Likeable Social Media -- A MUST READ for Businesses Large and Small

I've just finished reading LIKEABLE SOCIAL MEDIA by Dave Kerpen.  Boy, did I have a lot to learn in the social media realm. I "understood" that social media has to feel social--personal, friendly, one-on-one--and not come across as a giant "in-your-face" ad...that much I understood from reading other copywriting books...but I had no idea how many ways there are to find the people most interested in what I'm so passionate about (DeForest Kelley, critters, the books I've written, the job I love). NOW I do, after reading this insightful, amazing book! 

My only concern now is finding the time to implement what the author says needs to be done to make online social interaction worth the time I spend doing it... There are only so many hours in the day, and I spend most of them looking for copywriting work. (A little thing called "the cost of living" dictates how much "leisure" I can spend on social media, networking meetings, and the like. You know the drill, if you're in a business that's running just a wee bit better than "breaking even.") But he's right: the more I do it RIGHT (social media interaction) the more I'll develop "fond bonds" with others, and at some point down the road they'll need (or know someone who needs) a copywriter and they'll think of me when they do...not because I "sold" myself all the time, but because I've become a real human being to them and they trust me to do my best to hit their project out of the ball park for  them.

It makes perfect sense.  Get the book. It's worth its weight in gold. I downloaded it on my Kindle Fire and plan to read it at least once more right away... There's too much in it to grasp it all the first time around.

Why Are Post-ers so MEAN These Days?

I just read through some of the Whitney Houston "traffic" and was appalled by the number of people who went out of their way to trash her legacy because she was an insecure, wounded human being with an unhealthy way of dealing with it.

What has happened to the soul of America?  Is nothing sacred anymore?  Is another person's tragedy fodder for gloating like the Pharisees of old, whose "prayers to God" were self-serving propaganda meant for the ears of bystanders? 

Instead of "There but for the grace of God go I..." we get "She got what every addict deserves."

Really?  Really?!!!

I'm not an addict (except to too many calories) so I have no skin in this game. But I have known and loved addicts...and they are, for the most part, absolutely BEAUTIFUL wounded souls looking for  something to take away the pain, the loneliness, or something else that every other human being on the planet requires, too.

Anyone without compassion for them needs a heart transplant. 

OK. I feel better now.  I've had my say.

I am so sick and tired of people trashing each other politically, spiritually, and in every other way.  Have we forgotten what the term "civil-ized" means?

Seems we're becoming a nation of verbal barbarians...and I loathe it.

REPENT!  Unless we do, America is doomed.

DeForest Kelley "I Want a Cowboy" Video

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sdmicWZborc

Check Out My Interview re Raising a Serval at Writers in Business!

http://writersinbusiness.blogspot.com/2012/01/living-with-wild-animals-read-serval.html

Let me know what you think.  SHARE SHARE Share!

DeForest Kelley: Good'un!!! Enjoy this YouTube Video!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3bZT_eHCYSY

Laverne and Shirley: The Continuing Saga

Today, because it was decent weather, I decided it was a good time to trim the goats' hooves.  The problem: Laverne didn't think it was a good time. (She never does.)

When they were kids--25, 30 pounds tops --trimming their hooves was relatively easy; now that they weigh close to 200 pound each, it's still relatively easy...with Shirley! She's an easy-going sweetheart who knows I would never do anything to hurt her.  I reckon that's the nature of Boer goats, because she has always been the sweet, easy-going one. She'll tuck her head into my shoulder or neck and let me pet her. When I was putting up the fence this summer, she followed me the whole way, "helping" me by putting her head between my arm and my body so I could pet her every few minutes.  It took longer to finish up that way, but it was waaaaayyyy more enjoyable than it would have been otherwise.  (I just love an appreciative "apprentice".)

But Laverne is a red goat--I swear she's at least half Kalahari goat, because I saw a photo of a Kalahari goat and she looks exactly like that one; her horns even curl the same way (differently than Shirley's).  Laverne is probably at least ten percent heavier than Shirley and half a hand taller.  And she has always been the comedienne of the two.  She figures out ways to make me laugh every day.  But she's a big problem when it comes to hoof trimming.

