Romantimatic — the little app I wrote to remind the distracted or forgetful to text nice things to their significant other — is a month old today.
It’s been an interesting month.
The app has sold just over 875 copies, across a couple of dozen countries, making me about $885. It has a four-and-a-half-star average in the App Store, and I’ve received a handful of enthusiastic e-mails. It has been the subject of coverage from Mashable, the CBC, Lifehacker and Kottke.
It has also been the target of a medium-level Internet pile-on. For those of you who don’t fully understand the scope and scale of the Internet, even a medium-level pile-on falls squarely into the “Holy crap” category of human interaction. The app has been flayed not for its implementation but for its conception, often in the language of the Web, by which I mean the most hyperbolic terms possible.
Derision from Cult of Mac. Disapproval from Esquire. The accusation that my goofy project has killed romance as we know it from Elle. Fifteen hundred words of high-minded arm-chair psychology and moral indignation from the Atlantic, including the comparison of the app’s users to — reductio ad absurdum — those who need reminding not to harm animals. And thousands and thousands of excoriating tweets.
Like I said, it’s been an interesting month.
The criticisms, with varying degrees, all come down to the same sentiment: If you need or want this app, you are a bad person, and you should feel bad about yourself.
This is not a rational argument — it’s an emotional one. I don’t believe, in fact, there is a rational argument to be made here, against the app. It’s not evil, by any sane definition of the word. It’s not hurtful. It does not do damage to the user or to others. Everyone who has argued so vehemently against it could have just as easily quietly noted its existence, decided it wasn’t for them, and moved on, without moral obligation or qualm.
But this is the Internet, and such things do not happen.
I’ve been around long enough to develop the three essential tools that on-line life requires — a sense of humor, a sense of perspective and a thick skin — and they’ve served me well here. The criticisms amuse more than trouble, and it’s been interesting being on the receiving end of one of the many, many hullabaloos that roil the Web every day. I do not feel a need to defend myself or the app or the people who are happily using it. We’ll go our way and you — with that disapproving frown — will go yours.
But I am intrigued by the reaction. With the opportunity to simply let this particular leaf on this particular river float by, why condemn? Doubly so when nothing is at stake? How could a few thousand lines of computer code provoke such a response, especially when there is at least a subset of the population who seems to really appreciate those exact same few thousand lines?
An experiment: What if the app had been to help people diet? Let’s say, just pure flight-of-fancy here, that I’m a fat guy, instead of the male underwear model with incredible abs that I clearly am. Would an app to remind people not to eat be vivisected in the same way that Romantimatic has? Would the people who use it be vilified as weak-willed? Thoughtless? Hollow? My guess is not. My guess is they’d get inspirational TV shows.
So what’s the difference? Why is mechanical help with relationships out of bounds, but help with weight control not? Why is one type of self-improvement aid worse than the other?
The difference, for me, comes down to empathy. We — the majority of us — need help with our weight. (Note to international readers: I’m an American. Seriously, the majority of us need help with our weight.) It’s an easy enough problem to understand. Ice cream is delicious, exercise sucks, and so a little nudge in the right direction is appropriate, even appreciated.
But we — the majority of us — apparently do not need help remembering to text our significant other. (Or — cough — think we don’t.)
And that’s the difference, isn’t it? What we can imagine ourselves doing, or needing, or wanting. Those people who don’t need the help feel free to judge those who do.
They judge us by our failures and not our desire to improve. They judge us by our tools and not what we can accomplish with them. They judge us by their own standards, without a breath given to the possibility that a different perspective might exist.
Which is pretty much the Internet in a nutshell, isn’t it? Exposed to the entire spectrum of human enthusiasms, it’s basically impossible not to judge. Our empathy overloads and gives up and we sit, staring at the screen aghast, that somebody, somewhere might actually believe that what they’re doing is OK, is acceptable, is even appropriate.
Everybody is somebody else’s monster.
But I’m not defending the app, remember. This isn’t about the app. It’s about how we — all of us — use the Internet, how we interact with each other. I’m just as guilty as anybody who assed-wise about Romantimatic. You can check my Twitter history and see. I wouldn’t wish an Internet fusillade on anybody — well, almost anybody — but being subject to one has been instructional and humbling. How am I any different?
