Social Media for Fun, not Profit

It occurred to me that a good way to supplement my income as a writer/teacher was to become a pop culture social media pundit. A Canadian pop culture social media pundit. Why not? Besides the fact that:
1) Really, the www could not care less about pop culture opinions from Canadians.
2) I'm working on a P.C.
3) I'm only a few steps away from being a tech-luddite.
4) Did I mention I'm a Canadian?

The dream is fast losing its charm. I live-tweeted the Academy Awards and the Canadian Screen Awards. The latter was impossible, as the show was pre-recorded! Posting my comments gained me a new Twitter follow though: CBC. I was thrilled.

For one week I live-tweeted The Jimmy Fallon Show. Yesterday, (Friday) I wondered if I'd make it to the end of the hour. I was exhausted and said so, which led to a comment from some sucker whose Twitter handle is something like "ILUVJIMMY' to refer to me as 'elderly. WHA - ?

The charm of social media is rapidly fading. My greatest concern is that it's a waste of time, career-wise.

And I'm losing steam on this live-tweet thing.

Here's the big problem with Twitter: these megastars are among us and we get to follow them if we want to and Tweet stuff to them. Some, like Margaret Atwood, who is a Tweetfreak, tweet right back. It's so great! Others, like Stephen King, post a comment and never engage in the ensuing discussion.

King's first post was: I'm a Twitter virgin. Be kind." I know he and Atwood are friends so I suggested he consult Margaret Atwood and added her hashtag. She was there a minute later. I kind of felt like he should *thank* me. At the time he'd been on Twitter for about ten minutes so I was one of his first followers.

Joyce Carol Oates is another Twitter regular. Most of the time she's posting esoteric stuff I barely understand, but one time she complained that her husband wanted to put a big Buddha head in the garden. I suggested a reclining Buddha, the skinny, Therevada type with the elongated ear lobes. A few days later she posted a picture of their compromise and there it was! The Buddha I'd suggested. Again, I was a bit miffed. No thank you from Joyce? Humph.

But the one who actually drove me crazy, early in the game, was Steve Martin. He pops in, says something funny and "chats" with followers, usually correcting their grammar. But I could *not* get him to notice me. I actually had to be talked down by a Tweet friend. I had to unfollow Steve for awhile but as he brilliant (sadly, pretentiously so) and so hysterically funny I started following him again, without ever attempting to join in the fun. And you can watch a fan get ANGRY because Steve won't acknowledge him. (mostly guys get angry while girls suggest Steve make love to them.) Once I removed myself from the fray I saw how quickly the idolization turns to personal attacks. 'You're not even funny, Martin!' etc.

I think this comes back to the whole 'global village' thing. Everybody's writing a book, making a movie, starring on a reality show. Everyone can be a star! Just like real celebrities. So people think that because their celebrity idols are on Twitter, and they are on Twitter, they equals. And the stars have indicate that they're accessible; at least, the ones who actually monitor their own Twitter sites. Really, like Atwood, they *should* be accessible. Else why BE on Twitter at all?

But who are fans, who are they *really*, to think that by the simple act of following a celeb, they should be noticed? Thanked? On fb we have 'friends' but on Twitter we have "followers." That's all fans are to celebs. Followers. Followers who are so quickly disillusioned because they're not being acknowledged. So they become haters.

What will happen if Steve Martin laughs at one of my jokes, or Jimmy Fallon follows me? More Twitter followers for me, I think. But what does that mean? I only know of 2 people who follow me and have read my work.

A part of me strongly believes that using social media to become more popular is a waste of time. I suspect a billion dollar industry is keeping this truth from us. Yes, people who are already big shots probably sell more work because of Twitter, but the rest of us? I'm far from convinced.

Twitter has true value. During the disaster in Haiti, the exact location of Aid workers was known in hours, not days, because Tweets are such small packets they get out more successfully than e-mails or posts. Twitter can save lives. It's also an exercise in brevity, one I can really use! How much information can you pack into 140 characters?

