"Hello Hollywood? I know you're dying to read my scripts. So I'll swing by for lunch and... Hello? Are you still there? I can hear you breathing. Hello? Hello?"
If I haven't told you lately, thank you for your pity likes. You people. Your impeccable manners are only surpassed by the boundless sympathy you bestow upon my humble tweets. But just so you know, I do accept flowers.
@fjm117 True for some people who can act. But I think others who do not act were born that way, never questioning if they should be uncertain, nervous or wrong.
@ImBreckWorsham@RepThomasMassie Rarely do I express my political views on social media. Never do I call someone an ashole, especially on social media. But there comes a time when it's abundantly clear and undeniable that this guy's an ashole.
Yeah. I said it.
@chrisoconnoriv@TrueFactsStated A pineapple was a sign of hospitality, at least in the US. Whaling captains in Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard brought them back from overseas, then popped them on a fence post to signal they've arrived home. They were also popular in Virginia. I don't know much more than that.
Twitter is not exactly social media. It's more of a dumpster for random thoughts. Don't dive in unless... Well, you may not need to dive in. For all I know, you're already in there recycling your tweets along with the rest of us. First drafts suck. Edit with verve and panache.
Everyone's selling something. If you're just talking, you're selling what you want people to believe, want or need. That makes you no different than anyone else. Especially if you're a writer. You write what you want people to read and keep reading until the end.
That's selling.
@BogeyGuyC It was worth the hunt. Many names and descriptions. But why did they leave out their phone numbers, emails and favorite booze so I knew what to bribe them with?
I don't care for the phrase, "spoiler alert." It's never a good sign, but a warning. You're either a gossip who got a jump on some news that may or may not be true; or you'll tell me to pass on the sushi at the gas station just as I'm feeling the vibration of vomit about to spew.
Your clothes tell us what tribe you belong to or aspire to belong to or the type of lover you want to attract or what game you're going to or what city you live in or field you plow or how old you are or what formal event you're invited to. Maybe you just don't want to be nude.
Why do we write? Are we freaks of nature, banging out stories as new ideas call to us and we get twisted into believing we'll one day be paid for what we do? Maybe non-writers are freaks. When they learn we're writers, eyes bug out. They're impressed. Don't they know we're broke?