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?

Writing, Venting, & Not Crying Over Spilled Milk

I love words. I eat them up. I've often compared reading to eating. Ooh! Speaking of breakfast, I have a story for you. Without further ado, of which there has not been much but I am now making more of, I will tell you the story.

My son spilled his juice at breakfast.

There. Don't you pity me? Poor mum! Her kid spilled his juice.

When you put words together to form sentences (and, is often the case on this blog, fragments) it is quite interesting. And sometimes, as in the above example, not. I was chatting with a friend and mentioned that my son spilled his juice. It wasn't a very interesting story. It wasn't a story at all, actually. This made me realize for the first time in my life how important words are. No, it didn't. I know that. But it did make me think about how I don't often get the whole story out when I'm talking. This is just another reason I love writing. And why you are about to be subjected to my morning. Here's what happened at breakfast.

I didn't get enough sleep last night. I just wanted some coffee. Really, that's all I wanted out of my morning. Just as I sat down, my son knocked his cup of juice over. A cup filled with dark, red Strawberry-Banana juice. And when I say "filled", I mean he hadn't taken a sip. And when I say "dark", I'm talking blood red. It was everywhere. There were puddles on the table, his chair, and the floor. His shirt, pants, and socks were soaked. There were splatters on the walls, my husband's computer, and my other son's chair (across the table). We're still finding spots. This kid is ten years old. We have been telling him for, oh, I don't know, five years, three times a day, not to put his cup near the edge of the table or next to his elbow. Why? So he doesn't spill the damn thing and turn the room into a crime scene. Let's round that number down and call it an even 5,400 times we've told him this. And here I am talking about another spill. Needless to say, I didn't get my coffee until after I had sopped up lakes of juice and scrubbed spots off the walls. 

See what words do? If you don't pity me now, I'm not sure what to say. Except that maybe you are too busy laughing at me. Or that you think I should get over this instead of blogging about it. I know I should get over this instead of blogging about it. I'm venting, dammit! Let me vent. Why is it that these little things dig their way into my nervous system and make me feel like I've just had an electric shock? Don't cry over spilled milk echoes in my head as I fume about this "accident". Yet, I want to scream that, although he didn't do it on purpose, he also doesn't listen and has these types of accidents often. And, suddenly, it becomes something more than spilled juice.

I recently wrote a post about why I write and included that I need to vent and writing is a superb way to do it. This is one of those times. If you've made it this far, huzzah! Now you can stop reading about my kid and his juice and say to yourself, "Self, this post was boring and ridiculous. I could have written it better. Hey, maybe I will. Why just this morning..."

What happened that you want to vent about? Instead of reaching for the phone, write it down. Try it. You might like it.

Magic Mess in Two Days Flat

One of my kids lives like a pig. Except that I think pigs are actually pretty clean and so that's not nice to the piggies. His room is disgusting. Thing is, it always has been. And I've always been "helping" him clean it. Then, two days later, I'm all "La-la-la!" (because I really do sing while I'm walking around my house) and I walk by his room. Then I back up and stare and my jaw drops all dramatically. Frickin' seriously?! What happened?

I wait and plot and hide, ready for the ambush. He gets home from school and I attack. What the heck happened to your room? How could that happen in two days? I couldn't make a mess like that if I tried! And so on. He is not rude about this (like me) and simply looks perplexed. Sometimes he looks like is-this-going-to-cost-me-Minecraft-time? But that's it. He doesn't care. At all. 

Meanwhile, my little neatnik son is freaking that there's a layer, a layer, of dust on all his furniture. And his floor has *gasp* LINT on it. Lint and FUZZ! Aah! What kind of mum am I anyway, he'd like to know. No, he wouldn't. He's a good boy. I'd like to know it. Why am I spending all my time on one child who doesn't give a rat's tail what his room looks like while ignoring the child who would simply like his bookshelf dusted thank you very much. 

My 7-yr-old keeps his room immaculate. He likes it that way. He needs his environment to be in order. And clean. But I'm so tired from helping my 9-yr-old clean his mess that I only half-heartedly help my little one who asked ever so politely (sometimes "with a cherry on top") for some dusting and vacuuming. 

So, to my 9-yr-old who can magically conjure up a pile of trash, dirty clothes, snotty tissues, books, and Lego pieces in less than an hour, then dump them on every available surface of his room--NO help for YOU!

NO help for YOU!

Have you ever reached the point where you simply refuse to clean 

(or help clean) your kid's room?