Yesterday I published a piece about Twitter that’s proving somewhat controversial. Good; it was intended as a provocation.

I have an enormously fraught relationship with Twitter, and it fascinates me. I use it to broadcast my work, to socialize with friends and colleagues, and sometimes to solicit feedback, ideas and a relationship with my readership. Obviously when you solicit responses, you’re expected to be responsible for that reaction. And if you’re on the service to begin with, you’ve signed a contract with what my friend Helena describes as the essential creepiness of inviting strangers to “follow” you in an ecosystem of voyeurism. Even the word “follow” is kind of unnerving in context, she suggests.

But I’m disconcerted often by the idea that there is ‘no etiquette’ for Twitter, no obligation on the part of the audience — and sometimes I’m an audience too, to others — to consider the recipient of their attention as a human being, and I think it’s rational for me to be a little unsettled that people actually take offense at the suggestion they should consider how they use the access they have to other people.

Twitter is indeed a “great equalizer”, but while I don’t hesitate to loop my friends into bite-sized conversations of interest only to us, I do carefully consider the way I address people with large follower counts who doubtlessly have to process a high signal to noise ratio that I may not. I don’t think that hoping others would do the same for me equates to “thinking I’m better than” people who have a smaller echo chamber.

My friend’s wife, who’s prominent in her field, recently asked if anyone in her area had advice on renting a specific type of equipment, and was flooded with people who’d sent her the first Google result they could find, or who were not in her area whatsoever and therefore not practically able to help. Did they pause to think that she’d solicit a lot of replies, and they might consider whether they were actually being constructive or adding to the already-significant noise she doubtless fields? Do they honestly believe this person they don’t know, but admire, does not know how to use Google?

I think the truth is that the thoughtless @-reply is simply a request for acknowledgment and attention. Access and acquaintance should not equal a presumption of intimacy. Nobody likes to be told their input is unwelcome, and telling people they appear entitled never, ever goes over well.

But I don’t think considering that we are all part of an ecosystem of relationships is too much to ask. The idea we might not always be entitled to be heard feels positively revolutionary on the internet — rather, we have the utility always to be heard, but we haven’t meaningfully considered what degree of weight our voices ought to have and whether that weight depends on context and relationship.

I actually am incredibly highly-engaged with strangers relative to other users. I have made over 62,000 Tweets in my time with the service, and an informal sampling of my own feed suggests that most of these are replies, not statements. Given how interested I seem to be in interacting with others, the idea that my piece was “condescending,” which I heard a lot, is odd. The article was not a personal narrative, but a call to self-examination for users among which I include myself — that audiences online these days are decreasingly able to perceive articles as anything other than personal narratives is another interesting consequence of the age when everyone has, and frequently uses, individualistic broadcasting platforms.

I saw yet more replies to the effect of, “I didn’t relate, but that’s probably because I don’t have a lot of followers.” Yes, but you follow others, and you have probably at times presumed they wanted your feedback. The need to ‘relate’ personally in order for information to seem relevant is another interesting consequence of the emphasis on the individual in the social media age. Do you need to register your protest every time something is not aimed at you or about you?

Especially as so much of my work involves writing on diversity and inclusivity, I am generally alarmed to notice how much this entitlement to individualism excludes empathy — there’s this idea that because you get input, yours is the most important. Really, part of what I was asking for with that piece is empathy for myself, the fact I daily get unsolicited feedback, social intrusion and personal critiques from strangers, and that maybe it’s not fair. I do my part in the contract. I make myself available, and I’ve developed the requisite thick skin required to be available. Am I not allowed to ask for anything back, to be a person and not a product or a mere “service provider” to others?

I wonder why the idea a content creator might not want “feedback” all the time is such a radical notion. Why is “feedback” the ultimate metric of appreciation, where rejecting it is perceived as ungrateful? Before the internet, did people line up on the lawns of columnists, urgently devoted to contributing their two cents? Did they take offense if the columnist ignored them on his or her way to town to see friends?

That the paradigm is different now thanks to technology is no reason to presume there are no new norms, I think.