Lord love a duck, here's another reason why high-strung females like me ought to reconsider the whole Twitter thing. Apparently, a high-profile author who I will not name because I don't want to spread gossip and because I can SO easy see how this would (without a shadow of a doubt) happen to me if I were ever to work hard enough to become a multiple-time bestselling author whose books are made into movies, etc cetera...
Anyway, Famous Author got a not-wonderful review, and was not just ABLE, but perhaps COMPELLED to Tweet her frustrations to hundreds--probably thousands--of her closest friends. Imagine, being angry and having a megaphone, and really, that's what Twitter is, a high tech megaphone with a long, long range.
Can I just tell you how bad I feel for this brilliant author? Impulse and technology are dangerous bedfellows. That's so much worse than a reply-all accident, which is bad enough. (But really, who hasn't done that?)
Fortunately for Famous Author, in our rapid-fire-communication world, we'll all be Tweeting about something else in three minutes or less.
Peace, out...
Susan
Shoes and Online Socializing
The voices in my head are singing Til We Ain't Strangers Anymore by LeAnn Rimes and Bon Jovi
What I'm Reading: Night Passage by Robert B. Parker
When we moved, a year ago last January, Jim calculated that my shoes had cost five hundred dollars to transport, based on the number of boxes they took, truck space, mover-hours, etc. I don't know what method he used to calculate this--possibly husband math.
He staged a shoe-intervention.
He bought and installed some very nice shoe racks in our walk-in closet, and told me I could keep whatever would fit. If I wanted to buy a new pair, I had to donate or toss a pair. I muttered something like, "I should have held out for the house with two walk-in closets." Shoes are like carbohydrates and chocolate. They comfort me when I'm stressed. They fit, even if I've over-indulged in pasta and truffles. I am attached to my shoes. This is a fairly common phenomenon in women, I think.
Once the shelves were in the closet, though, my OCD tendencies made it impossible for me to keep a pair that wouldn't fit on the shelves. I couldn't have a pair sit on the floor. There must be order in the closet. (I'm sure Jim counted on this.)
I had to find new homes for several pairs. (Sigh.) I'm going to miss those oxblood snakeskin pumps from 1986. Oh well, the suit they matched went to Goodwill about ten years ago.
This morning, I had an email reminding me that five friends had invited me to join them on Facebook...
First it was the blog, then Shelfari. Then Google Reader to keep up with all the blogs I follow. I have a Twitter account, though I haven't uttered a Tweet. So far, I haven't done anything worthy of an alert that couldn't wait for a blog update. But when I run across a celebrity in a restaurant in Greenville, I am ready.
"Facebook will eat into your writing time," said Caution. "And what about Linked In, are you going to want to to that next? You have Linked In friends, too."
Caution and I aren't well acquainted, and I ignored her, as is my custom.
I set up a Facebook account, virtuously thinking I would spend an hour or so getting it set up, then log on once a day for a few minutes.
That was five hours ago, and I'm still playing with this thing. The first several messages I got were from my FRIENDS who had invited me to join, telling me that this thing is addictive, and I'd better watch out because Facebook will devour not only my writing time, but apparently also my sleep--and forget about Jazzercise.
I need a shelf for my online social sites... I'll Tweet if I find one...
Peace, out...
Susan
What I'm Reading: Night Passage by Robert B. Parker
When we moved, a year ago last January, Jim calculated that my shoes had cost five hundred dollars to transport, based on the number of boxes they took, truck space, mover-hours, etc. I don't know what method he used to calculate this--possibly husband math.
He staged a shoe-intervention.
He bought and installed some very nice shoe racks in our walk-in closet, and told me I could keep whatever would fit. If I wanted to buy a new pair, I had to donate or toss a pair. I muttered something like, "I should have held out for the house with two walk-in closets." Shoes are like carbohydrates and chocolate. They comfort me when I'm stressed. They fit, even if I've over-indulged in pasta and truffles. I am attached to my shoes. This is a fairly common phenomenon in women, I think.
Once the shelves were in the closet, though, my OCD tendencies made it impossible for me to keep a pair that wouldn't fit on the shelves. I couldn't have a pair sit on the floor. There must be order in the closet. (I'm sure Jim counted on this.)
I had to find new homes for several pairs. (Sigh.) I'm going to miss those oxblood snakeskin pumps from 1986. Oh well, the suit they matched went to Goodwill about ten years ago.
This morning, I had an email reminding me that five friends had invited me to join them on Facebook...
First it was the blog, then Shelfari. Then Google Reader to keep up with all the blogs I follow. I have a Twitter account, though I haven't uttered a Tweet. So far, I haven't done anything worthy of an alert that couldn't wait for a blog update. But when I run across a celebrity in a restaurant in Greenville, I am ready.
"Facebook will eat into your writing time," said Caution. "And what about Linked In, are you going to want to to that next? You have Linked In friends, too."
Caution and I aren't well acquainted, and I ignored her, as is my custom.
I set up a Facebook account, virtuously thinking I would spend an hour or so getting it set up, then log on once a day for a few minutes.
That was five hours ago, and I'm still playing with this thing. The first several messages I got were from my FRIENDS who had invited me to join, telling me that this thing is addictive, and I'd better watch out because Facebook will devour not only my writing time, but apparently also my sleep--and forget about Jazzercise.
I need a shelf for my online social sites... I'll Tweet if I find one...
Peace, out...
Susan
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