pikemurdy

People often ask me–well, ask me enough that I should remark on it–about my Twitter policy. More specifically, I’ve been asked on occasion what my boss or my clients think about what I say on Twitter. And I get surprised looks when I say I do NOT have a Twitter policy.

Maybe that’s not entirely true, because I do have an informal “philosophy” (for lack of a better word).

Firstly, my Twitter profile is completely personal. That is to say: It is a Mike Purdy account, not an official work account. Like this website, I say things that may not be the policy of my employer. Of course, I rarely say anything very controversial, and I make only the occasional penis-joke. Still, I never think of my Twitter profile as a representation of Morris Creative Group‘s stance on matters. Whenever I do Tweet something, I never really consider if it fits into MCG’s policies. I can only assume that other people get this. That being said, there are lines I would never cross.

In my job I deal directly with clients. I meet them face-to-face at meetings. I speak with them on the phone. I exchange emails with them. I sometimes have bad days. I sometimes have good days. I sometimes get really excited about projects. I sometimes have frustrations. However, I have never—and will never—talk about my interactions with clients on Twitter.

That much is obvious and rather innocuous. But to me here’s the important part: The fact that I don’t talk about clients on Twitter (or Facebook, or this website) has absolutely nothing to do with keeping in “good standing” with my employer or my clients. It’s because the interactions I have with clients are between me and my clients. They are not between me, my clients and my Twitter followers.

I’m actually surprised by how many people I know (and follow) do not have the same policy. This goes for professions outside of graphic design as well.

To take it out of the context of being purely about me and my clients, let me give this example: I recently went on a date with my wife to an Italian restaurant. The dish that I was served was beautiful. The sauce glistening, the chicken browned just right and a glass of red wine to balance the frame. I have friends who take pictures of their food with their camera phones and upload the photos to Twitter or Facebook.

I don’t take photos of my food and share them, and here’s why: I’m on a date with my wife. This is a moment between me and my wife. Sorry Twitter followers, but you are not invited on my date. You don’t get to see my food. You don’t get to know what song is playing in the background. You don’t get to know what a great time we had. You’re not invited.

The same goes for my relationships with clients. The conversations and interactions I have with them are between me and my client. My Twitter followers do not get to hear about any frustrations or any of the jokes. Sometimes that’s a shame, because I have some funny clients. And I’ve heard some pretty funny things I’d like to share. But that would be a betrayal. It would be a breaking of what I would call “Designer/Client” privileges.

And that is as close as I get to having a Twitter policy.

A few weeks ago I noticed my copy of The Sound and The Fury missing. Actually, I noticed that both of my copies were missing. I’m trying not to expect foul play. They were probably simply accidentally sold during the last purging of unwanted household items. Probably.

I’ve heard people say that a book changed their lives. I don’t think the book changed their lives, I think it was the words printed on the pages. Yet, the book itself has value. The way it smells. The typeface. The tactile quality of the page. The cracking sound the spine makes when opened.

Last night I found myself at a bookstore and decided to replace my missing book. There were three copies available: two paperbacks and a hard cover. I didn’t even pick up the low-end paperback. I considered the second paperback because it would tuck neatly into the bookcase next to my others of the same collection. I ultimately decided on the hard cover.

Generally, I’m a library fiend. Not only to save money, but also reduce clutter in my house. But this book I’ve read at least five times in eight years, and I know I’ll want to read it several more times. I want it in my house when I need it and I want a durable copy. Plus, the text in the hard cover was set with more generous leading and the margins had more room for my thumbs. So I figured it would be easier to read. It’s fastidious I know, but if it’s an object that I’ll be spending hours looking at and it will be in my house for probably a decade or more, a few extra dollars is worth it.

The thought of owning anything for a decade or more is odd. Especially considering the temporary nature of 90% of my purchases. I have books that are decades old (well, I have books from the 1800s but that’s for another story). I have CDs that I’ve owned for 15 years or more. But I can’t think of a single thing which requires batteries that I’ve had that long.

I suppose I’m an exception to the rule. On my way out the store I glanced at the “best sellers” rack. I couldn’t help but think most of the books there wouldn’t be kept for more than a decade. A lot of them dealt with politics or this week’s get-rich-quick scheme—or vampires. Several promised an answer to life’s deepest questions. These books have a shelf life slightly longer than that of bread.

I’ve heard it said: We don’t need good newspapers; we need good journalism. And I believe that. The CD is not what is important, the music is. Most of the news I now read is on the internet. I still listen to CDs, but more often I listen to MP3s for the convenience.

MP3s sound crappy. Hopefully someday there will be something that is as convenient as MP3s, but sounds like CDs. CDs will go away. The music is what’s important, not the object.

But I love the object. I love reading the little booklets in CDs, unfolding the packaging. I love the feel of paper. MP3s do not have the tactile experience of a physical object.

If I had read The Sound and the Fury for the first time on a Kindle, the experience would have been very similar. I reacted to the story and words, not the paper. But the object still has value. A book is somehow more than words, more than a story. That is why I bought the more expensive copy.