Category: 2021

[Blog]

Whelp, this is turning into a weird practice. But it’s all just part of learning social media, right?

This process arguably started with a comment under my [former post] on learning twitter. Here’s that comment I wrote:

“Update: 171 followers! And two new lessons I can add to my observations. First, I’ve had to comb through my followers due to some . . . I’m going to word that as weird interactions. I’ve set a date to comb through them again. Any profile that looks suspicious (like a private account with a two word bio) is getting blocked. Past experience from other places online says that I need to be ruthless. The other lesson? Misunderstandings abound. Non-absolutes are absolutes, and vice versa. Being on the internet is hard sometimes.”

I have also discovered that some people will follow me for a follow back, then unfollow in order to up their numbers. Increasing a follower count in general seems to increase visibility (beyond the obvious – I think it also increases it via the algorithm). But it’s disheartening to see people posting about monitoring their follower count or searching for people who drop them after a follow back.

That being said, I’ve also noticed A LOT of people who seem to seek out users to follow for the follow back for ONLY advertising purposes. And, yeah, social media is supposed to be part of our brand awareness / advertising campaign, but a twitter persona can still be more personable than a repetitive product page. I’ve opted not to follow back obvious advertisers. This leaves me in a bit of a weird dilemma.

Do I monitor my followers? What if someone follows me for a follow back but I lose them because the notification didn’t appear? (Yes, that really happens.) If it’s someone I might legitimately want to follow back, then I feel like I’m losing them in the shuffle of the algorithm. What about people who unfollow me after I follow them? How do I want to handle that practice? What if someone becomes an obvious advertiser, but they weren’t that when I followed them? And why do I keep getting weird interactions? Etc. Etc. Etc.

It’s VERY easy to overthink all this.

I’m still learning social media. And I have acknowledged on multiple occasions that, despite my age, I don’t really understand it. I don’t mind admitting that. I feel like I’m trying to create a twitter through one long, uncontrolled experiment that I barely know how to run. I clearly missed out on engineering an hypothesis and whatnot since, well, I keep trying different things without a clear agenda beyond learn the platform and connect with people / writers / readers / fellow sci-fi lovers. (And, yeah, anyone else who wants to connect, right? Within reason, I suppose. There’s a little note on this below at the end of the post.)

For now, I’ve decided to loosely sort through my followers (I think) about once every few months. I just want to see how I’m doing and how many people really do things like unfollow me after I follow back. I just went through it on my phone. Here’s a sampling of observations:

–I’m currently following about 200 people more than who follow me. Some of these are outside of the writing community (Sir Patrick Stewart, for example, is not going to follow me back). Following 856. Followers 658.

–Twitter seems to have missed notifying me about approximately a dozen followers since . . . whenever I looked through these last? This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, but I don’t recall a date.

–Felon Reviews? Really? Someone named their (fake) review service Felon Reviews. That’s not an advertisement. That’s a reminder that buying reviews is just another way of asking for the mighty hammer of Amazon to come crashing down on your books. Also, they’re way too expensive. The tagline (I think that’s what it’s called) lists them at $50-30 for review. Granted, that’s also not the order most people put those numbers in. I’m definitely not giving them a follow back.

–There’s an Indian guy who followed me who seems to tweet almost exclusively in hashtags. I decided to look at his page (turns out he’s an obvious advertiser). Almost every word is a hashtag! Even words like #the and #my

–There’s a private account that followed me that I don’t recognize. It’s set up to look like a gamer nerd, but I’ve learned to be weary of private accounts I don’t already know due to . . . well, um . . . some of those weird interactions I mentioned. I’m debating blocking it. It’s a French account, which is even weirder. Sure, I speak / read French, but I don’t really tweet in it. I think I’ve responded to a grand total of maybe two French tweets in French so far. That’s it. If I block this person, but it turns out that they know me, I wonder if they’ll tell me.

