PLUGGED IN:
Confessions of An
Electronic Roadwarrior

It's morning in the global village. I get up, wash the sleep from my face, then start the coffee maker on my way to my computer. I press a key and my journey begins. Diane, in California, just got a promotion. "IMHO," she adds, "long overdue!" My agent needs me to send a document. Now. A reporter in Germany wants quotes for an article on cybersex. Anita confirms that she'll see me in half an hour: she lives in England, I live in Atlanta. Half an hour gives me plenty of time to run to the mall and order a gift for Diane, dig out the file my agent wants and FAX it to him in New York, and to bang out a few ideas for the German reporter. Then I'll meet Anita, my first cup of coffee in hand, my bagel toasting.

Impossible? On the supercharged hi-tech speedway of cyberspace, where people talk without voices and meet without bodies, anything is possible.

Know Thy Cyberself

It's been nearly ten years since I first motored up the ramp of what Vice President Gore calls the "information superhighway" of computer networks. I read an article describing a bbs where people "chatted" on-line 24 hours a day. The concept seemed surreal, futuristic, and a little intimidating, but the idea that I could talk to strangers in New Orleans or Seattle without leaving my apartment intrigued me. It was the perfect diversion for an armchair traveler.

Getting the essentials was easy--a PC, a modem, a telecommunications "hard" card, telecommunications software, and information on electronic networks were all available from computer retailers. Much more difficult was adjusting to the alien ambience of cyberspace. I was that most helpless of all cybercreatures, the newbie, easily identified by her shrinking electronic timidity. I was so flustered when messages sped across my screen that I quickly metamorphosed from newbie to lurker, cyberspace's version of a peeping tom. I read messages but, because I didn't write any, no one knew I was even there.

At first, messages seemed to be nothing more than fragments of thoughts, tail-ends to conversations I'd missed. They were sprinkled with mysterious letter codes: IMHO, ROFL, or PMJI; or sometimes a strange series of punctuation marks, like :-). But I soon picked up the rhythms. I saw that messages developed in chains, link by link, sometimes branching off to form new chains. I learned cyberspeak's mix of acronyms and emoticons.

My own first message went something like this: "Hi, I just joined and I don't know a thing about how any of this works. HELP!" The astonishing volume of solicitous replies gave me my first insight into cyberspace. Cyberspace voyagers LOVE to talk. At a time when mindless TV shows and infomercials turn us into limp, slack-jawed info-sponges, cyberspace inspires passionate interactivity. It motivates people to gossip, debate, and philosophize.

The all-night electronic social salon lures the lonely, the bored, the horny, and the downright gabby. It's not uncommon for newbies to get so addicted to cyberspace (and its inevitable offspring, cybersex) that they bust the limit on their credit cards. Some return poorer and quieter; some don't return at all.

What cyberfolk talk about is everything. The computer monitor is like a safety screen, encouraging intimacy and confessions. I've had more candid and profound conversations with cyberfriends than I've had with members of my own family.

I Am What I Am, or Am I?

When I talk to Anita today, I'll be seated comfortably in my office, she in hers. All we'll see of one another will be the other's words and phrases spilling out across the screen--there are no visual distractions. I can't see if she has a tic; she can't see my tattoo. The only thing I have to do to dress for this appointment is to tell her I'm wearing a red silk pants suit and pearls. My frayed t-shirt is concealed by my monitor.

Invisibility can be a liberating and positive force. It promotes the intellectual notion that bodies don't matter when minds are in synch. It was months before my pal Chris told me he's a quadriplegic. Had I met Chris anywhere else, the wheelchair would have distracted me from the man. On-line, I met the man, not his disabilities.

But anonymity also creates problems, especially when your imagination fills in the information that your senses don't receive. The other person can be anything you want him or her to be. I can't see Anita's eyes, touch her arm, nor smell her perfume. I form an image of her based on her writing (funny, no- nonsense, smart), and imagine a handsome woman with no make-up and hair in a natural style. For all I know, she looks like Tammy Faye.