I can trim Shirley's hooves without putting a leash and collar on her. All I have to do is put apple slices or grain in her bucket and she lets me work on her because, let's face it, hoof trimming doesn't hurt one bit.

But I have to put a collar and leash on Laverne and then tie the leash to a heavy vertical beam because she'll drag me all over hell's half acre if I don't. She's just convinced I am about to amputate her foot at the knee.  Even as closely-tied as she is to the beam, she darts and ducks and spins and bolts and rears and crashes to the ground trying to avoid having me pick up her feet.  I have to cavort with her in this bucking bronco way for three or four minutes before she decides to let me pick up her feet.  Then, when I do, and I finally get her all taken care of she becomes as docile as a newborn lamb. She stands there regarding me with gentle eyes, allows me to pet her and run my fingers through her thick winter coat.  It's like she suddenly realizes what Shirley knows from the get-go:  Just because I pick up a pair of hoof clippers doesn't mean I have lost my mind and become Jack the Ripper.

Needless to say, by the time I get both goats' feet taken care of, I'm easily as worn out at Laverne is!  We both sit there (well, I sit; she stands) looking at each other. I'm laughing; she would, too, if she could.

I sometimes think she isn't half as scared as she's pretending to be. I think she just enjoys giving me a run for my money.  She doesn't pant or cry out at all; she just acts "flighty" -- as if I'm a coyote about to eviscerate her, even though she knows I won't.

It's just part of what makes her unique.  I don't know if all Kalahari goats share this trait, but I can say that I'm glad I only have to wrestle ONE of my goats to care for their hooves!

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The Face of an Angel... ALPHA ROSSETTI -- Gone 28 Years, Never Forgotten!

ALPHA ROSSETTI:

MORE THAN A SCHOOL TEACHER

(AND I REVERE SCHOOL TEACHERS!!!!!)

For many of you, this is the first sight you have of the woman who first believed in me as a writer. I received this photo today from her daughter, Susan , who has also been a school teacher for many years. (I'm happy to report that the apple didn't fall far from the Alpha tree.)

Of course, for those of you who grew up in Cle Elum during the same time I did (and in the decades before and for a decade or so after), you know, remember and revere Alpha Rossetti every bit as much as I do. She was an institution in our town. Her husband Mike was the mayor of Cle Elum (more than once, as I recall).  With only 1600 people in the little burg (at that time), we were scarcely more than a village. Everyone knew everyone.

Ten years after I graduated from high school I went back for a visit. Mrs. Rossetti asked me, then, to call her Alpha, but I was never able to do it. To me, she earned the august title "Mrs. Rossetti". The familiarity of Alpha just never felt right to me.  There are some teachers who inhabit their titles. She did.

Susan tells me her mom loved me.  I have a feeling she probably loved a lot of her students. But I know she loved me. I absolutely do.  She wasn't obvious about it, of course.  She wasn't even "obviously" Susan's mom in class!  She was a Teacher. Back in those days (the 1960's), Cle Elum High was "old school", scarcely past the knuckle-rapping days of yore.  Teachers were Teachers. You didn't mess around. You Respected them. And because we did, we learned a lot. Our school's scholatic rating was always among the highest in the state.

But back to the major thread of this story...

While my dad was telling me to "get my head out of the clouds" and stop being so foolish as to think I would ever make a living as a writer, Mrs. Rossetti was telling me I was an amazing writer and buying me subscriptions to THE WRITER magazine. She did this, I suspect, because one time when she told me I was a very good writer, I asked her, "Teach me how to be better!"  She told me that great writing wasn't something she could teach. (I get that, now, but back then I thought any English teacher could be a great writer if they decided to sit down and write: they knew all the rules and had stories to tell. What more did great writing require?) 

