TWITTERHOLICS ATWONYMOUS

‘Adtwentures in Twitterland’ I called it, the post about my befuddled entry into the wonder of Twitter. But that was over a year ago.

I know how it all works now. These days I promote two novels on there, when I remember that’s what I’m supposed to be doing, although since I’ve only ever once bought a book seen on Twitter (pause to listen to the chorus of clicking authors unfollowing me) I’m not convinced it sells many.

The good news first: I’ve got some wonderful twittermates, and I’ve now met four of my favourites in person. Unbelievably, this includes the top flamenco artist with whom I’d started doing a language exchange (we’ve even done a bilingual radio show together) – although we’ve rather moved over to Skype these days. I’m grateful to Twitter for putting some very special people in my life.

Possibly also good news: I’m more aware of current events, and by following the right people I can be fed all the latest about dance, music, flamenco, Spain, Lindt chocolate flavours… Great. But do I have time for all this, as well as all the banter with my twiends?

I did, when my tweeting was confined to the computer. But then I got a mobile with internet, and now… Well, a study has showed that Twitter is harder to resist than cigarettes or alcohol, and I can believe it.

Are you going to join me at Twitterholics Atwonymous? Take my test and see how you rate. Twitterholism (IMHO) can be measured by three main features. I’ve added my own shameful examples to set the ball rolling.

 

1. TWIVIALITY

How often do you tweet absolute drivel? It’s not a good sign; you’re starting to see your daily life in terms of tweetability.

Almost Daily            Score 2

Sometimes              Score 1
Never                      Score 0

@CherryRad examples:

·       Sandwich choices on plane: ham and cheese, bacon and cheese…#Queasyjet
·       Aaaaaa-TCHOO!!! :-((

2. TWIMEWASTING

How often do you waste a significant  / worrying amount of your day on Twitter? E.g. you later realise you could have finished a book chapter.

Almost Daily            Score 4

Sometimes              Score 2
Never                      Score 0

@CherryRad confession:

Too many days there’s an extra hour in bed in the morning while I catch up with Twitter and its newsfeeds. This morning in fact, instead of getting on with the monthly blog post. So I changed topic and decided to shame myself on here.

3. INATWENTIVENESS

How often are you on Twitter when loved ones are with you in the room or needing you elsewhere? And no, if they are also on Twitter at the time, that doesn’t make it any better.

Almost Daily            Score 4

Sometimes              Score 2
Never                      Score 0

@CherryRad confession:

I’ve left a teenager waiting to be picked up at a freezing station while I finished a gripping twonversation. Although I did send him a tweet with emojis to apologise :-/

 

ARE YOU A TWITTERHOLIC?

Score <3/10: No. You have admirable control / infrequent internet access

Score 4-5/10: Mild Twitterholic. Careful.
Score >6/10: Twitterholic. I’m at 6. Where are you? From TODAY, let’s beat this thing.

PS I just did a Google search and found a long list of signs of Twitterholism. Including: You still think adding "Tw" to words is clever. #ohtwuck

 

 

 

 

ADTWENTURES IN TWITTERLAND - Retwisited

Here’s the post about my befuddled entry into Twitter. In all its happy innocence. Read, and then I’ll give you an update…

 

‘Facebook yes, but I’m just not doing this Twitter thing,’ I emailed my publisher.

An emergency meeting. An impossibly young thing from Marketing, an illustrated hand-out. Sipping tea while watching myself christened @CherryRad and assigned a ‘profile’ that would surely make the Twitterworld think I was the sassy salsera on my book cover – was that a good idea?

Although a flutter of interest when a handsome famous ballet dancer suddenly popped up and ‘followed’ me – perhaps thinking Men Dancing was a technique book. Next came a grinning fellow author woman from Texas with whom I was a perfect match with regards to genre, piano playing and chocolate. I was allowed home once I’d been seen graciously reciprocating their followships.

The idea, I’d been told, was to attract Followers. Before my novel was even out. Utterly ludicrous. But I set to, feverishly clicking Follow next to every woman claiming to be an avid reader and/or Strictly Come Dancing fan. Tweets: 0, Following: 83, Followers: 7 (but including my publisher and the local pizza take-away). Occasionally pausing to reward myself with some non-productive following of top flamenco artists, marvelling at their real-time exchanges about a show or a plate of tapitas.

