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Tips for Tweeters

Twitter etiquette is evolving, but common sense always rules

On twitter, posts are limited to 140 characters and are known as tweets. From searching around reading various posts, I have come up with what I think makes an interesting tweet:

  • Like any other form of communication, have something to say that is interesting. If all you can think of is something plain and boring, find a way to link it to some other idea.
  • Think of the haiku. It is beautiful, poetic, descriptive and it is focused on one subject.
  • Don’t get too carried away with symbols and abbreviations; people need to be able to figure out what you mean.
  • Even though abbreviations and casual communication are the form on twitter, careless spelling and grammatical mistakes are going to make you look bad. Before you hit submit, think about your career, your family, your future goals. If the post isn’t going to help those things, or will hurt it, don’t post it.
  • Don’t feel you have to post with any certain frequency; I have noticed some people feel they have to post all the time, and they end up having a lot of silly, embarrassing or even irritating posts. I prefer people who post when they have something interesting to say and remain quiet the rest of the time.
  • I recommend not sending out direct advertisements or proposition unless the fact that you will is spelled out in your profile description; that way way only people interested in your spiel will sign up as a follower.  Instead, people seem to have good luck sending a link to a blog or web page that they have written on something interesting, that can provide promotional links.
  • Something different stands out: a clever joke, recipe, math puzzle, interesting description.

 

 

Some good blogs on twitter:

 

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Frozen Haiku

Cold December day

Starlings pecking street gutter,

fast food bag blows by.

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Arrival of the Holiday Spirit

Christmas Tree 2008The holiday spirit doesn’t just automatically appear on the same schedule for me each year. I try, though; usually I put up the Christmas tree and decorations on Thanksgiving Day. I started that process this year, but my heart wasn’t in it. Some technical difficulties with the tree lights delayed the decorations a few days, and kept the spirit at bay.

The universe tried to help me out this year as well. The few times I had to drive somewhere, I felt a mild annoyance that my two favorite radio stations are all Christmas music, and have been for a couple of weeks. My parents even sent me my Christmas presents early, perhaps to make up for their having to cancel plans to visit us for Christmas. I got some nice sweaters and a digital camera I’ve been wanting.  But still I felt nothing in the spirit.

So when the date of our annual Holiday Open House was drawing near, I saw it as work instead of the usual joy. Menu planning, shopping, picking out candles, trying to get some of the dust off the woodwork. But the tree, second attempt, turned out beautifully. The party preparations went according to plan, and as  Saturday (party day) wore on, I found myself less harried than usual.

When the food was put out, the candles lit, the tree plugged in, holiday music started, I thought, “Oh, this all looks nice. My entertaining skills are improving.” Still, no real joy.

About 10 minutes before the first guests were to arrive, I looked out the window and saw it was snowing. A wet snow, not hard, not sticking to more than grass and parked cars, and that only a small dusting, but still it seemed it was snowing just for my holiday party. And the guests arrived, a good mix of people bearing wine and candies. They circulated with each other, we had great conversation. Everyone complimented the tree and the food. The punch bowl was steadily emptied, but not too quickly. No one got too drunk. Everyone stayed just the right amount of time.

As I was laughing, talking, gossiping, drinking punch, I failed to notice that I was starting to feel festive, and starting to enjoy myself, starting to be glad it was the holiday season. The joy spilled over to the clean up, which seemed so much less work than the preparation.

Today, Sunday, I watched three holiday movies on television.  A Christmas Carol, the 1938 version with Reginald Owen, my favorite. It was free “on demand.” Then I watched the last half hour of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on AMC (Gene Wilder version), a movie called Prancer on AMC, and the 1984 George C. Scott A Christmas Carol. The spirit of Christmas Present is here. I’m ready to get out my favorite holiday DVDs, and maybe buy some eggnog.

 

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The Writing Graveyard

One of my new year’s resolutions for 2007 was to reconnect to my longstanding desire to write novels. Over the last ten years I have worked as a professional writer doing business writing and publicity for various organizations but somehow none of the personal, fictional projects I’ve started have ever amounted to anything. Over the past ten years I have carried these fits and starts around countless apartments and homes in six states. Somehow they have all been corralled into a folder, labeled “Personal Writing.”

In a fit of fall organizing I was going through my files this morning and I came across this folder. I have recently begun work on a mystery novel I am very excited about; excited, that is, until I saw the fate of my past projects. Today I realized it was not my skill or perseverance that was lacking in the past projects. It was that I had crappy ideas. We all have to start somewhere, though, and obviously I cannot do any worse than I already have. The contents of my cherished “Personal Writing” folder are as follows:

1. About one-third of an epistolary fantasy novel to be co written by a friend, this was to be a novel set in a medieval setting involving a corrupt priest. We worked on this while living in different parts of the country, and before the internet exploded, so I have each chapter in an envelope we used to mail them back and forth to one another.

2. The first chapter and lots of scribbly pages about a young photographer with major anger management issues, his girlfriend and her gay coworker with substance abuse problems. I envisioned this as a poetic novel, a combination of poetry and prose “seamlessly woven into one story.”

3. A book about an odd misfit named Mr. Petersen (I never intended to give him a first name) who works in a high rise office building downtown and drinks tea out of china cups at his desk. This was to be a scathing critique of modern corporate life. Since I have never worked for a large corporation and never had a cubicle I don’t know how I intended to accomplish this feat.

4. I have what seems like reams of notes for an epic poem to be on the subject of a butterfly flying across a field, up a mountain and back down to a lake for a drink of water. Working title: “Water Beside the Mountain.”

5. In 1991 I started a fantasy novel (and I should point out that I have read maybe a dozen fantasy novels in my life)   about a precocious boy who is able to will anything into being that he focuses his thoughts on. In doing so, he has taken over the country’s political power and wealth abnd the novel was to be about a group of spoiled young people trying to overthrow him and reclaim their rightful rulership. If I knew anything about writing fantasy this could be an interesting idea, except I kept writing in my notes I wanted this to be comical.  Also, I recall this whole idea was inspired by a Dan Fogelberg song.

6. I have 27 copies of the first chapter of a proposed novel about a college professor remembering when his friend was killed in college contrasted with this professor’s son as a freshman in college. I have the vast copies because I used this as a presentation piece in a creative writing class I took my senior year of undergraduate school because I procrastinated too long and had nothing else to turn in. I wish I could find them all and apologize for inflicting that on them.

 

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1919 Pulitzer: Magnificient Ambersons, Melodramatic Tragic Novel from 1918 that still has something to say to us

ambersonsThe Magnificient Ambersons by Booth Tarkington. Winner of the 1919 Pulitzer Prize for Literature. An engaging book, despite at several points wanting it to move along faster. The first half of the book is well constructed, and interesting because the central character is not presented as a likable fellow. Foreshadowing and hiding of the mother’s relationship with Morgan is transparent and yet it isn’t clear how intended this was. The climax of the book is understandable on a human level, but was probably more compelling to readers in 1918. The last part of the book– destruction of the family, chemical worker, run over by a car, psychic– all seem too much for believeability today.

Also, the book is a bit melodramatic, the tragedies a bit too constructed. But I did enjoy it.  I see why it won the Pulitzer: it is an American story. This could take place in almost any American city of the period; I seemed to reference St. Louis but it could have been in a dozen different places.

The romance between Georgie and Lucy seemed real, probably the most real part of the book.

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