This isn’t some mealy-mouthed plea for all of us to get along, to say that criticism doesn’t have an important place, on-line or otherwise. Critics and criticism are powerful, vital forces in any endeavor. But criticism should have some foundation in a shared world, a common set of resources and interests. I mock Republicans because I believe their policies do damage to the country I love. I criticize start-up culture because I believe it’s corrosive to technological progress and the people who create it. I rage at mass shootings and the people who defend the status quo because there are dead children littering the streets. These things affect me, are deeply important to me, so they require judgement and — sometimes — condemnation.
That’s not what I’m talking about here. What I’m talking about here is how addictive the righteousness that comes from that condemnation is, and how we will apparently turn to any source we can find for it — even when that source is not evil or harmful or part of any world we exist in or understand.
A few years ago, a photo made the rounds. It was taken from the back, its subject unaware. He was a fat guy wearing a jeans-jacket, and on the back he had stenciled the name of his heavy metal band. It was a sloppy and amateurish job. The photo earned a lot of mocking comments in my circle, including from me. Ha ha, look at the fat guy with the rock-and-roll pretensions. Look at him. Looooook.
And then someone said, “I think he’s awesome. He’s found something he loves, and he thinks it’s great enough to share with the world. This guy is a hero.”
And… Oh, my God. That’s right. That’s exactly right. Who was I to judge, much less judge publicly? Maybe his music was terrible, but so what? It wasn’t for me. It was for him, and his friends, and his fans. Nobody was seeking my opinion, because it would be ill-informed and emotional, because those are the only opinions I could possibly have.
I was just pumping poison into the atmosphere, to feel good about myself, for another hit of self-righteousness. I was what was wrong, because I vomited out disapproval — could only vomit out disapproval — without intent or willingness to even attempt to understand.
If nothing else, I’m grateful for the reaction to Romantimatic, because it reminded me of that story, and how hard it is to be empathetic, and how desperately important it is. If anything comes from all this — aside from the $885 in ice cream I’m going to buy myself — I hope that it makes me a little more generous with my judgement, a little more kind with my opinion, a little more reserved with my disapproval.
Maybe there’s an app that can remind me. It looks like there’s a big market for it.
So, um. Wow.
I released a silly little iOS app earlier this week, called Romantimatic. Its job is to quietly tap you on the shoulder a couple of times a week, reminding you to send a nice message to your significant other: “I love you,” “I’m thinking of you,” “You make my sensitive bits feel all tingly.” Y’know, romance.
It comes with a couple of dozen predefined messages, and allows you to edit your own; it’s got a few settings for how often it sends the notification. That’s it. You could certainly do everything that the app does with your own brain, like people have been doing for tens of thousands of years. (Pre-verbal grunting was the texting of the Late Cretaceous.)
But I, at least, had trouble with it. I’m an over-focused nerd. Since you’re reading a blog, you may recognize the type, perhaps by looking in the mirror. I’d sit down in front of the keyboard and the time would sweep away, and I’d be left having spent another day without telling my wife how wonderful I think she is.
Thus, Romantimatic. It started out as a joke — the six billionth “There’s an app for that!” joke, in fact — but I eventually sat down to actually implement it. The result is software to remind you to pull your head out of your ass every once in a while. Judging by myself, such a thing should have an enormous market. Yes, it’s silly, but it also serves a purpose. Are you a chowderhead? Are you aware you’re a chowderhead? Have we got the thing for you!
I told someone that the app is a serious implementation of a silly joke about a serious need. I don’t know where that leaves it on the silly-serious spectrum, but I suspect it’s not a point but a range.
But, man, I was not prepared for the response. Woo.
I knew there would be some have-we-come-to-this tut-tutting. I mean, I’m not that oblivious. You attach software to the expression of romantic love, and some people are going to see it as cynical. We’ve wrapped code around almost everything in our lives, but deeply felt emotion is still supposed to be start-to-finish analog. You don’t put your anniversary on a calendar, because it means you’re a bad person who doesn’t care.
Except it doesn’t. It means you want to remember it. Your calendar is a tool and it helps you do the things you want to do. I see Romantimatic in the same light. If you’re not good at something and want to get better at it, a tool can help. Tools make things faster and easier and more reliable.
But the number of people who don’t agree — at least in the specific case of texting your sweetheart — has been a little staggering. Twitter is awash with “appalling” and “is this a joke?” and “this makes me feel ill”. And the most surprising members in the chorus of disapproval have been the nerds. Lots of nerds.
I don’t mean to play on stereotypes, but the app was basically written for nerds. These are my people. The whole notion of being so over-focused that an entire day goes by is basically nerd canon.
