I’ve resisted getting a Facebook account for years. I’ve been steadfast in my refusal. But now I think I may be about to give in. Take the plunge. Bite the bullet. Only clichés arise. I picture big families sprawled across the country or living in different parts of the world, grandparents watching videos of their kids’ kids, feeling connected. I get that. But I never wanted it for myself. I still don’t. I don’t want yet another thing I need to do online. I cringe when people talk about “unfriending” someone. I hate the whole tailored commercial aspect of it. The one time I watched a friend log into their Facebook account, the chaotic layout and incredibly busy and badly designed screen made my skin crawl. (This may have changed since then.) I hate the idea of keeping track of people I know like this, monitoring their lives but never talking to them, never even wanting to visit in “real life.” I don’t think I understand that part. And I always imagined having a blog would be enough of an online presence for me as a writer. But I attended a meeting in June for the local writer’s guild, and all three publishers on the panel insisted their authors be on both Facebook and Twitter. So, I’m pretty sure I’m going to do it. Any day now. Maybe even tomorrow. Jump into the deep end of the pool. Sink or swim. No pain, no gain. Unless someone can give me a reason not to succumb? Pretty please?