Tag Archives: Twittering

Wittering on about Twitter by Sheila Deeth

My sons used to complain that I “wittered on” about things. I thought of that this morning when my husband asked me why I “waste so much time” on Twitter. This inspired me to ask google for the meaning of “wittering on;” I learned it’s an English phrase, meaning “to talk for a long time about things that are not important.” Does that make Twitter a way to talk for a short time about things that are important?

Not knowing for sure, I decided to look at a file I keep of my random tweets. They don’t seem terribly important to be honest, but what do you think? This one comes fairly early in the file; I guess I was just learning to count my characters…

The twittering twerp has tweeted,

Work defeated,

Waits for twime,

While twiters twirl ‘n twype their twales.

This twit is falling off the rails.

Later there’s this:

I can’t believe you ran out of characters for your next novel. And don’t blame the birds. 140’s surely enough for any well-feathered romance

Hmmm–spot the missing character. I wax poetic again a few tweets later in the file:

If risk-averse, will write in verse, of risk averted. Dream.

Then numbers tell, the risk done well, is better than it seems.

Acrrual’s cruelty.

Then it’s back to prose (missing punctuation) with:

Brain the size of a planet, imagination like Magellanic clouds, and they tell me to brew tea and write the teapot’s biography: signed Marvin

But these are my everyday tweets–the ones I write when one or the other side of my brain needs a rest.

Which side of my brain writes & which is right, or is the other wrong? Right writing rights wrong dreams perhaps; a rite for writers? Write!

And these are the tweets I’m preparing for Infinite Sum, coming soon from Second Wind Publishing. They’re not 140 characters, but that’s because I’m leaving space for links and hashtags as when the novel’s released.

  • If you paint in red and black, will the truth be black and white?
  • Will yesterday’s song play forever in the paintings of your mind?
  • Who is the hardest person of all to forgive?
  • Is it easier to give up, or move on and live?
  • Why does the man in the painting have no face?
  • Depression for 1 year in 10? Get me out of that place!

Can you suggest any hashtags I might use, or tell me which tweets are more likely to make you click on a link? And if you’ve already read the book, I’d really appreciate any more tweets you’d care to suggest.


Sheila Deeth is the author of Divide by Zero, published by Second Wind Publishing. Her second novel, Infinite Sum, will come out soon. Meanwhile she’s working on numbers three and four–Subtraction, and Imaginary Numbers.



Filed under fiction, musings, Sheila Deeth, writing

Texting your love life away

You don’t think so? Come with me to the ballpark.

The pitcher finishes warming up and the crowd settles down to watch the game. I’ve got a good sight line to home plate because the couple  seated just in front of me aren’t too tall. I feel happy because I won’t have to crane my neck or contort my body for nine innings, but my mood sinks when I get a whiff of the perfume the woman’s wearing.  I hope I brought enough kleenex. The woman is sporting a silky, low cut, sleeveless top which is inappropriate for the 58 degree weather. She’s young and has smooth skin to flaunt; at her age she doesn’t have those flappy tricep wings to worry over. She cradles a cell phone in one hand and uses the other to stroke back her shoulder length hair, flashing rings on four fingers–the kind of ring you see in the bargain section of a jewelry store. I have no idea where she bought her perfume, but someone should shut that place down.

One thing is a constant these days at baseball games. A good percentage of fans only watch the game part-time because they’re enraptured with their  BlackBerry/camera/DVD/gameboy/GPS/iPod devices. Why go to a game if you’re not going to watch it? Of course, these types don’t jump up and spill beer on me after an exciting play, so that’s a plus.

The couple in front of me sure won’t be jumping up or cheering at anything. The man has done nothing but stare with unbridled lust at his female companion, but alas, she’s wholly fixated on her phone, and doesn’t seem to notice. Now he makes his first move, edging one shoulder as close to her as he can. Doesn’t the perfume choke him? Guess not. A slight breeze informs me that he smells like ten packs of cigarettes so maybe he’s immune.

Inning over. Now he’s got his arm resting on the back of her seat, fingers creeping toward her bare neck. I can’t ignore this because his elbow is now jutting back into my legroom. The poor guy’s efforts are futile. If his date feels his exploring fingers, she gives no sign. She divides her attention between five-second glances at home plate and a longer interval where she checks the screen of her phone. Waiting for a return message, I bet! From another admirer?

Several innings pass. The guy’s bought his date a slice of pizza, three beers, ice cream, and a bobblehead of the team’s most famous player. In spite of the fact I’ve been watching the game, I know all this because the man has to stand up to take out his wallet to pay the roving vendors, which blocks my view of the playing field. On his latest trip to the bathroom, he came back with a sweatshirt for the woman because she was shivering. Now he’s back on his real quest with one arm wrapped around the woman and his nose almost in her ear. I’m glad I haven’t eaten or I might lose it. As it is, I’m trying to keep my husband from going into hysterics over this latest development.

8th inning now, the score is tied and two players are in scoring position! The woman stands up. Oh no, not now, I can’t see! She flips her phone closed and looks at the aisle. Even in profile I can tell she’s got a smug look on her face. Her new sweatshirt slides off her shoulders and falls to the seat, unheeded. Her date looks up in surprise as she picks up her purse and motions to the people sitting next to them that she wants to leave. The guy can do nothing but follow her. As he passes her seat, he grabs up the sweatshirt, deliberately drops it on to the concrete and treads right over it. The whole aisle stands up to let them pass. Somehow, I think that this date is their last.

Mickey Hoffman is the author of School of Lies, a mystery novel published by Second Wind Publishing.

These two aren’t in my novel but stay tuned and soon you’ll find out more about the chosen…


Filed under writing