A question for bloggers.

This is a question for other bloggers. I’m not sure what the etiquette is regarding social media and blog promotion.

Earlier today, I posted to my blog. As is my custom, I posted a link to the post on Twitter and to my Facebook profile. One of my friends then complained that I was spamming.

That gave me pause, because there are lots of people who post things I don’t want to see. I don’t report them, I just block their posts.

But it also made me stop and think: I have more than 400 Facebook friends, and of course they aren’t all interested in my blog. Am I spamming them? Am I violating social media etiquette by posting a link to my blog on my profile?

Facebook is an important social media tool and I plan to keep using it – both for myself and for my blog. But I want to be sure I’m using it correctly.

Can anybody help?

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Shutting down the Internet is bad, shutting down journalists is worse.

UPDATE: Anderson Cooper and two AP correspondents were beaten today in Egypt. Their stories are reported in the US  because they are Americans, but other journalists of other nationalities are being arrested, deported and abducted.

Now don’t get me wrong. I know everyone in Cairo right now is in danger. But because I’ve been a reporter, I sympathize with them. And of course, when journalists are attacked, the flow of information from Cairo to the rest of the world is hampered, and that’s not good for anybody.

Below is my original blog post from Tuesday.

It’s old news now, but Egypt revoked Al-Jazeera’s license to broadcast Sunday. This is no surprise. It’s not like Egypt was a big fan of the free press to begin with: In 2008, the government was working on a censorship bill, which required journalists to avoid damaging “the social peace”, “national unity”, “public order” and “public values”.  Bloggers and journalists have been complaining about increased censorship.

So I think Egyptian journalists have been expecting their accreditation to be revoked since last week, when all cell phone and Internet service was shut down by the government. That happened yesterday, and according to the L.A. Times and Bikya Masr, journalists, local and international, are being assaulted and detained. Their cameras and the cameras of people on the street are being confiscated.

Shutting down the public’s Internet and cellphone access to each other is a terrible thing. But to me, revoking the accreditation of professional journalists is worse. Why? Because although millions of people use cell service and the Internet, there are segments of the population that do not. I’m thinking of older people, the kind of people who get their news from television, the newspapers, and radio.

I don’t know whether newspapers and radio stations in Egypt are still operating, but when the television news is shut down, that’s a clear message to all citizens that blinders have been slapped on them by the government.

Despite the crackdown, there is, of course, news still coming out of Egypt. Al-Jazeera English is still operating, and The LA Times’  Babylon & Beyond blog is particularly good. Those reporters are getting that information at their own risk, and against stiff odds. I’m acquainted with one reporter over there, and I wonder what it’s like to report under those circumstances. Even though I don’t know the guy very well, I do worry about him and about his co-workers.

The censorship may backfire on the administration. More people, the ones who were staying indoors, watching the protests on TV, may take to the streets. And the government is asking for it. By shutting down the public’s access to information in a time of turmoil – which is when people most need their news sources – the government of Egypt is  demonstrating a disregard for its citizenry.

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Shoveling

The shovel has returned.

I woke up with a plan this morning: Coffee, shoveling, novel, in that order.

My plans to shovel were thwarted the instant I got out the door. I loaned the snow shovel to one of the neighbors, who is from a warmer clime and who looked like he needed to dig out his car in order to go to work. He accepted the shovel and took off down the street with it. That was an hour or so ago. Possibly he’s digging out a friend. Maybe he’s just running around, yelling “Whee, I stole a shovel.” Whatever he’s doing with the shovel, I haven’t seen him in a while.

I’m a little irked about this, because I  enjoy shoveling. There are a lot of reasons to like it: It’s cheap exercise, I get to interact with the neighbors, I get to be outside and there’s the instant gratification of physical labor.

But those aren’t the reasons I like shoveling.

I like shoveling because I can shovel any way I want to. I can shovel in a diagonal line. I can shovel in a circle. I can shovel half the steps and then decide to stop and go inside. I can shovel my name into the snow in front of our house.

I never do any of those things, but I can.

Why? Because of my childhood, of course. Read more

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The blue chair saga

This is a rant about, of all things, the blue chair in my office. It’s a paradise of a reading chair. There’s a lamp above it. There’s an ottoman. There’s a basket filled with magazines. There’s another basket filled with knitting supplies. There’s a nearby table with a fan on it for the heat in summer. It’s the warmest place in the room in winter. It’s perfect. It ought to be my favorite chair. Except it’s not, because I never sit in it.

It’s not because it’s uncomfortable. It’s simply because another creature is always in it. This has been going on for almost four years now, and today, I am giving up. Read more

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There was more to this post, but I’ve cut it.

