5 min readMay 21, 2026 04:18 PM IST First published on: May 21, 2026 at 04:18 PM ISTSomeone I met at a literary event where I spoke about translation asked me if he might continue the conversation online. I agreed, and thought we would exchange email addresses. But he said he would message me on Instagram, where, apparently, we followed each other. I am not on Instagram.The assumption that everyone is on social media must be the predicament of our times. To deny it inspires disbelief.AdvertisementKeeping a low profile in an aggressively “networking” world, for me, isn’t as much a sanctimonious choice as an instinct of laziness that lets me daydream. My writing is a by-product of the dreaming. My ability to be lost in thought has endured constant assault from an early age and, as a hard-won talent, it is precious to me. Networking, which feels like the exact opposite of dreaming, isn’t worth losing it to.Not wanting to network might be a non-pragmatic choice for a participant in what is essentially a capitalistic trade. Being fashionably out of reach of the reader is only afforded to the “A-lister” who “divides his time” between two homes: A swanky Western city, and an ancestral village back in the sweltering homeland that feeds his postcolonial angst. A middling unknown like me without friends and/or enemies in high places and whose books and effigies aren’t worth the price of the matchstick in the pocket of the unread reactionary has no choice but to go out dressed in khadi silk, smile a lot, take selfies, seek and give blurbs, exchange gossip, infiltrate coteries, utter well-articulated witticisms, and all but parade in a tutu up-and-down the Instagram square.Also Read | Millennials had hope and AAP. Gen Z has the Cockroach Janta PartyI am not entirely unambitious. I want my books to be read, and maybe, just maybe, someday not have to have a day job in order to indulge my literary vice. But somehow, my natural instinct is to trail off mid-sentence in a conversation, words vanishing from my mouth, and everyone save me moving on to greener signing tables. Then there is the inadvertent poking of the hornet’s nest of rivalries. A certain Slovenian novelist I once met oozed charm and rat-tat-tatted her publishing profile upon first introduction and insisted — without provocation — that writing in any language other than the mother tongue was linguistic treachery. Her enthusiasm dimmed when I didn’t gush at her shining successes or applaud her passionate speech. When I asked her casually if she knew a Slovenian translator friend, her smile froze. “You think everyone knows everyone in Slovenia?” she snorted and turned her back to me. I overheard her extracting an invitation to a speaking engagement in Israel from the next personage she had attached herself to.AdvertisementThat is the essence of literary networking. It is aggressive, result-oriented politeness by those who claim to be dreamers. It cannot get any more ironic than that.you may likeTo be artless in the world of art may not be the most strategic thing to do. But if there are clouds where you live and your sense of pareidolia is strong, it’s easy to face the consequences of your luddite choices with glee.I have a tiny social-media presence; a locked Facebook account under a pseudonym and 300 friends with whom I share puns, cat videos, and my observations of absurdities. We laugh at how ridiculous everything is, say kind and clever things to each other, and go back to real lives. I have no time or patience to argue with strangers. I may be existing in the proverbial echo chamber, but I am too cynical to want to change other people’s minds. I am also smug in my position of “compassion, humour, respect, free speech,” where detractors have very little leeway. If I hear of a publishing opportunity, I share it with fellow writers. I’m happy to give advice if someone asks for it. In turn, I feel uplifted and grateful when I receive help. And that is all the friendship and goodwill I need. I think the world would be a better place if everyone — including writers — networked less and dreamed more.Karnoor is a translator and writer, most recently of the short story collection Gooday Nagar, and the Kannada novel, Hettavara Neralu