Plus, nerds are used to using tools, especially digital ones. They’re comfortable with it. They have entwined software deep into their lives, and like it that way. Beep boop beep, nerds! Greetings!
And that’s where the disconnect comes in for me. The presumption appears to be that using Romantimatic to prompt you to send a message to the love of your life automatically makes that message insincere. That if you need to be reminded, your love is somehow broken or false or meaningless. That’s what I don’t get. For people who deeply love technology, its effects and its impact, this one tiny corner case — a few dozen bytes of notification text — somehow makes me an overly-mechanized jerk.
The app has also been called a crutch, which I totally agree with. If you can’t walk very well, crutches are really, really handy. Maybe you’ll use the crutch forever, or maybe it will help you get to where you need to be, to walk on your own. But that doesn’t make the walking or the destination insincere.
I am — and please forgive me for putting this image in your head — a boiling cauldron of passionate love. But I’m also a small business owner who’s the parent of three teenage boys and has at least a foothold somewhere on the autism spectrum. Forgive me if I get distracted. At least I want to get better at it, right? Right? Hello?
There was not an ounce of insincerity or cynicism in the creation of Romantimatic — I mean, come on, it’s got “I love you” in High Elven included as a pre-defined text! — but I apparently did a lousy job of getting that across.
It’s funny, people! And maybe a little stupid-sweet. And maybe, hopefully, a little useful.
And available in the App Store for the low, low price of two dollars!
The second XOXO Festival — upbeat, exciting, inspiring, amazing — ended yesterday in Portland, and I’m on the flight back, and I and can’t stop thinking about failure. Disastrous, merciless, unrelenting failure.
XOXO is the distillation of everything that’s right about indie and maker culture. You can’t possibly be interested in what’s going on in those communities and come away not ready to dedicate (or re-dedicate) yourself to them. XOXO is a perfect place to be who you are, who you want to be, who you are becoming.
And, in one way or another, I’ve failed at each of those things, which is what makes me want to talk about it. Tech culture — and to a lesser degree, the indie community that comes out of it — does not, and desperately must.
It sounds both massively cynical and relentlessly despairing to come away from a wildly inspirational conference like XOXO, filled with people who are both successful and happy, and be most interested in the other side of the equation. I firmly believe that XOXO is perfect as it is — it achieves its goals brilliantly, almost magically — but indie culture at large (and I count myself as part of that culture) needs to be able to have open conversations about the risks, consequences and costs of pursuing your dreams… and failing. Not just business failure, not just financial failure, but personal and emotional failure as well. The decisions our dreams inspire have consequences, and if we imperfectly understand those consequences, the results can be devastating.
This is about how we evaluate risks, gauge costs, and — ultimately — accept and move on from the failure to achieve what we set out to. We cannot be whole unless we acknowledge, discuss and internalize the sometimes shattering consequences of taking a leap and plummeting straight into the ground. We’ve got the conversation about success down pretty well — probably too well, in fact, to where the topic almost automatically evokes the standard storyline of passion, struggle, victory. But until we can talk just as freely about failure, the story of indie culture remains a Disneyfied fairy tale — based on reality, but without the occasionally ugly ending.
Do you love your dream enough to sacrifice your life’s savings? Your marriage? Your oldest friendship? Your mental heath? In more than a handful of cases, your life? These are real-world consequences of failure. But if and when they are discussed, it’s over beers, quietly, in the back-channel. When the topic gains a wider audience, it’s almost mercifully in regards to a single, sad incident — Aaron Swartz dreamed big dreams, for all of us, and however you trace the lines, they ultimately cost him his life.
There are hints of a wider conversation out there. At XOXO, Cabel Sasser spoke movingly about what sounded to my untrained ear like clinical depression, even in the face of inspirational material success and iconoclastic freedom. Marco Arment called his talk a therapy session, and detailed how he moved from grinding fear, through personal understanding, to a new approach to his career. Jack Conte charted the collapse of his self confidence in the wake of a hit.
But how many people looking for investment can openly talk about their anxiety? How many people who are financially successful can discuss the end of their marriage? How many people have seen their dreams collapse to dust in front of them and are expected to pick themselves up and get back to it?
This is not about putting together a conference about failure (FailCon 2013 — sign up now, loser!), or adding a handful of cold-water speakers at existing conventions, or opening up the mic for five-minute stories about lessons learned. It’s about doing the deeply hard work of removing the failure taboo from our culture, allowing the human beings who try — and try hard — and don’t make it to not have to keep the fucking grin plastered to their face, for fear that they’ll be treated as damaged goods.
