what is these days? Perhaps the internet has changed our definition of logic. Does everything have to make sense?

“I’ve just finished the first draft of my manuscript,” a first-time author posted. “How many times should I rewrite?” A guy named Ron responded with: “Two or three times — no more. You’ll start to over analyze.”

Two or three rewrites and you’re over-analyzing? Raymond Carver rewrote his short stories fifteen or twenty times. James Thurber could spend a whole week on a paragraph. John Kennedy Toole revised “Confederacy of Dunces” so many times, he killed himself.

Not that I’m suggesting you rewrite until you kill yourself, but I can guarantee no agent or publisher will accept a book with only two or three rewrites. My novel went through 5 rewrites between acceptance and being published.

Maybe that’s the attraction of blogging in general. Craft has been replaced with free-flowing expression. Letting it all hang out certainly feels like a lot more fun. Except it also produces more wincing than wonder.

One poem that made me wince had this in the first stanza: “As I look into the shattered mirror, I find I’m the one who’s shattered.” Well, broken mirrors make everyone look shattered. Good thing she concluded with: “In the end, it’s not you who needs to change. It’s your mirror.” Well, maybe both, and shouldn’t you be more concerned with 7 years bad luck?

I mean, seriously, if that’s what truth does to you, I’m going to lie my ass off from now on.

Here’s another poet who figured this would attract a lover or a rock-jock: “I want to climb all over your body like a mountain climber.” If you’re picturing some poor women with spikes and carabiners all over her, that’s disturbing.

Another poet— and possible funeral director — wrote: “Truth falls from them like aging body parts.”

How many aging body parts fall off us, for crying out loud? I mean, seriously, if that’s what truth does to you, I’m going to lie my ass off from now on.

Some poets get so caught up in lyrical imagery, you have to wonder if they’re trying to be Wordsworth or Big Bird. “I pray the birds accept my proposal, so my craft reaches nests of the world,” someone wrote. Proposing to birds may seem romantic, but birds tend to like other birds and, frankly, they don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

A person can knock off twenty novels and still be a terrible writer.

That’s not to say social media has turned us into idiots. It’s turned us into brave idiots. Take the woman asking whether she should self-publish or go with a traditional publisher. “Publish it yourself,” a man told her. “I just started my 13th novel, and I don’t have to deal with rejection.”

When did rejection become a bad thing? Hemingway was rejected over 400 times. It didn’t hurt him any. Rejection teaches us what shouldn’t be published. We learn humility and craft. Hemingway learned how to drink.

Besides, you can knock off twenty novels and still be a terrible writer.

A woman scolded people on Facebook for criticizing her work. She couldn’t understand how people could “be so mean.” Social media may get away without being mean, but try it in the real world of publishing.

Some of us spent our entire careers dealing with editors, publishers, agents and clients. Even Stephen King and Nora Roberts had their manuscripts marked up and sometimes destroyed. They balled their eyes out for years.

So why does the silliness continue? Probably because we go on social media with our minds in a wonderland. We want to write without recourse, which produces it’s own silliness. When someone posts: “A fresh and electrifying article by me,” you have to wonder if she’s overly confident or overly drunk.

“I know what satire is, you nitwit. My grandfather invented the word.”

I’ve saved the best for last. This involves a response to a satirical piece I did called: “Do Men Enjoy Women Squirting?” A woman was so enraged, she sent a nasty note ending with: “Talk about satisfying your lover, talk about satisfying you. But leave everything else the fuck alone. I mean, how much more do you assholes need to ruin?”

I told her I was writing satire, and she said: “I know what satire is, you nitwit. My grandfather invented the word.” Actually, it was invented back in the 1500s, but she still challenged me to a “satire off.”

I accepted her challenge the next day. Here’s what she sent back: “Robert, this is so last year. I’ve moved on.”

Maybe we feel a certain sense of anomity not meeting eye to eye on social media, or maybe it’s like Napoleon in exile. He was a different guy on Elba. He didn’t even mind being short. In the end, though, he craved reality.

We all crave reality. Not immediately, obviously, or we wouldn’t be posting such silly things. But eventually, we’ll want truth.

Even if it falls off us like aging body parts.

Robert Cormack is a novelist, satirist and children’s book author. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online and at most major bookstores. Check out Yucca Publishing or Skyhorse Press for more details.