I Read The Comments

People have always told not to read the comments on stories I wrote. Readers have told me this. Friends have told me this. Journalists and editors have told me this. And for good reason--so many comments are abusive or ignorant. Even if fifty comments are glowing, one rude comment can really dampen your mood if you let it. Many sites are still unmoderated, and a lot of the criticism is entirely about things the writer can't control. Sometimes these attacks are coordinated pile-ons. I've seen them being organized in various messaging platforms, by people who are usually quite decent.

In spite of all this, I've still tried to read every single comment. It's a lot to trawl through, but I think it's worth it. Every once in a while someone will mention a study or a piece of research I was unaware of that helps inform future stories. Or I'll build a new awareness about how wording I used could have been written more clearly. Or I'll gain new insight on the fiefdoms in a particular tech neighborhood.

I go beyond reading every comment. I've even checked to see if people were discussing the post on other forums or social media platforms. Where else do we have the opportunity to be within proverbial earshot and hear what people are saying? I also have intimate knowledge of which companies will delete comments from their own subreddits if a community member doesn't tow the corporate line. It can be useful to be aware of how specific companies respond when people push back against a claim.

The thing I find most important to remember when reading the comments is that people don't want to actually talk to me. If they wanted to talk, they'd probably tag me on social media or send an email. Once in a blue moon, it's appropriate for the author of a story to chime in on a long, heated Reddit thread to clear up misinformation. On one occasion I wrote a long thread in response to coordinated harassment. On another I responded publicly to public criticism that I felt was largely inaccurate. But the vast majority of the time, jumping in comes across as defensive at best and creepy at worst.

Comments are not a conversation. They are a signal, not a dialogue. Even when readers expect the writer to read the comments, they don't expect them to engage. But comments can provide useful data, if you let them. Keeping a bit of distance is what keeps reading them sustainable. I believe that reading them with that mindset makes my work sharper. And I think it's in line with journalistic standards of transparency and accountability.

Often I can't respond in the way that I want to. I'd love to take out every commenter for a drink and have an off-the-record discussion about how the legal department wanted me to word things in a specific way, or the anecdote I wanted to share but left out because I couldn't corroborate it, or the key detail I wanted to share but was unable to without putting a source at risk. Obviously none of these are or can be public.

I read every comment even though a lot of them are wrong. My favorite one was when I used the word vuln as an abbreviation for vulnerability, which is the appropriate vernacular. One guy chimed into the comments to share that vuln actually meant to wound oneself by biting at the breast. Clearly we came from different worlds; he was sharing fan fiction insight on a cybersecurity piece. I've also had people critique stories for not being framed in ways they would prefer. Usually these people are not journalists, and don't understand the difference between, say, a breaking news story and a product comparison article.

Reading the comments made me second-guess past work, and I've regretted reading too much, and dwelling on it for too long. But I have been doing this long enough that I can usually ignore the hate-filled tirades. I am not really sure exactly how this happened, but I think it came from caring so intensely for so long that the intensity had nothing to do but dissipate. I jokingly call this "better living through exhaustion."

Now it feels like a switch I turn on; the ability to muster professional detachment even when others are quite heated. If I am being targeted with hate or harassment, I will have a friend monitor on my behalf, and they can help with documenting and reporting. (There are a lot of resources for this type of scenario, but for the most part, people who leave spicy comments for me are not doing that.)

I read the comments because there's the chance that I get something flat out wrong. I obsess over this possibility and do everything I can to correct errors before a piece is published, but nobody is perfect. Comments alert me to when I need to update or correct a piece. (Though sometimes I end up leaving what someone perceives as an error because my editors and I do not agree.)

I like to save all of my comment reading and email reading for when I'm feeling calm. Sometimes that means I'm not running from meeting to meeting. Sometimes I'll need a whole ritual. I'll put on some Enya or Jake Shimabukuro's Calm Seas, light a scented candle, and make a pot of tea.

I don't have a one-size-fits-all approach for ire directed at me, which is usually not just in the comments but in my email inbox. (Sometimes I even try to take it off social media and into the inbox!) Sometimes I ignore it. On one occasion I created an autoresponder for one guy, letting him know that because of genocide denialism all future emails will be filtered directly into the trash--surprisingly easy to set up.

When possible, I'll hop on a call. I always dread these calls. I overprepare for them, thinking through the other person's, how high stakes the meeting is, and what I want to accomplish. Somehow I always feel better after these calls, with a newfound appreciation for another's perspective.

There are fewer calls than comments. Again--comments are not dialogue, they are a signal. And not all comments are equally valuable signals. I see learning how to interpret them without getting pulled in as part of the job.