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I’ve been writing and revising for the past few days, and I’ve noticed: the more words I cut, the better my stories. Good sections become stronger. Bad sections disappear.

I’m beginning to think the only perfect story is an empty page.

With that somewhat dadaist thought, I leave you.

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Writer Wednesday: Loving Flannery.

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The genius at home.

I love Flannery O’Connor, and that makes me a member of a very big club. Most writers I know list her as one of their inspirations.

I liked O’Connor before I even read her work, for one very superficial reason: Our names are similar. If I look at her book from across the room and squint, it almost looks like my name is on a very big book of collected stories.

Then I picked up the book and I learned to love her even more.

There are a lot of things to love. The spiritual nature of her work, her gentle but unflinching treatment of racial inequality in the South, and O’Connor’s dark sense of humor appeal to me. But the thing I love most about O’Connor is the way she creates her characters through dialogue. She believably creates the voices of bratty children, racist old men, gossipy women, pretentious intellectuals and crooks.

That’s no mean feat. Below the break is the craft essay I wrote for my MFA program about the genius of Flannery O’Connor’s dialogue.

Be warned – O’Connor wrote her stories in the early 20th century and dealt with issues of race, so there are some racial slurs in the essay below.

Read more

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For 2011: A little more hot chocolate, a lot less stress.

Today, one of my plans fell through.

I can’t identify the plan on this blog, but it doesn’t matter. It was something I wanted and it’s not going to happen. End of story.

Normally when something like this happens, I have a pretty scripted response. I freak out. In order to circumvent the cycle of disappointment and self-blame that my brain is about to initiate, I turn off my brain and turn on my mouth. I talk non-stop about went wrong. I follow my husband from room to room, babbling at him. As soon my husband appears to have reached the breaking point, I call my mother and talk to her for hours. I “casually” mention the thing that’s been bothering me to friends, thereby hijacking all conversation with my worries.

All of this is a desperate attempt to convince myself that I:

a) did the right thing

b) didn’t do the wrong thing

c) am not a bad person/irresponsible/ failure at life

d) should not blame myself

Usually all of this frenzied talking does nothing to make me feel any better. Usually it means I spend far too much time dwelling on the problem. I fret, I lose sleep, I don’t write, and despite all the reassuring evidence I’ve marshaled  to prove to myself that I am not a failure, I end up feeling like one.

It’s really about the worst coping strategy a girl could want.

So I am not doing it anymore.

One of my resolutions this year is to be a calmer person. This evening, to cope with my disappointment, I’m trying something different.

As soon as I got the bad news, I went downstairs and found my husband. We talked about our goals for this year and for the next ten years. After looking at our goals for the next several years, it turns out that one setback in 2011 is just a blip on the radar screen. It’s not worth worrying about, because we have bigger fish to fry.

I have huge goals for this year alone: I plan to finish my novel. I plan to publish at least one story in a literary magazine. I’m applying for fellowships. I’m going to try to publish a novelette this year. By the end of 2011, I hope to have at least made a dollar off my creative writing. I’m building a list of agents to query when the first draft of my novel is complete. I plan to get my website set up. And most importantly,  I will graduate this summer with my Masters of Fine Arts in creative writing.

Those are just the writing-related goals. I think they’re all feasible, and the fact that I can reasonably achieve all that makes any setback seem minuscule.

Now I’m kicking back with some hot chocolate and writing this blog post. I haven’t even called my mother.*

*To be completely accurate (and because I know she does read this blog sometimes) I did spend an hour and a half talking to her this afternoon. But not about this.

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Quitting Taurus.

This week has provided me with my opportunity to jump ship and I am taking it. I quit Taurus.

As you may have heard, earlier this week an astronomer announced that the signs of the Zodiac have changed over thousands of years, thanks to a wobble in the earth’s axis. As soon as it was posted, the Internet exploded.

On Facebook, the statuses run the gamut of human emotion.

Despondence:

“Nooooo, I don’t wanna be a Taurus! Anything but that!”

Defiance:

“They can’t make me switch to Capricorn!”

Elation:

“Yay! I’m still a unique Aquarius, and now I’m even more unique because there are less of us!”

Epiphany:

“Leo, huh? That explains some things.”

Regret:

“Shouldn’t have gotten that Scorpio tattoo.”

Confusion:

“OMG! I’m an Ophiuchus now? WTF?”

There were helpful people who attempted to use the Zodiac news as a teachable moment:

“Guys, this just proves that astrology is crap. God. You’re all so dumb.”

And other helpful people who’d taken a minute to do a Google search in order to allay our fears:

“This only applies to people born after 2009. So calm down, you don’t have to be a Taurus.”