There is a term in statistics called “survivor bias.” If all you look at are the survivors of a particular population over time, you’ll come away with a mistaken understanding of the probabilities of success. Which pretty well describes the vast majority of public conversation in indie culture. We rightly celebrate the people who have taken chances, found audiences, and secured their financial and emotional success. So much so that it’s become (at best) rare and (at worst) scandalous to even publicly mention failure or crisis or fear, except as a stumbling block to overcome. Failure is temporary, an opportunity, a lesson. Pivot! On to the next thing! Upward and onward!
Which only serves to make true failure — real, lasting failure — feel that much worse. Sometimes failure is not something you bounce back from. Sometimes, it’s something you grow around. Sometimes, it’s something that you seal away and try to forget. Sometimes, it’s something that stays with you every second of every goddamned day.
XOXO was a place where conversations like these took place — both on stage and among the attendees — and it must continue. A cultural norm that requires relentless optimism — that mocks or derides or even just tries to ignore failures, be they economic or emotional — cannot survive. We are made of people, and unless each of us can speak, grow, and even fail as people — as complete people — we will never have a culture that can sustain itself beyond the enthusiasm that will inevitably sour into hype.
There are people who are telling these stories, and the more who do, the better it will be, for everyone.
I was lucky enough to get to go to the XOXO Festival in Portland this past weekend, and I’ve read a lot that’s been written about it since, and, yeah, pretty much all of it is true. It was a wonderful time, special in a way that each person is putting his or her own spin on: it was the anti-South by Southwest, it was a love letter to the Internet, it was “disruptive creativity” made real. XOXO felt like each of those things, and many more. But to me it was the lack of something deeply familiar that marked it as unique:
It didn’t feel lonely.
I’m an introvert, not a particularly distingiushing trait among computer programmers. I generally don’t like crowds, and I especially don’t like crowds of people I don’t already know. I don’t like having to interact in real-time. All of it makes me feel tired and nervous and stupid. Oh, I’m sorry, excuse me — I’m faking a data center emergency on my phone so I can go over to the corner and read Twitter.
At XOXO, there were 400 people all together in the same room. Four hundred unique, potentially problematic souls and I knew maybe 5% of them. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a bit of a wreck going in.
And then it started, and it flew by and not for one second did I feel awkward or adrift or lonely. I didn’t second-guess myself. I didn’t want to crawl into a hole and die. I don’t think I can say that about anything like it before.
I’ve been to a handful of festivals and more than a few meetups and the odd couple of professional events over the years, and without exception there’s been a moment at each where I think, “What the hell am I doing here?” The people — their conversation, the agendas that underlie that conversation, the motives that underlie those agendas — eventually feel otherworldly, and usually sooner than later.
I attended a “founders meetup” once, during a failed entrepreneurial phase, and lasted all of half an hour, including the time it took me to drink a beer in the hopes it would numb the intense urge to flee. But after a handful of conversations about funding and VCs and term sheets and a whole host of other crap that nobody interesting could possibly make the primary motivator of their life, I did flee, out the door and off on a long walk that consisted largely of the glacial realization that this was not a world I was cut out for.
After that happens enough times, you start to feel like maybe there isn’t any world you’re cut out for.
XOXO itself was a pleasure. The logistics were astonishingly well-handled, and everything from the building to the food to the A/V to the after-events to the bathrooms appeared effortless. As a physical reality, XOXO worked.
But, more importantly, as a collection of like-minded people, as the expression of a philosophy, as a new and powerful approach to work and art and achievement, XOXO shined. I’ll leave it to others smarter and more articulate than me to describe the details — each speaker took a turn removing marble that wasn’t part of the statue — but the upshot is that if you are of a particular mind, a particular bent, there is now a place for you. A place to talk and share and experiment and explore. A place to feel among friends. A place to not feel lonely.
It’s just after midnight and I’m sitting in a hospital room in the pediatric unit next to my ten-year-old son. He’s asleep now, after a hard day of watching TV and playing games on the iPad and telling me to stop looking at him, geez.
He’s been here for two days, being fed antibiotics through an IV. He got bit by a bug, and staph got in, and it was MRSA, and the oral antibiotics he was on didn’t do a damned thing. We went back to his pediatrician and she took one look at the abscess that was still growing after thirty-six hours of standard medicine and her eyes got big and, bang, we were in the hospital.
