I remember reading recently about a songwriter who became addicted (his word) to Twitter and the lure of what amounts to a sound bite. He had legions of followers, all awaiting his pithy, clever little tweets and thus fueling his desire to send out even more zingers. The only problem was that thinking and writing in microbits began to affect his work to such an extent that he could no longer write songs. I can't recall how it all ended, but I believe he went cold-turkey on the tweeting. Good for him, I say.
Some counter this argument by pointing out that it is, indeed, mundane facts (what we ate for lunch is the classic example) that help us forge connections with each other. To this I want to say, "Really?"
Anyways, The Actual Truth, as usual, probably lies somewhere between. I will admit, though, that when I was recently working on a short story, the feeling I had was one of extreme luxury. It felt like I'd been sleeping on a tiny cot for two weeks, and then suddenly someone delivered me unto a king-size featherbed. Except the feathers were letters and I was rolling all over them and laughing. I don't know if the story works, but it felt good to write it. Better, even, than offering up a droll tweet or an amusing status update.
I do have a thing for the Facebook "Like" button, though.