I don’t get that last one. It probably took a long time for the Earth to change its orientation, so the Zodiac has probably been off-kilter for a while. But whatever. As someone who spent a lot of time in my 20s figuring out horoscopes and deciphering signs, I actually find the “change” freeing. I like the idea that we can pick and choose our signs. I can choose to be a Taurus, or I can decide to be something I like much better: Aries.

Unlike most of the above Facebook users, I’ve never really been attached to my sign. As a little kid I remember being appalled that my sign was the sign of the bull. Taurus.  Known for being the plodding, patient type who gets ahead through perseverance. Likes material things. Is stolid. Ugh. Stolid. What a word. I’ve read write-up after write-up on Taurus and, though I hoped to discover some of Taurus’s better traits in my own personality, I’ve failed to see myself in the sign. Not even the modifying factors of my rising and moon signs could make Taurus fit me. Taurus is good with money. I am not. Taurus is patient. I am not. Taurus can be dull. I should hope that I am not. I’ve exactly got two things in common with Taurus: I get a lot of sore throats and I have expensive taste. That’s it.

So I’m all too happy to leap on over to Aries, which corresponds much better with my personality. The ram. Needs to be number one. Likes to talk. Has a temper. Easily bored. Likes red. Wants to be the leader. That’s me!

So regardless of what the astrologers say and despite the fact that I spent a long time trying to champion the sign, I’m quitting Taurus. (Let the “tired of the same old bull” jokes commence.) From now on, I’m telling people that I’m an Aries. I’m reading the Aries horoscope. I’m going to (somehow) calculate my astrological chart as an Aries.

I’ll probably hold off on any ram tattoos, though.

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The pet problem.

We have an opening for an animal in our house.  We are definitely a two-pet household and after my cat died this fall, my husband and I entered into half-hearted negotiations about whether to get a pet, what kind of pet to get and when this adoption ought to take place.

Goober, indulging his little catnip problem.

Currently our only pet is Goober the cat, a contrary creature whose issues are myriad. He likes people but can’t stand being touched, can’t hunt prey animals but violently repels other predatory animals from our yard, and would rather eat grass than tuna. The list goes on and on.

Most people who meet Goober like him. He’s unobtrusive and has a doofy kind of charm. But our cat has a dark side.

We adopted Goober because we thought he’d be a docile companion to our older cat, Copy.  Now our vet blames Goober for Copy’s death in November. I have a lot of good reasons not to believe that, but I will admit that Goober made Copy’s life hell. It looked playful to me, but recently something happened that gave me pause.

Earlier this week, in preparation for the blizzard, we tried to let Boyfriend the stray cat into the house. Goober, a delicate, neutered creature, waited until Boyfriend’s head was just inside the door. Then he attacked, driving the intruder off our porch and into the yard. I thought Boyfriend, who fights nightly in summer and is missing part of an ear, would be able to handle Goober. In fact, I’d even been a little concerned about Goober’s safety. Now I’m concerned for any small animal that enters his domain.

That rules out several potential newcomers. We won’t be adopting another grown cat, because a challenge to Goober’s feline supremacy will mean blood. Hedgehogs, parakeets, small dogs, toddlers, pot-bellied pigs, small dinosaurs and possibly ponies are also out.

I think we have no choice but to adopt a dog. A large, tolerant, mellow dog. Since I’ve been wanting a dog for a year, this would work out well for me.

My husband however, disagrees. According to my husband, the only creature on this planet insane enough to withstand Goober without posing a threat fits inside a teacup.  I’m not sure it’s wise, but my husband wants to get a kitten.

So it’s either a dog or a kitten. Both of these are exciting choices, but we’re at an impasse. If anyone has any thoughts on this, I would really love to hear them.

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Revision day.

Today is the day I get down to business. Today is the day I make all adjustments and revisions to my manuscript before sending it off to my faculty mentor.

Revisions = arts and crafts. Those things on the floor are orphaned scenes.

This is a task I’ve been putting off, because it horrifies me. The first draft of this novel is not finished. Revising feels like going backwards. I don’t particularly want to read what I wrote in the first chapters. I hate having to put scenes in order when not all the scenes are written yet. I really hate the idea of making cuts to the manuscript this early in the game.
But since this is for a structured academic program, that’s what I’m going to have to do. And let’s face it: my mentor is probably going to want to read a draft with as few misspellings and typos as possible, so I have no choice but to make the manuscript presentable now.

The good thing is this: By the end of the day, I’ll have a very good idea about the shape of the story I’m trying to tell, and all of my scenes will be, roughly, in order.

So let’s do this thing – no Facebook, no Twitter, no email until I am done revising. I may have my husband unplug our router.

Clean manuscript or bust.

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