She told me, "I can't teach you how to be better. I'm not a writer. But I'm a reader--and I know good writing when I see it." 

I reckon my request preyed on her mind.  Not long after this brief exchange, she handed me a copy of THE WRITER magazine.  I have no doubt my eyes flew right out of their sockets! 

Then she said, "I've paid for a two year subscription for you."  (We were a poor farm family. We could no more have afforded a magazine subscription that only one family member would read than we could fly to the moon.) This was her way of teaching me how to be better--the only way she felt she could reliably!

I practically memorized every issue.

She also loved me enough to set me straight when my teen-age personality begin to segue from sweet to sour.  She took me aside one day after class to advise me, not unkindly, "I don't like your new personality."

OMG!  OMG! OMG!  Red Alert!  The very thought of losing Mrs. Rossetti's high regard for me catapulted my racing heart into my throat!  I quickly regained my sanity. She never spoke of it again.

There are some people who become so much a part of your heart that you know they're sitting in heaven just waiting for you to beam up. These are the same souls you're half-compelled to go AWOL from life to see again, sooner than God has scheduled your leave-taking. 

Alpha Rossetti is one of those.  I simply cannot wait to see her again. But alas, I must.  Until then, this new photo will sit to the right of my flat screen monitor, smiling at me...

She has been gone 28 years. In 28 years I'll be gone--probably sooner.  And that's okay with me. I've got great friends over yonder that I'm missing like crazy. And a Savior I'm aching to embrace.

Cowabunga.  It's going to be great!

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Laverne and Shirley

Arghhh!  Trying to get Laverne and Shirley to "focus" on food long enough (off-leash) so I can trim their hooves is ... insane.  But that's what I tried to do today because I hate tying them to a post and upsetting them. (Not that they get all that upset tied to a post, but I like to do what I have to do with the least amount of wrestling I can get away with.) I got three hooves on both trimmed; I'll try to get the last two (one each) done tomorrow or sometime later this week.

I cannot believe we are just eight days away from Christmas and fourteen days away from 2012.  I'm not in the Christmas spirit yet; it isn't cold enough or dreary enough outside to warrant this date!  I hope the wee ones' Christmas pageant will kick me into high gear...  I'm also slated to go see OLIVER at the Lakewood Playhouse this week. I'm looking forward to that!  The rest of the family (sis, niece and grandkids) all went to see PETER PAN live last night at the Tacoma Musical Theater.  I declined; two plays in one week won't work for me.  I need my beauty rest... for what it's worth (not a helluva lot, judging by gazing into the mirror!).

I hope you're warm, cozy, ready for Christmas and very, very happy.

Memories...

I was 12 or 13 years old the first time it ever occurred to me that my thoughts weren't all-but-broadcast to everyone around me. It was quite the revelation. I've never forgotten what a shock it was.

I remember the occasion very, very well. I was in the old house in Cle Elum (the one that had been a two-story stagecoach stop a hundred years before; alas, it was later torn down), thinking truly noble, wonderful, worthwhile thoughts--which I did quite a lot at that age--when it hit me: "No one can hear what I'm thinking!"

Then I began to consider what my family did hear from me whenever I opened my mouth: mostly reactionary or inane crap... never ever noble, worthy thoughts!

I was horrified. It was no wonder they didn't seem to think I was worth listening to!  MY real life source was all inside my head, or written down on paper in some notebook or journal! It wasn't that I was being secretive; it's just the way I communicated best. It always has been. Why?

My home was a boisterous, shock-and-awe kind of place. Dad was a Tasmanian Devil kind of guy--always whirling, twirling (not literally--emotionally), commanding, demanding... loud, profane, not interested in anyone else's opinion or druthers. He was large and in charge.  No one ever finished  a sentence in our house--someone else "got" what we were saying (or couldn't care less about what we were saying) before we reached the end of our sentences and interrupted with their next thoughts. It was insane!  I likely became a writer early on so I could get  complete thoughts and sentences down without being interrupted or minimized!