Impossibly Young emailed to say well done, but now Tweet. Meaning create clever <140 character sentences designed to sell the book, you-are-a-writer-after-all. I wasn’t sure about that, but nervously put out thoughts about the usual things I bang on about – writing, Spanish, music, dance and chocolate.

Something happened. A host of characters started to emerge – I felt like I’d fallen down a hole and entered an extraordinary new world. Yes, people do say what they’ve had for breakfast. Yes, I’m ‘followed’ by individuals with inexplicable motives (war veterans, hot rod racers and female porn stars), and a stream of people shouting about their novel or steadily working their way through a book of quotes. Can’t like everyone; worlds are like that. But I now enjoy the company of some wonderful human beings with whom I’ve got much more in common than many of the people I call friends. They’ve taken over my instruction; questions about Retweets and #hashtags prompted a flurry of helping hands. We share our passions and humour, good days and bad. I’m now Tweets: 589, Following: 347, Followers: 400. Books Sold: who cares.  Oh, and I’m swapping languages with my favourite flamenco artist in the vaulted Direct Messaging area. #Whowouldhavethought.

 

HOW I TURNED FLAMENCO... and had a Flamenco Baby!

It’s been a slow seduction. Starting with a bit of flamenco ‘fusion’ (Ketama) and ‘chill’ (Chambao) bands in the car in Spain. Followed by my partner’s playing of these and some guitarist albums (Vicente Amigo, Tomatito) at home – for years, he says, with no comment from me. That doesn’t mean I didn’t like them, I protest, but they were just warm Spanish background music; I was into musical theatre at the time.

But maybe there was some subliminal education going on there, because when I went to my first Flamenco Festival at London’s Sadler’s Wells I was so inspired that I decided to use flamenco as a resonant element in my new novel. Research was needed, so I started flamenco dance classes (read the August 2011 post!) and had to take a course in Granada – where I… well, started to turn into a flamenca.

The music took over my iPod and car, the classes intensified; I became entranced by the complex rhythms, the excruciating beauty of those exotic chords, the discordance, the sensuality of it all. Nowadays, even the florid cante (singing) – that used to have me giggling and fast-forwarding – hits me in the gut with its raw emotion.

It isn’t just the music. I also seem to have been taken over by flamenco’s live-in-the-moment ways, where the only things to worry about are being fuera de compás (out of time) or being told ‘no me dice nada’ (you’re not saying anything). I write flamenco: I have ideas as to where the story will go, but let the characters come in and do what they will with it – as long as they keep to pace. Strangely, this creates more truthful and intricate plots than I could devise with my brain. I’ve even started to think flamenco, with less fretting over the future…

Is all this a good thing? Well, there are drawbacks. Such as an increase in dust, clutter and unopened letters round the house. And I’m more easily distracted than ever; there are powerful tracks in my car – like ‘Dos Punales’ (Two Daggers) on Josemi Carmona’s ‘Las Pequenas Cosas’ CD – that often have me ending up in the wrong town.

But there’s no turning back now. On February 15^th 2013 my flamenco seduction will have the happy outcome of the birth of my new novel, FLAMENCO BABY. Olé!

 

RESEARCH - HOW FAR WOULD I GO?

Researching for my books: HOW FAR WOULD I GO? I’d never cause anyone any harm or embarrassment – anyone, that is, other than myself. I’ve had painful feet on an intensive Granada flamenco course, a shoulder problem with salsa, and spent hours plodding around Islington and the Brighton seafront in all weathers. But the worst thing I’ve had to do in the name of research was… stalking. I spent a scary, demeaning but ultimately worthwhile forty minutes waiting for a famous ballet dancer to come out of his house. How else could I have written this scene from Men Dancing?  

It was nearly nine o’clock; according to the day-in-the-life interview, Alejandro should have just finished his breakfast – porridge, eggs, toast and coffee – and be getting ready to leave for his 10.30 class at the Royal Opera House.

