I wonder.  Part of what drives me to write is the joy of creation, much the same joy that I feel when I knit, crochet, sew (but not when I play mindless computer games).  Writing is like piecing together a quilt, or watching a deceptively simple looking pattern unfold from an eye-crossing knitting schematic.  Unfortunately, I cannot wear my writing (except on my sleeve) like I can wear the scarves, shawls, sweaters I create.  I can’t even use my writing to cover my bed like I would a quilt (well, technically I could, but it wouldn’t be as warm and cozy).  If I were a full-time writer, or even a full-time knitter, crocheter, sewer, this would not be too much of a problem.  But I am a writer with a day job, something that has nothing to do with writing novels or stories, or knitting up scarves and shawls, or piecing quilts.  Time is finite and I want to do it all — the whole creative process that, for me, starts with the hands (knitting, crocheting, sewing, typing, hand writing) and continues through the mind.  However and whenever the words make it to the page, I am a writer.  It’s not the frequency of my writing.  It’s just the fact that I do write.

Well, I’m here now, and I think that’s all that really counts …  And it’s not like I’ve been totally unproductive.  During my hiatus, I’ve had the pleasure of coming across a delightful blog called Dollar Bin Horror.  It’s a fun blog by “Rhonny Reaper” (not entirely her real name, of course) where she writes about finding great horror films for cheap and also interviews horror writers.  Yes, one of my (many) guilty pleasures is horror films, especially the old classics with Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi, and Roger Corman films.  Check out Dollar Bin Horror and see why I’ve been smittened.

I was wondering when, if ever, the mind-numbing ubiquity of social media would catch up with us.  Are we really “products just to be harvested.”  Is that all social media has to offer:  a commodification of ourselves?  We are valued by the number of followers we have on Twitter, by the number of friends we have on Facebook, by the number of social media where our blogs are listed, by the number of pictures in which we are tagged.  We become the merchandise that we sell.  So what happens with that other product–our writing–that was the point of all this social media?  At least for someone like myself, who came to the game rather late, the writing suffers the most.

2. Annual Fees and Costs. a. The fee for inclusion on the website is $149.00 per year, regardless of the number of books that each author features on the IR site. The fee for submitting the first book is included in the annual fee, however, there will be a submission fee of $25 for each book after the first. b. This fee is NON-REFUNDABLE.

IndieReader.com is a business and as such should charge fees, and it should reserve its right to reject books that don’t meet its standards.  Yes, that makes it sound more like traditional publishing with all its gatekeepers, but IndieReader.com holds the promise of access to good writing, regardless of the author’s name recognition.

My suggestion:  Why don’t we start by not using the word “fat” to describe people.  It’s derogatory, not descriptive.  It demoralizes rather than motivates.  And it’s an industry fed by celebrities, Big Pharma, agribusiness … (pun intended) that needs consumers to be self-conscious about their weight in order to survive.  Best quote: “Americans equate body size with Puritan values. Thin means self-discipline and hard work; fat implies laziness, gluttony and lack of willpower.”  Watch enough TV and you’ll see ads for weight-loss gimmicks following ads for all you can eat country buffets. How can we demand self-discipline when our society relentlessly throws temptation in our way?  Maybe I’m just bitter because I know I’ll never see 120 again (unless I get ravished by cancer), or maybe I just want to enjoy life (and some chocolate) while it’s here.

For most of my life, I found the reality of “being me” often hard to bear.  Like Merkin, “I was fascinated by people who had the temerity to bring down the curtain on their own suffering,” people like Virginia Woolf, Anne Sexton, and Sylvia Plath, who also just happened to be writers.

Merkin takes us on a journey from her most recent bout of deep depression, through her attempts at recovery in a clinic, and, finally, to a seemingly spontaneous resolution.  Granted, this is her own personal story, and others who suffer from chronic depression might have very different experiences.  As with so many other ailments, both physical and psychological, one size does not fit all.  But I finished Merkin’s article feeling heartened, at the least because the fog lifts just enough for her to imagine a life without it.

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I’m a daily user of both Twitter and Facebook, and I love how these apps have expanded my world to include like-minded souls that I might otherwise never have “met.”  I find both to be necessary to my growth and exposure as a writer; yet, I use them quite differently.  With Facebook, I’m connected to family and friends, not just writing groups and colleagues, so my expectations of “status updates” are quite different than they are for Twitter.  But I initially joined Facebook as an aunt wanting to be more connected with her nephews and nieces.  I joined Twitter as a writer, with a very different set of expectations.

Bai likens Twittering to the “jabbering [of Tom Hanks on his island] to his battered volleyball so as not to lose touch with his own existence.”  I am perpetually surprised by how many Twitterers feel compelled to note their every move and thought.  I’ve considered “unfollowing” some Twitterers simply because the ratio of mundane vs profound tweets is much too great.  How many tweets about “going out for coffee” or “just woke up” must I slog through before I can find that one good tweet that links me to a good blog or essay or article on writing?  I can’t imagine anyone (not even my friends and family) caring a twit about whether and when I got out of bed; whether I liked my coffee or think it’s a lovely day; whether or not I’m going to shave my legs or try to wax them.

I realize that many if not most Twitterers are communicating with friends and family and so such comments might actually be encouraged and enjoyed.  Then why not have separate Twitter accounts–one personal, one professional–and spare those follow you out of professional interest from having to scroll (seemingly endlessly) through tripe.  It can be done.  It wouldn’t be difficult, and it would be interesting to see how your camp of followers might divide up.