What's sad is I'm all too often guilty of the same thing--saying only inane, reactionary things--when I open my mouth these days. I still keep the loftier thoughts locked up. What people hear are momentary reactions, fleeting concerns, reactions to the latest stupidity spouted by politicians. 

Unless I take the initiative to plant myself in a chair and describe what I'm truly feeling and thinking--which takes time and enough "time out" to allow myself to respond (as opposed to simply "reacting")--what comes from me is mostly small talk... small indeed. And I loathe, loathe, loathe small talk.  Always have.  Talking about "nothing much" bores me to tears. Hearing about "nothing much" bores me to tears. All too often, Facebook and Twitter bore me to tears;I'm thinking of signing off from both of them.  I don't enjoy  chit-chat. I care about what matters. But what matters often upsets me because no one is listening to anyone else anymore, especially in the political realm. Mostly what seems to be happening there is mean-spirited vilification. Talking heads are making us all crazy, making us all feel we have something to lose by listening to the other side. It's like we have our own Cold War between the red and blue states; the other side is somehow un-American. What a bunch of malarkey.

From an early age I've always wanted to talk about the stuff that really matters.  My fondest memories are of lying in (or atop) sleeping bags on the front lawn in Cle Elum, looking up at the stars and pondering galaxies, God, alien life forms, and why it all seemed so impossible and yet so probable!  My brain was on fire. Nothing was off the table on those nights--my cousin Tim, or my friends from down the road, would lie awake till 4:30 talking, thinking, pondering...planning. There was nothing we couldn't imagine and nothing we couldn't do. We'd landed on the moon, for gosh sakes!  Nothing seemed impossible anymore.  I was lying in front of a stagecoach stop built in the 19th century looking up at a moon that had been walked on by a human being. It was insane! Insanely wonderful.

These days I wonder what we can do if we'd just stop taking pot shots at each other and start building something together. You know, infrastructure...clean energy factories...vehicles that run on something others than gasoline...families that spend time together...business and other relationships that are win-win for all concerned...

I know it's do-able. We're bright critters. If a golden retriever can rescue a bag of kittens from a highway; if a German shepherd will wet-nurse tiger cubs, if a gorilla in a zoo will care for a child who has fallen into its moat, why on earth can't human beings live up to the fine, upstanding title we've given ourselves as "apex" animals, as image-bearers of God?

I do think it's possible.  I'll never stop believing it's possible.  But like  Mark Twain, I'm beginning to think it's not going to happen in my lifetime--and that upsets me.  Twain wrote, "People call me a pessimist in my old age, but I'm not.  I am an optimist who did not arrive."

I get that.  We can do better. I know a LOT of people who ARE doing better.  It's time to put these people on the air and oust ones who are doing nothing but denigrating and belittling others to make themselves seem more righteous. 

I'm tired of the small mindedness I see scattered across the airwaves. We're better than that. We deserve better. Let's start acting like mature grownups and tackle the issues that trouble us the way we tackled landing a man on the moon--with optimism, mutual assistance and perseverance.  We can solve every problem we have because we've created every problem we have. Nature is for us. God is for us.  We have to be for ourselves as a species and as a chief architect of the future of this beautiful orb.  

Let's stop being so cranky and get cranking on what matters most.
 

INTERSEX: DIFFERENT--NOT DEFECTIVE

INTERSEX: DIFFERENT—NOT DEFECTIVE

© 2011 Kristine M. Smith

THIS COMMENTARY MAY BE REPRINTED FREELY AS LONG AS THE COPYRIGHT NOTICE AND THE BYLINE/TAGLINE AT THE END REMAINS IN THE PUBLISHED PIECE.

Intersex is the last “hidden shame.”
It’s time to acknowledge and celebrate what makes us unique.

Since turning 60, with recurrent frequency I’ve been asked, “Have you ever been married?” “Why didn’t you ever marry?” by friends—sometimes even by casual acquaintances who linger long enough to wonder why I never mention a husband or children.


