Do I need Twitter? I mean, really. I’ve had a 50-year career. People know me. I’ve performed at a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony. I sing. I sometimes write songs. Twitter, why must you haunt me so?

It started a couple of years ago. My manager said, “Judy, have you thought about starting a Twitter account?”

I said, “Bob, I’ve gone 70 years without being on Twitter. Why must I start now?”

He said, “Well, Judy, a lot of your fans are on Twitter. It would be a good way to connect with a younger audience.”

I said, “Bob, a younger audience will find me or they won’t. I don’t need to be sending updates from the toilet for them to relate to my music.”

He said, “Well, it’s not just your younger fans, Judy—it’s the Baby Boomers too. Think about it, is all I’m saying.”

I agreed to think about it, but that was basically a lie. I didn’t.

Shortly thereafter, though, Amy Speace, a lovely singer-songwriter whom I admire very much, said to me, “Judy, I wish we could tweet at each other!”

I sighed. Clearly, this was what the people wanted—and you don’t make a living in music for 50 years without knowing what the people want. Fine.

Bob was delighted when I asked him to help me make an account. “What do you want your name to be?” he asked.

“What’s wrong with Judy Collins?”

“Well,” he said, “a Realtor in Tennessee already has that name. So you need to be something different.”

“I don’t care, Bob. How about PuffTheMagicDragon?”

“That’s a cute idea, Judy—but you don’t want to risk any brand confusion with Peter, Paul, and Mary.”

“Well, what do you think my Twitter name should be, Bob?”

“TheJudyCollins is available—how about that?”

“Won’t the Tennessee Realtor be upset about that? I imagine she fancies herself to be the Judy Collins.”

“Maybe she does, but she didn’t stake it out on Twitter, so it’s ours! There. I’ve registered it. Now what do you want to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on, Judy! How about, ‘is now on Twitter!'”

“Isn’t that obvious, Bob? It’s like me walking into a room and saying, ‘Hello, I just walked into this room!’ My ‘younger audience’ is going to think dementia’s setting in.”

“No, no, they’ll like it! I promise.”

“Fine. Say it.”

“Done. You’ll be glad about this, Judy.”

“I’m sure.”

The process of learning to tweet had worn me out, so I went to bed. The next day, there was my new Twitter account, staring me down on my laptop, getting in the way of my song lyrics and online Scrabble game.

I decided to tweet at Amy. I searched for Amy Speace Twitter, and there she was—her tiny little smiling face. But how was I supposed to reply? I moved my cursor over the window until I saw the little “reply” option. I clicked on it, and then clicked “Tweet.” Done! I could see that my most recent tweet had her name on it.

I then realized that I was probably supposed to have typed something else in that tweet, but wouldn’t the whole world have been able to see that? Why would I send a personal message the whole world could see? I have her private phone number, after all. Twitter just makes no sense whatsoever.

And yet, it haunts me. Bob continually reminds me of my account. “You’ve got to tweet, Judy!”

“What am I supposed to say, Bob?”

“Say you’re enjoying your run of shows! Talk about your new book!”

“That’s all on my website.”

“Yes, but it’s not on Twitter!”

“Why must it be?”

“Judy!”

“Fine. Just…fine!”

One day, after a couple cups of herbal tea, I was feeling at peace with the world and issued a tweet about bluebirds, kisses, and wishes for a happy September. People liked that, apparently—Bob said they tweeted happy wishes back to me, though I have no idea how he ascertained that.

It’s been nine months since my last tweet. 340 people, apparently, wait for me to greet them. But what do I say? Why? Did Amy ever write back? How can I tell? The whole thing just makes me want to dump a cup of scalding tea on that damn Twitter bluebird. No kisses.

– Jay Gabler