Twittering and, If Not Loving It, Accepting It

It had been quite the battle. In fact, in some ways, some could claim that it was a struggle for the soul. The lone holdout against the overwhelming surge of 2.0 superiority was doing a bang-up job of intransigence. Newspapers held greater esteem than the electronic medium. Books were still made of paper and held with a cherished appreciation most reserve for children.

And then, somehow, someway, this writer returned to his Twitter feed. He had started the account in 2008 (was there even an Internet, then?) for some work with an ad agency with which he was partnering, and then promptly ignored it. After all, who wants to read the stream of consciousness thoughts of a generation of people who don't put much thought into where they eat, let alone what they write?

But, a casual remark in a Facebook posting gave impetus to try. And as addicts worldwide can attest, giving something a 'try' is the first step in being hooked, lined, and sinkered. And such it is. I Tweet. Then read something really clever from a celebrity, and in my meager sense of modesty, I reTweet it, rather than reply. After all, who wants to hear from an aspiring writer, thinks I? Once I've reached 1M+ followers, then I'll start hitting the Reply button when Simmons makes an idiotic statement.

Then, Sutter posted something comedic to which I inadvertently Replied. And he replied! Gods! Even people who create stuff I love are responding! Now, I am completely in. I'm sending in my money as Tammy Faye goes rolling off in a new Cadillac. I'm drinking the Kool-aid and going back for seconds.

Next up, I find a super project for aspiring writers. It's a vibrant new community, and I could be a beta member. Of course, sign me up! More credit. More writing. More, more, more. My capacity to consume and regurgitate is being taxed. But, there's never enough.

Sure, Twitter is safe. So is cocaine.