Back in the day, I’d just lie. I’d joke, “Never found anyone I could put up with 24/7/365!” or “Never found anyone who could put up with me!” Or I’d say, more seriously, “I’ve seen too many failed marriages—or even successful ones—that I’d never want to be part of.”


The reason I lied is because I never realized, until just this past year, how many people “like me” there are in the world. As soon as I understood the phenomenon and how frequent it is (it occurs as frequently as natural red hair, which I also have; I seem to have won the Lottery of Oddities!), I thought it ridiculous that society would elect to sweep us under the rug rather than acknowledge that we’re here in number and we’re every bit as viable as the rest of y’all are.


I’m not gay. I don’t think a lot of today’s gays are actually gay. I think a lot of them were “repaired” shortly after birth because frantic parents didn’t know what else to do with an ambiguously-sexed infant and wanted to give it the most normal life possible—and, as the less-than-classy saying goes in surgical wards, “It’s easier to make a hole than to entertain a pole.” (It’s easier to excise external maleness and raise a baby as a girl so “she” never has to suffer the consequences of living with an ever-present “birth defect.”)


I’m Speculating Here


When it comes to my own birth condition, I’m speculating. When I contacted Intersex Allies to find out how to determine whether or not I was an intersex baby, I was told it would cost thousands of dollars in tests, unless I could find my medical records from infancy—but that IF I found my medical records, they wouldn’t necessarily be trustworthy, because many were altered (just as intersex infants were routinely altered until about 20 years ago, when it became apparent that assigning gender doesn’t work mentally and emotionally over the long term for most patients.)


A thoughtful, warm, concerned psychiatrist at Intersex Allies wanted to know how I would feel if I did discover I was altered at birth. I said, “Relieved.” He seemed a bit surprised. He inquired, “Not angry?” I said, “I don’t think so. Maybe a little robbed. But I know that parents want what is best for their children, absolutely. I just don’t think they always know what’s best.”


He asked if I’m depressed or negatively affected in any other way by my gender identity concerns. I said, “No. I guess at times I feel LONELY—like I’m the only one out here who’s like me.” He assured me I’m not: something like one in every 300 babies is born with the condition.


He inquired further: “What would you do about it if you discovered you were altered?” I said, “Nothing. There’s no way I’d put loved ones through the anxiety of having to relate to me in a different way—not at my age. I’ve seen what transgendered people have to put up with; I’ve watched what happened to Chaz Bono and to a friend of mine who simply had to ‘fix’ what they felt was ‘wrong’ about them. The level of hatred (ignorance, really) in this society for people with gender identity issues is intense. I’d never volunteer for that. I’m at peace with who I am, despite the isolation it causes.”


He told me, “Even if you took the tests, they might be inconclusive. So you might end up back at square one. Your internal orientation is your best gauge. If you’ve felt this way your entire life, you’re not wrong. Your experience is your experience. It’s as legitimate as anyone else’s where gender identity is concerned.”


Family Matters


After I had this conversation with the Intersex Allies psychiatrist, I began to revisit my childhood. A lot of dots began to connect. It was a dizzying eye-opener.


The fact is I have never felt female. I was appalled when my chest budded into bumps, then breasts. I was horrified when I got my period. Until these atrocities came along I was completely happy imagining I would grow up to be a cowboy, a bronc buster, a fireman, an actor. My favorite toys were trains and plastic horses. (My plastic horses were always “humping” other plastic horses.)


When my hormones kicked in, my sexual fantasies were male-on-female: I was always the male. When I started (what adults considered) “falling in love” with actors—Roy Rogers, Jack Lord, Robert Preston, Jerry Lewis, and others—my fantasies surrounding them were that I was them, that I was inside their bodies experiencing their lives from their points of view. I never fantasized them as being my lovers.