–“I am a ghostwriter and I identify as a ghost. WoOoOo/EeEeEm.” Really? Blocked.

–I’m no longer a student. Why did an obvious advertiser account for a HIGH SCHOOL TUTORING SERVICE (yes, it’s really in all caps) follow me? I’m not giving them a follow back.

–Why did a Korean book cover designer who tweets in KOREAN follow me? I think she’s looking for business, but I can’t read Korean. Also, I think she’s a cover designer? I may be wrong about that.

–A random guy followed me with the tagline #Minneapolis. He has a couple of standard anyone-could-have-said-it happiness snippets but ends it with just #Minneapolis. Why?

This has actually been more interesting to blog about than I thought it would be. I might do more posts like this in the future. (Note from the future: I did do this again [here].)

(By the way, I’m not following back anyone with political opinions that I consider problematic. I know, that sounds very closed off. I just got threatened in person the day before yesterday by an idiot in a Trump hat for . . . I don’t know, breathing? He was ranting about vaccines and waving around a court affidavit he’d written about how his own research debunked the CDC guidelines. Someone I know who witnessed this called him a whackjob. She had to intercede and ask him to leave since my repeated statements weren’t getting anywhere. I shouldn’t have to tell some idiot that I’m calling the cops if he really comes back with a gun. But, at this point, this is normal to me. It shouldn’t be, but it is. I’m not subjecting myself to that sh*t on social media too. In fact, I’ve been blocking those sorts of opinions. Anyone that expresses one gets a block. Because I refuse to deal with it on a platform that lets me block people.)

I’ve enjoyed designing my own covers in the past. That being said, I’m well aware that my own designs look amateur. I think there’s still some charm in my own designs, but I also recognize that I am more than a little biased. Historically, I have received a mix of comments on my book covers, ranging from strong praise (“That’s genius!” “I love it!” “It makes me want to look closer”) to troll-worthy cynicism (“Oh, Pah-lease!” “Just get a professional to do it! Obviously you can’t”). When someone wants to bash one of my books, the cover usually gets hit first. For example:

(I’m well aware this review isn’t displaying well. I’ve tried, but I can’t seem to fix that for the time being.)

I’m to the point in my professional journey where I’m having to reassess too many of the choices that I’ve previously taken for granted. That’s a fancy way of saying that I’m redesigning aspects of my author brand, marketing materials, sales objectives, etc. And I’ve come to a harsh realization: my old designs are holding my books back. I’m a passable artist, but not a professional when it comes to book covers. (Anyone familiar with my twitter may recall that I paint as a hobby. But, it’s just that: a hobby. My books mean more to me from a professional perspective.)

This wasn’t an easy decision to make. But, ultimately, I decided to have the cover redesigned. I’ve kept the old ones around where they’re findable on the site, but all future marketed covers will be designed by someone other than me.

I made (I think) around six prototype covers for It Began with a Dream. When I tested them, I ran into a lot of ambivalence. Since I have a presence on twitter now, I also reached out for opinions on social media. Most of what I heard back online amounted to gentle pushes to hire an artist. Here are several of the prototypes I made:

I still appreciate having made them. I’ll miss designing my own covers in the future, but I stand by my decision. The cover I have now looks beautifully professional:

It Began with a Dream is now published! I’m glad it’s finally released. It’s currently only in ebook form, but the paperback version will be released soon. This is the first time I’ve used a cover artist, so there are additional steps I have to go through for the paperback version. Historically, November means a noticeable dip in horror sales, so I made the decision to release the ebook version first. I discussed my journey with the cover in It Began with a Dream’s [cover reveal] post.

This is the part of the release post where I’m supposed to hype up the book and give you an irresistible offer. I do not find marketing intuitive at all, and I don’t mind admitting that. So, I will leave you with the summary. If my book interests you at all, please check it out. I’ll try to get some copies in the local libraries, but I no longer live in Virginia, so . . . . .