But it's main usefulness is in free entertainment. Anthony Robbins said, "We aren't in an information age, we are in an entertainment age." It's astonishing how many funny people there are on Twitter; just regular folks with regular jobs who are hilarious. Twitter is *fun.* But is it a promotional tool. Is Facebook a promotional tool? Blogs? Even websites? Most of the time an author's contest is won by another author. (Unless, again, that author is already wildly popular.)

All people need, if they want to interact with an author, is an e-mail address. Here's mine: telltale@primus.ca

Did I just save myself the expense and time of maintaining a website?

Am I actually achieving *anything* on Twitter but getting and giving a few laughs? Here, on Facebook, I have "friends I've never met" and they're invaluable. But they're authors, for the most part. This is why I've used my fb page and my blog, to a lesser extent, to publicly suffer when I can't stand suffering alone anymore. Writers, perhaps because they are in touch with emotions, and knew Michael as well as me, and *know* me from conversations, e-mails, shared posts etcetera, get what I'm going through. I need that.

But that's not what I'm talking about right now. How many of us actually buy and read each others work? After all, we can access our short stories in the anthologies we appear in and as free reads on websites and blogs.

I really suspect that social media in its entirety is an addictive source of laughs and hooking up. And being a sarcastic hater, of course. Easy access to what is probably, but not guaranteed to be, accurate information. Ideas.

But is it a successful promotional tool, worth the time and effort? I have grave doubts.

Fallen

Half the trees in this town are dead. The ice-storm glazed their branches with layer after layer of glistening snow until the weight of all that beauty caused them to crack completely. The glittering ground is littered with dead debris. A natural disaster.

I came home last night. I was exhausted. They said I needed to take care of myself. I listened. I should not have come home. I shouldn’t have listened.

Passed out on the bed with the cordless receiver in my hand. The snap of dying trees punctuated my dreamless sleep until I awoke. The window lit up like a solid neon sign. A flash of orange, unlike anything I’d ever seen. Is the entire town under siege? I thought this was a private war. Who would drop a bomb on an innocent little Canadian town? Right before Christmas, too. What heartless terrorists have targeted us?
The clock stopped torturing me with time. No power.

But I must be connected to the alien ship! My fiancé was taken aboard twenty-four hours ago. The aliens, in their blue uniforms, are torturing him. What have I done? Why am I here?

The land line. I fetched it from the emergency supplies kit and plugged it in. There is a dial tone. Mr. Bee, my sister and I called it when we were kids. That was many years ago. That moment, when Mr. Bee buzzed at me, was days, no, hours ago. I listened to the trees die until I passed out again. Woke to the ringing of the telephone. And then I knew. The aliens will not release him after all.

Taxi was waiting when I burst out the front doors of the apartment building, panting from running down many flights of stairs. Don’t slip goddam it! The taxi company had prioritized me. Everyone needs a taxi this time of year. It’s the holiday season! The town was dark; no twinkling lights for anyone. As it should be. Just the sparkle of frozen snow where the headlights granted it a festive spot dance.

I was too late. Because I never should have left. They let me see the carcass. Almost all the tubes were removed, but the catheter was still in place. He hated that thing. I examined him. He was bruised; the evidence of torture was everywhere. The weight of all that pain broke him. I sat with the body, for no good reason. He wouldn’t have liked it but he wasn’t there to forbid it. I did not pray.

The deadly silence was shattered by the crack of branches, loud as claps of thunder. The giant tree at the entrance of the ship had broken. I watched with dull amazement. Was this for him? For me? Should I be grateful for this obvious metaphor: even the strongest living creature can be brought down by the force of nature. I could have laughed. No . . . I did laugh. How was it possible that this all happened at the very same time? Was I being mocked, or comforted? Did any of it have anything to do with me? Probably not. Not even the dead thing; not really.

I took his medic alert bracelet and left.

“Daddy died,” I tell the cat. I fall on the bed. If I sleep, I’ll have to wake up and remember. I don’t want to forget, not even long enough to get some rest. I cry in anguished bursts. This isn’t happening. This thing that happened isn’t happening. I sit up. All I have to do is find him.

Grope my way around the apartment. My hands press hard to the wall, for support. If I have to, I’ll search for him on my knees, but I don’t. I can stay upright, with the walls, the furniture, for help. How is it that this place has magically doubled in size? But he’s here somewhere, I just have to keep my eyes peeled. He isn’t here. He was an atheist. He isn’t anywhere. Just gone. My eyes don’t like being peeled. They fill with tears.

