Twitwit

I will be the first to admit that I am not, nor will I ever be, a technology-savant. It took me ages to join Myspace (when that was still popular) and I only recently started using Twitter. My first hundred posts were a jumble of questions centering around how to use the bloody thing--which really notified my ten followers of the imbecile I really am. Upon review, I've taken note of how easy it actually is, and what a simpleton I've grown into. And so, I coined the phrase twitwit, a twitter-nitwit, which sums me up to a tee.

Here's the thing. I am crap at networking. I turn to the gorgeous and talented, Noelle Pierce, who happens to know everything about everything about anything about anything when it comes to networking. Every day I am rendered speechless by this woman's ability to spread herself around. (Well, that didn't sound good) What I mean is, this girl is everywhere. Her Facebook friends grow daily, she has more Twitter followers than I have hair on my head, and she seems to just keep it all together. I still choose to believe a HootSuite is an accommodation for owls.

I, on the other hand, am a mess of posts here and there, snippets all over the place, and random comments on everything under the sun. When I post, I am unsure whether I should sign with my email, my twitter link, my blog link or my website link. How on earth did I get on so many platforms? Since when did I think it was a good idea to have a website? And why did I get it into my head that the world wanted to know what I had to say? I'm just a persnickety Canadian with misanthropic tendencies and a wry sense of humor, nothing special.

While I spend my time wondering how I can get more Twitter followers (for what reason, I do not know) I find myself pondering what I have done. At one point in time, I was shy about my writing and I would have never in a thousand years posted my book, short stories, flash fiction, or horrible poetry on the Internet. I didn't want my sister to read my junk, let alone some Englishman on the other side of the world who is sipping a nice cuppa tea and eating a delicious biscuit. And yet, here I am, posting my work with some sort of authority.

It's as though I am saying, I am T.L Tyson and you better take notice. When in reality, I don't know what I am doing and should probably be flying under the radar. It's one of my best kept secrets, I'm on the road trip of life, but I don't have a map. Well, that's the beauty of the Internet, isn't it; the ability to reach a bunch of people while not knowing your ass from a hole in the ground. (That was a cliche, by the way, something people shouldn't use when writing, but alas, I am a rule breaker.)

Don't get me wrong. I kinda enjoy all this tech-stuff. And lord knows I always have something to say, though the degree of importance ranges from not important at all to super not important. There really is very little grey area. Regardless, I am heading off to check my twitter to see if anyone mentioned me in their tweets. Oh, and I came up with the term twitterati today. It's twitter intellectuals who know what they are doing and who use terms like tweep and know what #FF means. (I am not part of the twitterati.)

Note to self: don't contemplate networking or the importance of my own blog. It's like the Bermuda triangle-there's no way out. Oh well, I suppose I can rest easy knowing that no matter what happens to me, my sites will live on forever. Oh, wait. That doesn't make me rest easy, that scares the crap out of me. Tonight I will pray, and my prayer will be: Please don't let my grandkids google me. Please don't let my grandkids google me. Please don't let my grandkids google me.

And if you were wondering, this blog post has been created while I am supposed to be writing. Well, it isn't a secret, I procrastinate like no one else.