Here’s a special Story Time Saturdays reading in honor of The Husband’s birthday. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that the video quality sucks on this one, but that’s probably because Birthday Boy himself was the one manning my camera. Ah well, close your eyes and imagine I’m reading you a bed time story, too.

 

Hit send. Hit send. Hit send.

It’s the twitter mantra of the brave who have made it to the land of The End on their respective projects. There’s plenty of talk of nerves and sweaty palms and hyperventilation and total and absolute fear. I’ve heard it can be paralyzing, that fear. I’ve even seen ongoing twitter conversations in which one writer would be cheered on by a cast of supportive friends until they finally ignored the nerves just long enough to HIT SEND.

And then the twittersphere erupts in silent cheers and exclamation points of happiness.

So I was a little surprised when I realized how easy it actually is to Hit Send. I haven’t had one nerve go haywire or had to wipe a sweaty brow. I’ve just, quite simply, hit send. And it isn’t until the response appears in the inbox that the nerves hit, the palms get sweaty, and the hyperventilating begins because it is at that very moment that I have lost all control over what will come to be.

Hitting Send doesn’t scare me. But I’ll be honest. There are plenty of nerves, two very sweaty palms, and some slight hyperventilating going on as I click the email open to see what’s in store.

 

There’s a certain writer who’s memoirs I used to devour. Each and every book made me feel like I was having a conversation with a really good girlfriend…with toe-nail painting and glasses of wine and the gab-fest spanning into the wee hours of the morning.

And when I found this writer on twitter, I went all fan-girl and followed. Fast. But I didn’t send a tweet right away. I didn’t want to seem desperate, you now.

Instead, I waited for one of her tweets to come across that seemed a natural for a response from a fan. I wasn’t too surprised when I didn’t get an immediate tweet back. I have 2 thousand followers. She has, um, way more than that. But I still had hope since I saw plenty of interaction with other fans. Maybe I just hadn’t said anything interesting yet.

So I tried again.

And again.

And again.

Still.

Nothing.

Coincidentally, I had just purchased one of this writer’s books. I had made it to the second chapter in the book right around the time I started talking to myself on twitter, and found myself wanting to pick up the book less and less with each ignored tweet.

Granted, the account may be manned by an assistant. Or maybe my stuff just isn’t being seen for some reason. God knows how many tweets this writer has coming in any given moment from adoring fans. But no matter how I rationalized not being acknowledged, I was still finding myself less and less interested in reading that book.

It took a conversation with TBFF Juliette for me to figure out why. I was rambling, like I usually do, about Stuff that Doesn’t Matter, including this very topic, when I suddenly had an epiphany. (That automatically made this a blog post because I don’t have those very often.)

“I know I’m not famous or anything, but I see her interact with other regular people.” I said. “But she writes memoir! That alone is like being allowed to peek inside her head. And not even getting a single “hi” or even a “thanks for the tweet!” makes me feel like she doesn’t want me there.”

“Makes sense,” Juliette said.

“It does?” I was stunned I said something that qualified. “Wait! It does! If she was writing fiction, I wouldn’t be nearly as annoyed. Fiction writers create worlds, but they don’t take you inside their own. And to me, it only makes sense to try and interact fully, if interacting at all, to make sure fans feel like that world is accessible. Instead of welcome, I feel like I’m eavesdropping on a private conversation with the rest of the world every time I try to open that book back up.”

 

It has come to my attention that for some totally jacked up reason, my blog is having a problem with Safari browser users. In short, if you use Safari and try to leave a comment — you ain’t gonna get anywhere.

Firefox seems to work great and I haven’t heard of any other complaints yet from Totally Confused Readers. So I’m not really sure what to do. My Totally Awesome Tech Guy is addressing the issue as he has time, but for now, I’d like to ask readers who can’t comment to email me at AspiringMama (at) Gmail (dot) com. I might even find a spare second to post the comment for you.

That’s the Public Service Announcement for the day. I have an Agent Search to dive back into.

 

Remember my love affair with my business cards by Marlynn Schotland of Urban Bliss?These bad boys were my inspiration for my hand-painted business card holder that I made at the Color Me Mine store. And I so can’t wait to pass them out at Blogher10!

Yes, little things make me happy. And now I have a business card holder, for my desk, in my upstairs office of my house, for me to have them conveniently available to…look at while I take care of the dishes in my yoga pants.

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