Is It Live or Is It Cybersex?

Cybersex is the inevitable consequence of humans being in the same place at the same time. It ranges from chaste flirtations to (adult-only) orgies where people type one-handed fantasies as fast as their fingers--and conscience--will allow. As with real sex, cybersex may be harmless or hurtful. Cybersex is, physically, the ultimate safe sex (as long as it is confined to cyberspace). Emotionally, however, cybersex presents perils.

What if Anita was a man--and what if I was lonely? It wouldn't be hard for me to convince myself that he was hinting at something significant when he signed his note with "love." If he took advantage of my vulnerability, it could get nasty. Last year, national media ran a story on a cyber-Casanova who simultaneously romanced over a dozen women across America. The man told each of these women he was in love with her; a few happily agreed to off-line assignations. His duplicity was only accidentally exposed when several of his paramours, in casual banter, noted that their boyfriends had oddly identical personality traits.

It's an old story: more than one PeeWee has sworn he's Prince Charming. Cybernauts of both sexes painfully learn that on-line dreamboats are apt to leak. Many a fragile masculine ego has crumpled upon learning that the brazen silky-thighed debutante who typed "AAAAAAAAAAAAH!" to him in a frenzy of cyberlust is really a guy named Harvey. Gender-benders don't just exaggerate their good looks; they pretend to be another sex.

Still, I've found that sometimes one sees people better when one doesn't see them at all: you don't confuse the sizzle for the steak. I am admittedly biased: I met my husband, Will, on-line. From the moment I saw him dangling his perky participles, I knew he was for me. We passionately spelled out our private emotions, separated by 1000 miles yet instantly gratified by the velocity of email. (Unlike snailmail, email is delivered in minutes. There's no paper, ink, stationery, or stamps to fuss with.) For six months, our letters substituted for hugs and kisses. Will, a laconic fellow, had to explain his affection in wordy detail--a hardship for him, a luxury for me.

Infinite Interconnectivity

Romance, though potent, is hardly the main attraction. Cyberspace is the world of the future that Americans were promised in the 1950s, a world where technology improves our lives. This world is organized into thousands of shared communities whose concerns range from the highly hi-tech to the purely spiritual, foreign politics to personal health, and outer space to organic gardening. Each community has its own culture and customs; and, sometimes, it has flamewars--fiery verbal confrontations, a cyberspace war of wits, nerves, and words. But, most important, these communities provide free and seemingly infinite informational resources.

As a freelancer, it would take weeks of phone calls and trips to libraries to accumulate the information I can find in a few hours on-line. I use Compuserve Information Systems (CIS) most, where there's easy access to on-line encyclopedias and a spectrum of databases. I can arrange for all the news stories on a given topic to be delivered to my mailbox when they hit the wire service. Getting important information quickly and efficiently, with an absolute minimum of effort, is a key to cyberspace's popularity among competitive professionals.

Once I've finished talking to Anita--at a fraction of the cost of an international call--I'll run over to the Journalism Forum. Sometimes, I pick up a job lead; sometimes a professional tip that makes life a little easier. Last week, a woman I met there sent me an invaluable "hot list" of media contacts. After JForum, I'll drop by PRSig, where PR professionals hang out. It's not my field of expertise, but a few years ago, hungry for work, I uploaded my resume to the library there. A South American businessman downloaded it. He queried me, hired me, and sent me the work with a deadline virtually impossible for anyone but a cyberhead to fulfill. I wrote it and returned it to him via email. The only off-line component was the check he sent; one day, such private payments will be possible on-line. On this first visit of the day, I will read 3 to 7 different boards. I will return a few times to check for private mail. After ten years, my emailbox has become my second, and most permanent, address. No matter where in the world I am, no matter how chaotic real-time has become, the soft, familiar phosphor glow draws me back into my cyberlife.