Letting Go of Social Media

Let go of social media?! Yes, I know. We can't do that. We're not allowed. As writers, we must be on all the social sites to build our platform and brand ourselves and whatnot. But I'm letting go. Does that mean I'll have less success? Maybe. Maybe not. Probably. I'll miss out on opportunities if nothing else.

I read this post by Lisa Reiter and it resonated with me. She talks about being busy and organizing her writing. Pfft. Who needs that? With two young kids, a husband, a house, a job, appointments, meetings, blah, blah, blah, I have all the time in the world to sit down (uninterrupted) and write.

As the saying goes, "If you do one thing, it'll be your best. If you do two things, they'll each have a bit of your intent to do your best but they won't be your best. If you do ten things, they'll suck." Okay, that's not at all how the saying goes and I'm not sure there's a saying even remotely like that but you get my point. Hopefully.

If I do those ten things with a bag full of the fifty things I'm not doing sitting on top of my head, the ten things are going to really suck and I'll wind up hurting my neck. Something's got to give. And, if I look back and realize I haven't sent anything in yet for my column this month or worked on my book or submitted anything to...anywhere, then social media has to go.

Okay, I'm not getting rid of social media entirely, I'm just attempting to stuff it into a box and shove it in the corner. Social media is a rope. (I'm going somewhere with this. I swear.) Instead of throwing the rope to the ground and leaving it unattended or allowing it to lasso me, I have to take control of it. "Letting go" of this rope means untangling myself from it so it doesn't choke the life out of me but making sure it doesn't get soaked and moldy in the rain. Hence, the box in the corner.

The rope of social media shouldn't be a noose, it should be a lifeline.
A connection to my audience, potential editors, agents, and other writers.

The Rope of Social Media
(AKA a ball of string I found around the house)

Lisa says in her post that she has set aside a day (one day!) a week that she calls her "Blog Admin Day". In the post, she uses words like "addictive" and "compelled". I feel like that sometimes. Technically, she's talking about blogging but I'm applying it to all social media. I don't know if I can set aside one day to write my blog, read other blogs, comment, read litmags, research submission guidelines, catch up on my Twitter account... Seems a tall order. But I'll try. Because I need the rest of the week to do that thing I love to do with words like putting them together and making cool sentences (and fragments). I need time to write. Also, I'm on call 24 hrs. a day as a mom so there's that.

I'm going to attempt to organize my own Social Media Admin Day. Let's be honest: Days. I think I need two. For now.


How do you manage your social media? How do you get any reading/commenting in during the week? How you do have time to write?

Rage, Rage Against the Building of a Blog

Writing a letter to myself as a part of this awesome blogfest, How I Found the Write Path, really made me think about how much I didn't know, how much I thought I knew, and how much I still have to learn.

I quickly typed out a letter to myself about networking and how it is a necessary evil. It's not evil for every writer, of course, but for me. I am an introvert. That's being kind. But I learned that I had to put myself out there. It was horrifying.

Talking to people. Going to conferences. Joining social media. Promoting myself. 

Words like "Social Media" and "Platform" and "Brand" assaulted my poor, sensitive introvert ears. I didn't know exactly what these things were but I knew enough to know I didn't want to do any of it. I just wanted to hide in my room with a cup of tea and type away whatever characters were bugging me at the moment to be written about. Or slump in my chair with a glass of wine and write about a real-life scene that just happened at my house. 

Something I heard a lot about was blogging. "You have to have a blog." Ah. I knew more about blogs so this one was easier. No. I would not blog. Never frickin' ever. No.

Then, after much crying and complaining, I started a blog. And I read about blogging. "This is how you blog." "This is NOT how you blog." "This is how you get more followers on your blog." "You're blogging the wrong way." "You're not using all the tools available to you for your blog." Blah, blah, blog, blog.

I almost erased myself. Sounds menacing, eh? I made a list of all the sites I was on and systematically deleted accounts. I had been on Twitter for only a month and I hovered over the 'delete account' button. Kidding. What I really did was search in vain for how to delete myself and couldn't find it. Also, Facebook wouldn't let me delete myself for some reason. I'm still waiting for it to go away. And then I turned to my blasted blog and was two seconds away from deleting that, too.

Of course, since I'm blabbing at you here, that didn't happen. I'm writing and posting. I have a blog. I'm not sure how I feel about it but I have one. And it keeps me writing weekly regardless of what's going on in my life. I blog. I'm getting out there. Sort of.