Clutching my map, I walked the route I’d already committed to memory, slowing as I neared the road and feeling rather queasy. I walked down the odd-number side until I was opposite 214: a Victorian terrace with a red painted door – his favourite colour. In films there’s always a large-windowed cafe opposite the building that’s being watched, but only a post box was on offer here. Or houses are observed from a slouched-down position in a car, but it would have been very hard to explain to Jez why I was driving to work for the first time in seventeen years.

Nine twenty. My heart was beginning to race; what if Alejandro came out and recognised me? Or worse, spotted me through his net curtains and worried for my sanity? I cursed myself for forgetting my sunglasses, but then they would have looked a bit silly with the spitting rain and darkening sky. I let my hair flop over my face and pretended to be consulting my map, while trying to keep watch out of the corner of my eye.

‘Lost? Where you looking for?’ said a voice next to me.

My heart felt like it had jumped right out of my chest. My only chance was to keep looking down, as if mesmerised by the intricate lacework of yellow and white roads.

‘Oh. It’s okay, I think I’ve got it.’

‘O-kay,’ he said with a chuckle, and crossed the road. A tall, dark pony-tailed man, I now saw, in a paint-splattered t-shirt and track suit bottoms. He disappeared into the propped open door of number 212.

I wanted to just keep walking, but my new working hours meant that if I didn’t see this out I’d probably have it hanging over me until the following week. It was a mission that had to be accomplished; a fact-finding one, like finding references in the hospital library, but rather more scary – and as the dark clouds started to give up their wares, a lot more uncomfortable.

Nine thirty. Surely he had to leave before too much longer. I imagined him coming out of the shower, vigorously rubbing himself dry, putting on his dance belt, asking Jessie if his favourite practice clothes were dry. The wave of misery washed over me, followed by the usual irritation; I was becoming familiar with my symptoms. What was the point of this? I had the method, and possibly the participants, but no objectives.

Nine thirty-five. Perhaps he ran on Cuban time. Perhaps he’d leave at the last minute in a contracted cab, the day-in-the-life bit about the bus travel being put in just to make him sound more grounded. In which case he could probably leave at about ten and still make it. I put the map book in my pocket and leaned against a gate post, periodically looking at my watch, taking out my phone and texting, as if the person I was visiting was unexpectedly out. I was getting very wet, my hair slicking down on my head. Come on Alejandro, I thought, I’ve had enough of this.

And then the red door opened. Out came a woman wrestling with an umbrella, followed by another in a hooded mac. They exchanged a few words and went off in different directions. Either could have been Jessie. Seeing the mac I suddenly remembered that my jacket had a hood, but you had to unzip the collar and unfurl it, and later reverse the procedure, so I’d never bothered. But then I hadn’t stood for ages in the rain since I used to watch an 11-year-old Seb in school football matches. I felt for the zip and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. So I yanked the sodden jacket half off my shoulder and craned my neck to see the damn thing, which had stuck its mouth into some of the lining. I wiggled it about to free it, opened the collar and let the flimsy hood fall over my head and face. Cursing  myself for my inattention, I glanced back at number 214.

This time the door was closing, as if someone had arrived, or gone back in because they’d forgotten something. Then a large blue and white CarpetClean van parked in front of me, disgorging two matching blue and white men, and I couldn’t see a thing. I stepped out of the way of a couple of miserable women with buggies and a plump girl posting a bundle of letters. I repeated my act – looking at my watch, pretending to make a call and then a text on my mobile, peering along the street. I was going to have to move down a bit to get a view of 214, but not in the direction I was facing because there was another white van manoeuvring into the space next to CarpetClean. So I turned on my heel to walk the other way – and whacked my shoulder into an elbow.

‘Ay – perdón,’ I heard him say as he strode on, mobile pressed to his ear and a holdall hanging from his shoulder. And I watched him go down the rest of the road, heard him laughing, chatting in Spanish, even his walk looking like it was set to music, and wondered at how all these people in the street could be so unaware of him, who he was, how he was. I put my hand to my shoulder and smiled. He was worth the wait.