Writers Write

Alone in Twitterocity

In a local newscast last week, the anchor reported a car accident and a hail storm. The traffic mishap was in China. The hail storm was in North Carolina. The newscast originated in San Antonio, Texas.

I’m not sure whether the talking head ripped a page from a wire service or the conglomerate that owns the TV station delivered the same local stories nationwide. Surely, San Antonio hasn’t run out of drive-by shooters and child pornographers. Those stories are still out there. Why report the traffic in Shanghai?

I’ve been on Twitter lately. I went to a publishing seminar that emphasized networking. I’m finding it hard to put myself out there. I can join, but I can’t engage. So much of it seems like the cool kids table in the school cafeteria. People tweet who they know, and it makes sense. For a new kid in school, twitter is like reading the back of a cereal box. I read because it’s in front of me. It’s easy. Hit View conversation and the line of lols and @s expands ad nauseum. But, I don’t know what to say.

“I like Harry Potter.” Who doesn’t?

“#amwriting” Not if I’m staring at Twitter.

“Now available on Kindle for .99 cents.” I hope not.

I’ve started following whoever is suggested, but I feel like I’m watching the news in China from my living room in Texas, and it isn’t as gripping as Tiananmen Square or the earthquake in Chengdu. I’m disconnected. So, what’s a want-to-be-published novelist to do?

If you’re also out there alone among the Twitterocity, look me up. I’m @crisplyspoken. Just say hey or talk about the weather in the Outer Banks. I’m good with that. Maybe, we’ll start our own lunch bunch.