Oh I’m so silly. He’s in a drawer in the bowels of the Mother Ship. I need to go back there and visit him again. It’s common sense.

Or not. This must be the thing called grief. I make my way back to the bedroom. Need to remember that phrase, “make my way.” Use it properly, in the future, or maybe not at all.

Christ, how can it be that there are any branches left? Yet the noise draws me to the window. Interesting, the dead tree, where the hawks live, stands tall. You’d think it would be the first to fall but you’d be wrong.

The medic alert bracelet is on the bed. My first Christmas gift for him. It’s white gold, diamond cut. We laughed at the idea of him wearing jewelry. He loved it. He loved me. The bracelet slips easily onto my wrist. My tattoo, “M” for Michael, goes well with white gold. I rub the tattoo. I kiss it. He isn’t here.

It’s dark. The neon light that lit my window was the generating station blowing up. The great trees on King Street took it out when they collapsed. My taxi driver said so. The town has no power. We are all powerless. This much has been made very clear to me. I get it, okay? This is my only prayer.

So I stand and watch the trees snap and die. Between these sharp punctuations, everything is silent but the steady beat of my treacherous, broken heart. I want the noise to stop.

All pictures are of the Ontario December 2013 Ice Storm

1 @BenNollWeather (Twitter)
2 @JeremyGlobalTV (Twitter)
3 anglicanusefranciscan.blogspot.com
4 @MartinBPhoto (Twitter)
5 @vaughanweather (Twitter)
6 thebluebrick.ca
7 www.theatlantic.com

Beautiful Boy

Who is this serious, handsome lad?
Someone I will love, someday, though I was not even alive when this picture was taken.
He has already survived WW2; a toddler in London during the blitz.
Though he should have finished school and attended university, he will do his duty. He always did his duty. So he'll work for his father, a tailor, and help his mother in the shop.
He will be a soldier in Cyprus.
He'll marry, have children, move to Canada, work in many fields and excel in all of them. He'll divorce.
He'll marry again, have a daughter and finally fulfill his life long dream by becoming a writer. He will be published. He will teach. Eventually he'll divorce.
He will be my tutor, my mentor, my lover, my fiance.
He will be robust, optimistic, brilliant. He will adore me.
He'll get older, no big deal. He'll get old. He'll fight it, hard, but, as Willie Mays said, "Age is a helpless hurt."
Age will hurt him.
Illness will attack his dignity. but fail to claim it.
He will be hospitalized. His dignity will be taken by force. In a cotton gown with an open back, anchored to a bed by tubes and probes and needles and a mask, he will suffer.
He will reclaim his dignity by releasing his powerful will to live.
He will speak. "I've had enough. I'm going now."
He will die.

But most of that is unknown to this beautiful boy.
I an unknown to this beautiful boy.

But I will know and love the man he will become.

And, because he has had enough, I will let him go.

Love

One of the best thing about www is the support system that clicks into place when one of us is down. The Global village can = One World. While I believe it's an invitation to insanity to try to care about everybody at all times, I know I can focus on individuals and specific issues and lend my support where and when it's needed most. It's extraordinarily moving to be the one who needs support and find it here, and there, and also over there. I'd say 2/3 (conservative estimate) of the kindness that encourages me to keep moving forward arrives via various forms of media.

On Twitter, someone with no agenda beyond kindness has taken it upon himself to tweet me every morning and every night. "Good morning, how are you?" "Good night. Try to get some sleep." On my "vanilla" facebook site, old friends, many of whom I haven't seen in decades, post condolences. "Stay strong, prairie girl," from a pal in my hometown of Winnipeg, reminds me that I come from a place where everyone endures hardship because of the extreme weather. (I am from "Friendly Manitoba.") On Madeline Moore's facebook site, colleagues of Michael's and mine let me know that Felix Baron's death and Madeline Moore's suffering matter to them. This began on Christmas Day!