 

Goren would be perfectly satisfied living life off his father’s savings, content with no real aims or goals. However, it seems that life has other plans for him when, one night, he dreams of committing a grotesque murder as a blue-grey monster. His fractured brain puts him in denial. Then a friend tells him some horrible news: there’s been a murder. It’s a horrifying scene that’s put the city on edge. When Goren immediately starts recognizing the details, he jumps into panic mode. What happened to that monster? And what about that dream?

Oh, yeah, I’ll also give you this: [It Began with a Dream on Amazon]

 

(To those of you who question my post dates: Amazon emailed me on Wednesday to inform me that my ebook was officially published on their site on Sunday. I submitted it Saturday, so I think this is the fastest any of my books have made it through Amazon’s approval algorithm. I had a very long day yesterday and was so drained that my tweet got out, but my official website post did not. Today is Thursday, so I made this post this morning.)

[It Began with a Dream]

Phase 1

1

“Name?” A woman was speaking, sweet and calm-sounding. Like she was pretending to care.

“Goren.” I heard my own voice say. I was talking, finally. Thanks to that ghost. I could still feel the tingling up my arm, like a series of chilled needles were lingering just beyond my skin. I knew better than to shift position; that would only make it worse. So, I stayed still and endured it. I’ll admit I did tense and untense my feet, but that was not enough of a distraction for my weary brain.

“Your full name.” she said sourly, a distinct bit of impatience creeping into her. My eyes were still closed, but I could feel some disdain radiating off of her. That first nurse must have told her about me.

“Goren.” I repeated, listening to my own voice say my own name. Again. I was sounding a bit distant. The woman sighed, tapping her pen against something metal.

“Your father’s name?” She asked.

“Lee Henry.”

“Your father’s brother?”

“Harvey.” Why was she asking about him?

“Is your father still with us?” Not as a living human. Although that was a ghost I hadn’t seen yet.

“He died.” I said bluntly. That sounded so cynical out loud. I could feel my heartbeat flutter, knowing just how much that scared me. Seeing my father as a ghost? Just the thought of that was almost enough to put me in here again. My heartrate must have jumped on the monitor, but we both ignored it.

“How does that make you feel?” She asked. Was she joking? I was in a state hospital; they were not known to joke around. And I already knew she could read my heartbeat. Although I’d rather not think about her watching it – that would only serve to make it go faster. I was still staring at the insides of my eyelids. Glaring red with several marauding blood veins.

“This isn’t about that. Let’s talk about something else.” I insisted.

“Why don’t you want to talk about it?” She asked. Because then I might have to see you. And seeing you could mean seeing anything.

I didn’t explain. If I did, my voice would be dripping with self-loathing. Was that true? How would I know how he really felt. But it certainly felt true. And I certainly felt that it felt true. Because of course I felt that way.

“Do you know where you are?” She asked.

“In the hospital.” I shifted to tilt my head away from her. I felt like a toddler, stubbornly keeping my eyes shut. My hand began to grow cold. That was not a good sign.

“Good. Do you remember why you are here?”

“Yes.” How could I forget?

“Are you willing to talk about it?”

“You’re giving me a choice?”

“Maybe.”

“I never wanted to. . .”

“I know.” She interrupted me. My unspoken words clung to the tip of my tongue, jamming my mouth with dry air. A silence came and clung to the room, our only solace the vague humming of the electrical work. It was incessant, droning. Was I really going to talk about what put me in here? Vaguely, I heard her shift position. I’m sure she introduced herself, but I could not, for the life of me, remember her name.

Ahem. She cleared her throat. I suppose that was my cue. I should quit being childish, right? But keeping my eyes shut was so much easier! I could feel a freezing, airy massage moving up my palm – I knew I’d see someone there. But, slowly and begrudgingly, I did open my eyes.