Why do you blog? Why did you start? Did someone tell you you had to or did you decide to do it yourself? Do you enjoy it? 

The Day I Decided To Dye

I am participating in Diane DeBella’s I Am Subject project. This project showcases women's stories about when or how they reclaimed their lives. There are many stories, many voices. Here is my #iamsubject story:

When I was young, I was blond. 

A pretty, little schoolgirl with pigtails and blue eyes. My grandmother’s “doll”, my mother’s only daughter, my teachers’ cute student, my ballet instructor’s graceful dancer. They loved to see me happy. So I smiled. 

I tried to be the girl they saw.

As I grew, my hair did, too. Long. Stick straight. Still bright blond. I was cast in the lead of the elementary school play, placed front row center in my class picture in a different color chair than all the other kids, thrown into spotlights when all I wanted was to hide in the shadows. I was confused and shy. People seemed to like me that way. So I stayed. 

I tucked my discomfort away.
 
As a teenager, the “dumb blond” stereotype brought some twisted form of admiration. It got me invited to the cool parties and landed me a job as a beer girl. I earned a great hourly wage laughing and handing out t-shirts, koozies, and blinking buttons to bar-hoppers. So I acted. 

I tanked my grades and found acceptance in stupidity.

In a moment of defiance, during which I realized my life was not mine, I dyed my hair brown—a tiny slice of time, a small act of defiance. I saw this as so much more. It was me rebelling against everything people thought I was and wanted me to be. 

I wasn't that girl anymore.

Reactions ranged from disbelief to disapproval. Family was shocked. Friends asked why I would get rid of my blond hair. People told me I used to be pretty. My soon-to-be-ex said it looked awful. 

I had never felt more beautiful.  

Then I met my perfect. He had everything I could have dreamed of plus a bit more. I became pregnant and stopped coloring my hair. I expected bizarre-looking roots to start showing. My blond growing in. I was going to be a pregnant skunk. I laughed at the thought. But I swore I would get rid of the blond the minute I got home from the hospital.  

I didn't have to.

My hair grew in a different shade—shiny, beautiful…brown. I had my son. A gorgeous boy with brown hair and blue eyes who looked exactly like his mother. As many new moms do, I spent countless hours staring at my new baby. He tugged at something deep within me. The child I never got to be. The mother I wasn’t sure I could be. 

I had watched women disappear into motherhood, losing themselves in the responsibility of raising a child.

The thing that might have taken away my sense of self broke me out of the shell I had lived in and gave me the self I wasn’t aware I was searching for. The baby, who forced me into the role of mother, helped me define who I was as a woman. Someone I didn’t know. Someone I liked. 

A smart, strong, sarcastic, loving brunette. 

Einstein, Edison, and…Tesla?

One of the coolest things about raising children is that you learn neat stuff like where Wisconsin is. Not that there aren’t other things that are lukewarm super cool about raising children, but I love learning new things. Like, hey, did you know William Taft was the fattest president? (Did you know William Taft was a president? I won’t tell…)

I have never claimed to know everything. No one knows everything. That would just be weird. But it amazes me the depth of my ignorance about some subjects. I mean, I was vaguely aware I wasn’t very good at math, couldn’t find Morocco on a map, and wouldn’t be able to name 15 presidents under threat of death. But, ever since I had kids, that has all changed. It’s glorious! I know all fifty state capitals, all 44 presidents, and, even though I can’t actually do it, I know what set theory is.
(It’s math.)

So, when my son received a book about Nikola Tesla, I thought, Huh, that looks good. Who the frick is Nikola Tesla? Well, he’s only an amazing genius who invented everything in the world. Well, lots of stuff anyway. And his research led to even more inventions. Did you know this poor little Serbian boy came all the way to America to meet his hero, Thomas Edison, just to have Edison employ him, turn on him, then try to ruin him? 

Wow, kudos to Elizabeth Rusch the author of this book because not only did I find out who Tesla was, I’m all pissed off for him long after his death for getting a raw deal. Kudos, indeed!

FYI, in case you don’t know who Tesla was either, he invented tons of useless stuff that you wouldn’t have heard of like electricity, remote control, the radio.... His discovery of AC electricity lit the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893, the first all electric fair in history. Edison tried to stop him and get the job himself, but Tesla wound up getting the job and resulting fame. Tesla also wound up getting the “Edison Medal”. I find that amusing.