This is how medicine is supposed to work. Everybody has been kind and patient and our stay has been nothing but reassuring and comfortable. Alerts were raised when they should have been, and professionals acted accordingly. Score one for the American medical establishment.
The bill is $23,800.
I’ll have to have to pay less than 6% of that, because I’m lucky enough to still have insurance.
Two years ago, the company I worked for up and skedaddled — that’s how you say it, right? — to Texas, for a “better business environment” than you can apparently find in California. I think that means that the CEO doesn’t have to pay state taxes and is allowed to hunt low-level employees for sport. I’ve been working as an independent contractor since — and having a good time doing it — but I haven’t been able to find private insurance. Everybody loves the small businessman, the fabled self-sufficient entrepreneur, unless he’s got a history of kidney stones and a ruptured disc and, delicately put, a “problematic height/weight ratio.” They didn’t say which way it was problematic, but I think it’s insurance industry jargon for “Tubby McLardass.”
But California — in an effort, no doubt, to discourage business — lets former employes extend their COBRA coverage for an additional 18 months after the federal limit runs out. I’m paying the full premium, but I and my family have insurance. We’ve got a strategy for dealing with the COBRA expiration, but it’s complicated and requires a lot of hoop jumping and is more than a little silly. If that falls through, we’ll insure my wife and kids and I’ll have to wait for the ban on exclusions because of preexisting conditions to kick in, in 2014.
And that number keeps swirling around my head: $23,800. For a bug bite.
Everybody did everything right. There’s nobody to blame here except maybe the damned bug. And that single random act — save for some lucky timing and California’s silly determination to look after its citizens — would have blown a hole in the side of our savings that would have taken years to fix. OK, kids, which of you wants to skip college?
I don’t normally like to talk politics. Not real politics. I’ll smart-ass on Twitter, but I get uncomfortable as soon as I feel the need to be earnest. I don’t trust myself when I actually care. But the Republican convention just finished up, and tens of thousands of people gathered in Tampa to cheer every mention of reversing the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act. The PPACA is how literally tens of millions of Americans can avoid having a bug bite wipe them out financially. It’s how I and my kidney stones and my bad back and my big ol’ gut may end up protecting ourselves, and our small business to boot. Yes, it’s expensive. Yes, it’s complicated. Yes, it’s ugly. Welcome to running a country.
The PPACA is important. It’s vital. When a bug can bring down your family, when there are people who are willing to take away the shield that could prevent that, when we as a country have become so small and stingy and mean that we cheer the idea of ripping medical care away from fellow citizens, offering nothing in its place but sanctimony and self-righteousness… What are we? We’re not a country. We’re not a community. Oh, no.
We’re a zero-sum game. We’re the state of nature. We’re animals, gobbling down as much as we can, as fast as we can, swatting away the weak.
“I got mine” are just about the ugliest words in the English language. They’re also, increasingly, a mantra for the same people who shout “We, the people” out of the other side of their mouths.
I love this country, more than I can properly express in words. It’s my home. It’s my future. Its history and achievements are awe-inspiring. Its idea, its founding purpose, is the most important the world has ever known. We are bound together by the notion that we are all created equal, committed to one another as a single body politic, held by the strength of our lives and our fortunes and our sacred honor. We put a man on the moon and an SUV on Mars and we made sure that tens of millions of our fellow citizens can know that a goddamned insect — or an accident or a disease or any of a billion other random, faultless happenstances — isn’t going to send them to the poor house.
(Assuming social services still supports poor houses. Substitute “the streets” as appropriate, assuming infrastructure funding hasn’t gone to corporate tax breaks.)
We can make this work. We have to make this work. A bug bite cannot be the thing that draws the line between a middle-class life and poverty, between opportunity and the stagnant dead-end of could-have-been. Our friends, our neighbors, our children, the future of this country as a cohesive society — as an endeavor where we see each other as more than opponents, as more than competitors — depends on it.
Otherwise, we’re just waiting for the fever, and the rot, and for the bugs to pick the bones clean.
Today is Opening Day, the start of the 2011 major league baseball season, and so begins the annual rite of passage for all right-thinking Americans: desperately hoping that the New York Yankees lose every one of their goddamned games.
Yes, yes, the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the thrill of the hometown boys making good. But I’m a Dodgers fan, so what chance do I have of experiencing any of that this year? We’re rebuilding. Just like every year since 1988.
So instead of a World Seri