It was Serena. I’d estimate her age at about ten years old. She was dressed up for some sort of occasion in a lace-covered, black holiday dress. Why was she still here? I didn’t know. But she was bouncing up and down with her thick, fancy-made curls, half-blocking my view of whoever it was that I could glimpse sitting behind her. I ignored whatever Serena said, choosing instead to look beyond her.

“I think you need to talk about it.” Declared the woman I’d been speaking with. Her eyes were staring into me, the brown of her iris framing a prodding abyss. I blinked, wondering if she was right.

“This is all confidential.” She clarified, gesturing with her hand to encompass what I thought I glimpsed as an old-style clipboard. “And it has no bearing on your residence.”

I thought I sensed some humanity in that. And what else? Empathy? She grabbed something from the table and reached it towards me: a clear cup of water. I tried to pull my arm out of the hospital sheets, maniacally detangling it like I was yanking up a stubborn vine. But of course that didn’t go right.

She gave up waiting and put the rim to my lips. I felt the rush as she tilted the water towards me. The rim itself was stiff, almost batting my teeth. I drank, feeling a pleasant, cooling soothe in my throat. But then it stung when it hit my stomach. Willfully, I finally got my hand out to grab it from her. I’m not helpless!

But then I saw my injuries. Well, I saw what felt like a miniscule portion of them. I had burn lines running up my arm, and bandages around the area between my index finger and thumb. How did that happen? All I remember was firing a gun!

Overtly-sweetly, the woman wrapped the cup into my grip, manually arranging my small, boney fingers with her’s. She gave me a rather patronizing smile, with a little tilt to her head.

Well, at least I knew how seriously she’d take me.

I gave the requisite awkward grin in return. I’d been informed by staff that I’d have to talk to somebody. Maybe if I scared her enough she’d just let me go.

I know. Wishful thinking.

But I began my monologue, adding in some dramatic flair:

“This wasn’t a dark nor stormy night. It was just a regular, everyday sort of night. One that could have happened to anyone. I didn’t choose this. You know that the events just sort of happened. They pulled me into them. Me, the hapless victim.” I could feel my voice trailing off. By now, she had retrieved my water cup and backed her way into her seat. She held a pen, poised and at the ready, her eyes intently watching me. I pointedly ignored the child ghost I felt playing with my fingers. But that chill was starting to spread up to my shoulder.

I continued:

“I am the sole inheritor of my father’s wealth. That’s been enough for me to live reasonably and comfortably alone.” I emphasized the word alone but she was already scribbling away with her pen. I took in another breath:

“I own my father’s old home, but I have no real work or goals in life. I suppose I was a ripe target. But, of what? Even I don’t know.” My dramatic façade was cracking, breaking into a near ramble. I think I was somewhat dodging the real subject. Although, she had brought up my father, and now I couldn’t quite refocus. She was staring at me. Her pen was poised in her grip, like a team’s banner at the ready.

“Get to it! I want to know what happened!” Serena was screaming at me, trying to climb up and jab her way into my viewpoint. The cold of her touch was creeping up, threatening to encroach on my torso and ribcage. Her knee made it up to the bed next to me, but she repeatedly passed through the real-world object. Involuntarily, my heartrate climbed. I didn’t need her screaming like that.

“It’s alright. I’m here to listen. I don’t judge you for any of this.” The woman was trying to reassure me, gesturing again over her clipboard. Her eyebrows had begun to fall towards the outer edges, a distinct blend of pity and intensity growing in her eyes. I can’t stand being pitied. Even in her, I could still see Shelley Osborne, someone who I was desperate not to think about.

I took in a deep breath, starting again:

“I don’t think I’m insane.”

“You’re not.” She interrupted me.

“Well. . .”

She was running a recording device. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now I saw the thin clip wire and dot-like lens around her ear. Seeing tech like that made my skin crawl. I could almost feel on my own skin where the wiring ran against her’s, like a fiery itch was burning just above the surface. Maybe it was better to just get this over with.

I began again:

“It all began with a dream. . .

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