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Twitter-pated

Sep30

In my never-ending quest to catch up with the 21st Century, I attended a Writers League of Texas workshop this weekend, and it was great. “Social Media 101” was taught by author Shennandoah Diaz, who is smart, funny, and not condescending. She raised my technology comfort level in a way unequalled since Carl Sagan almost managed to explain relativity to me on “Cosmos.”

My career spanned years of breathtaking technological advances for the masses. I was amazed when copiers nudged out carbon paper. Then my IBM typewriter lost out to a personal computer and WordStar. Although fearful of change, I had to make a decision: would I get kicked to the curb of the Information Highway and left for dead, or would I pull up my old lady panties and try to keep up?

Fortunately for me, I took up with my husband at a time when most people thought computers were more voodoo than advance. He was a “systems analyst,” which I spent several years defining for friends and family. First he had to explain it to me, and I dutifully memorized his words and repeated them mechanically when necessary. It didn’t really matter that I didn’t understand what he did; very few people did.

Years passed and technology took over: computer terminals, pc’s, copiers, faxes, scanners, laptops, netbooks, smart phones, and above all, the Internet. As a technical secretary at a high tech research consortium, I encountered the Internet before my husband. At that time there was nothing much on it but researchers and academics sharing esoterica. It’s not like you could turn to it to find the location of the nearest chili dog stand or anything of real importance.  For about fifteen minutes, I was actually ahead of my computer-jock husband on matters technical. That wouldn’t last.

Fast forward to now. I’m a writer. It’s no longer enough to write words for the ages; you have to build a media platform. I heard the other day that some employers won’t consider an interview if you don’t have a Facebook page; Shennandoah said there are lots of publishers who look for your Facebook page before they read your manuscript. If you don’ t have a presence on social media, your work of genius gets tossed, because they want writers who have the wherewithal to sell their books, and nowadays that means Facebook, Twitter, and whatever else rises to the top of the media bog thirty minutes from now.

I feel like someone turned up the speed on my treadmill and left me to fend for myself. If you’re reading this, you know I have a website and a blog. I also have a Facebook page. All of these wonders are courtesy of my daughter, who set everything up for me. Well, after all, I taught her to cook and use the bathroom, not in that order. Turnabout is only fair.

The next step will be Twitter, just as soon as I can deal with the idea that I tweet. It may take a while.

Moon, June, Tune

Sep8

I’ve been writing a long time. I used to type up original scripts for “The Man From U.N.C.L.E.” on my portable Royal typewriter. There are a number of giveaways in the previous sentence showing how long ago that was. Over the intervening years, I’ve written business letters, software user documentation, newspaper and magazine articles, short stories, and even a paean to Benbrook, Texas, that came close to qualifying as fiction. The one genre I’ve studiously avoided is poetry.

I am not a poet. (Picture Richard Nixon striking his pose before boarding the Marine One helicopter to oblivion.) It’s true. Whenever I’ve tried, forced by optimistic English teachers who until they ran into me thought there was a poet in everyone, I failed dismally. No Robert Frost nor Paul Simon am I, nor even the guy who composed the roadside Burma Shave ditties . My poetry most closely resembles limericks and the graffiti in the ladies’ restroom at the House of Pizza in Ft. Worth.

I always had a hard time understanding and interpreting poetry, too. It never said to me what it was supposed to say. A poem, supposedly a statement on the condition of humankind, to me was a commentary on fishing out of season in Bexar County. I dreaded each year when my teacher’s fancy turned to poetry. The poetry test always screwed up my average.

Therefore, it was with resignation I approached last week’s meeting of the San Gabriel Writers League. Our speaker, a poet. I had to be there to take the minutes, so I couldn’t plead a 24-hour case of bubonic plague. I went, determined to make the most of it and just wait for the bell to ring—er, I mean, wait for the meeting to be over.

Instead, I was blown away by Thom Woodruff, aka Spirit Thom, aka Thom World Poet, a somewhat less-than-sane Aussie who proceeded to tear down all my preconceptions about poetry and replace them with a new admiration for those who can put words together in that special way. Before I could hide behind my dignity, I was mimicking his gestures and repeating after him like a Moonie at a revival. It was fun, and more than that, I understood most of his poetry. It is cogent, clever, thought-provoking, and liberating.

Thom performs his poetry. In another time, he would be the storyteller, relating tales worth remembering by firelight, holding his audience in the palm of his hand. The lucky attendees at our meeting were just as rapt, sitting with eyes wide, mouths slightly agape, laughing, gasping, and applauding.  No wonder he’s also known as Thom the Circus.

This wasn’t exactly my first literary rodeo. Yet I was blown away, totally, by this one man’s poetry. If you get a chance to see and hear him, drop everything, put the hamburger meat back in the fridge, and get there as fast as your little feet will go. He’s a must-see, can’t-miss fandango.

http://thomworldpoet.blogspot.com/

 

 

A Chance Encounter

Aug21

Writers with a Sense of Place ClassI recently attended the Writers League of Texas Summer Writers Retreat in Alpine, Texas. This was my second retreat at Sul Ross, and they just keep getting better. Last year Karlene Koen taught me I DID have a book in me and that fiction is not a four-letter word. She is a dear mentor and friend. This year I took Joe Nick Patoski’s class, “Writing with a Sense of Place.” He gifted me with a boost in self-confidence as a writer and the knowledge I really do have a writer’s eye. He is a treasured new friend.

During the week of the retreat, he gave us several writing assignments, and one of my favorites was to write about a character we had met in Alpine. Here is mine.

Every time I come to Alpine I meet what I consider typical characters of the area. I usually meet older people, middle-aged to elderly, just your general grown-up. What makes this trip different is the young man I met on my way to class yesterday.

I work sometimes at an Austin high school, so I’m no stranger to the young’uns of our breed in their adolescent Blunder Years. As I approached the building, I caught sight of a strapping giant of a kid, obviously an undergraduate-type but with the face of a little boy. He looked like a balloon figure of an eight-year-old boy, blown up out of all proportion like the balloons in Macy’s parade. This man-child could have floated easily between Bullwinkle and Popeye on Thanksgiving Day.

He was neatly dressed in the ubiquitous, painfully blue West Texas jeans, definitely not stonewashed Levi’s, and a polo shirt, tucked in, of course. Instead of a backpack, he toted one of those shiny, aluminum briefcases. At first I thought it might hold his lunch, being the appropriate size for a lunch this boy would consume, but I soon realized it was on more serious business.

He got on the elevator with me, although he looked like he could build a staircase, much less use one. I smiled at him, to let him know I wasn’t one of those crabby old ladies, and he immediately grinned back and said, “Good mornin’, m’am.”

I smiled again and returned his greeting. He looked very pleased with the way the conversation was going.

“Are you taking classes here, too?” he asked, a touch of disbelief in his voice.

I explained I was here for a writers retreat and that I had come over from Austin. His face lit up, and he looked like he was going to wag his tail any minute.

“Oh, I’m from San Antonio!” The nascent connection solidified as I told him I grew up there.

The ride up one floor didn’t last nearly long enough, and soon we were wishing each other a good day. As he went down the hall, he looked as if I had made his day, meeting someone from “home” and all. He certainly made mine.