Friends and family call me on the phone. Condolence cards arrive in the mail. A dear friend, close to my heart though I haven't seen him since 1981, sent money. This is far beyond the rules of etiquette but artists don't necessarily live by the rules of etiquette. So I don't have to reject it with feeble protests. I can accept it with effusive thanks.

The owner at the school where I tutor part-time and my Madeline Moore editors have tossed their "boss" hats aside, shaken out their hair (those who have hair) and signed their cards and emails with love and xxx's and ooo's.

Sometimes, when the isolation becomes oppressive, I call a friend and ask her to meet me for coffee and a chat. We all need face time and physical contact. I hope this will always be the case for the human race.

But love is in the air. Kindness doesn't have to be wrapped in a pretty parcel tied with a velvet bow and hand-delivered. Kindness can be a word from a new follower who knows what it's like to lose someone (and don't we all know what that's like? Hasn't tragedy come crashing down on all of us?) I believe it's part of being human. One of the great truths of the Buddha is: Life is suffering.

I am suffering. But I've always held on to the overly-simplistic words sung by the Beatles (and before them, by other voices, throughout time) "Love is all you need." It's not deep, it's not impressive, the words aren't even mine. But it's true.

When I came home from the hospital, the morning Michael died, I collected the Christmas presents I'd purchased for my friends and family and tagged them with post-it notes. This is for my eldest daughter. This is for my youngest. For Michael's girl. For my best friend. I tossed a few things down the chute that were nobody's business but my own, now that my partner in passion was no more. I put a note on the freezer door, indicating who to call to pick up my cat.

I sat down and began to think. Was there still time to catch up with Michael and go wherever we go next, together? Was there really any point in disappearing into and then battling my way back from grief? Had I, like Michael, simply "had enough"?

I know how Jerzy Kizinsky committed suicide. I'm pretty sure he did his research first. His method is foolproof, if you don't cop out half-way. Would I cop-out halfway and end up blind but serene? Or a vegetable, incapable of thought or movement? I was alone. Nobody knew Michael was dead. To me, it was a matter of now or never. Make your choice.

My kids, my cat, my 88 year old Dad, my emancipated slave/sister - these are the people that helped me make the right decision. I picked up the phone.

But you, and you, and you - you are the ones who help me believe I made the right decision. Your kindness keeps me going. This is no trivial matter. Please take a moment, right now, to acknowledge that you have done a good thing. You are proof that love is all we need.

This post was inspired by Kerry Bell, Brewt Blacklist and Bruce, but it is for all my friends all over the world. It's for you. Thank you.

The Beatles: Love


Love, love, love.
Love, love, love.
Love, love, love.

There's nothing you can do that can't be done.
Nothing you can sing that can't be sung.
Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game.
It's easy.

Nothing you can make that can't be made.
No one you can save that can't be saved.
Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time.
It's easy.

All you need is love.
All you need is love.
All you need is love, love.
Love is all you need.

All you need is love.
All you need is love.
All you need is love, love.
Love is all you need.

Nothing you can know that isn't known.
Nothing you can see that isn't shown.
Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be.
It's easy.

All you need is love.
All you need is love.
All you need is love, love.
Love is all you need.

All you need is love (all together, now!)
All you need is love. (everybody!)
All you need is love, love.
Love is all you need (love is all you need).

Yee-hai!
Oh yeah!
She loves you, yeah yeah yeah.
She loves you, yeah yeah yeah.

Electronic heart photo: salon.24

My True Torment, or Not

Here is a quote from this young author's first novel, released in March of 2013. He writes about being a writer. It could be self-indulgent or boring or promising, but it isn't.

This is a wonderful book.

From The Unchangeable Spots of Leopards by Kristopher Jansma


The typing begins anew.

And for this imperfect immortality, what prices have been paid? How many livers, lungs and veins? Shredded, polluted, shot? How many children deserted, family secrets betrayed, sordid trysts laid out for strangers to see? How many wives and husbands shoved to the side? How many ovens scorched with our Hair? Gun barrels slid between our lips? Bathtubs slowly reddened by our blood and twisting rivers that drowned us? How many flawed pages burned in disgust and reduced to ashes? How many flawless moments observed from just a slight distance so that, later, we might reduce them to words? All with an unspoken prayer that these hard-won truths might outlast the brief years of our lies.