Other clues


Dad told me that when I was born, “at first we thought you had a birth defect.” When I asked why, he hesitated briefly and then changed the subject: “You weighed just five pounds [I was a full-term baby]; you lost two pounds right away. The doctor said not to name you because you probably wouldn’t live. You fit inside a cigar box. Your butt was the size of the tips of two of my fingers.” What Dad described was “small” and “at risk” but in no way “defective.”


When I was about 22 I did something (I don’t recall what, now) that made Dad enormously proud. He lit up and proclaimed, “That’s my boy!” The moment he said it, he blanched and apologized; he was nearly apoplectic! I told him, “It’s all right, Dad.”


Of course, it wasn’t all right—not then. He and Mom had raised me as a girl. Even so, I felt it was the confirmation I’d been seeking. It just felt right to be called his boy.


Now, a lot of people may say that my gender identity issues are entirely my Dad’s fault, that he must have signaled to me that he wanted a boy. I don’t think that’s it. Mom and Dad had a third child. She was named after Dad (Jack LeRoy/Jackie Lee). If anyone should have felt pressure to “be Dad’s boy,” it would have been Jackie. So as far as I’m concerned, Dad’s off the hook. I am convinced that my gender identity was established inside Mom’s womb by God.


I never asked my parents about this. Sadly, I didn’t know, before they died, how common intersex is, or I might have.


I have told my two sisters about this. One says, “It doesn’t surprise me.” The other totally rejects the notion, saying: “You’re one of the most female women I know. And Dad would never have allowed doctors to alter a son, even if it meant surgery down the road (to remove female parts].”


Really?! 60 years ago? I think Dad would have done what the doctors believed at the time to be in the best interest of his child and all concerned. (Doctors no longer respond this way to intersex births, thank God!)


These days when people ask me why I never married, I ask them if they’re ready to hear the truth or whether they want my standard lie. Most want the truth. So far, every person I’ve told has accepted it; none have ever mentioned knowing anyone else like me. That’s how hidden the condition is. I suspect every adult knows at least one intersex person; they just aren’t aware of it. People all too often assume unmarried people are gay, anti-social or neurotic. What many of us actually are never even occurs to them.


We’re often lonely—on the outside looking in—but we’re loving, funny, and completely, utterly human. Those of us who have accepted our fates are as normal and contributory as you are. Those of us who haven’t are struggling mightily.


Here’s a common quote I embrace: “Find ways to be especially kind to everyone you meet. Everyone is facing some kind of battle.”


My battle (with regard to my gender identity issue) has ended. These days I tell the truth and let the chips fall where they may. And you know what? It feels good to be loved for exactly who I am. Hiding in plain sight sucked.

#

Kristine M. Smith is the author of six books and a well-regarded freelance copywriter.  She is available for interviews or forums on any subject matter she writes about or has written books about. You can reach her at kristine m smith AT msn DOT com.

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SERVAL SON IS AVAILABLE ON KINDLE NOW!

All you Kindle lovers, now's your chance to get SERVAL SON for $7.99!  ENJOY!!! The photos are all in color in the Kindle version.

PLEASE DON'T DEFEND ME IF YOU CAN'T DO IT WITH CIVILITY

I'm espousing civility and decency but my influence isn't rubbing off on others. That's become readily apparent recently.

Yesterday a remote advocate/supporter of mine (I've never met her, don't know her) tied into a detractor of mine at Amazon with such mean-spirited vitriol that I had to email her and ask her to back off. She ultimately deleted what she wrote, while proclaiming her First Amendment right to say anything she darn well pleased!  

That might work with public figures (who would go broke suing slanderers every time they were misrepresented), but it doesn't with private citizens. She herself could have been sued for the character assassination she was responsible for, so I'm doubly glad she deleted the posts.

Unfortunately that leaves the detractor's response to her verbal diarrhea, so I had to introduce myself into the circus to defend myself, point by point, against the original writer's accusations/ assumptions/misrepresentations. At the end, I also reminded that lady that she was treading on thin ice and in danger of being sued for defamation of character. (I reported her post to Amazon with the hope that they will require her to retract it. They may be equally-responsible for disseminating the recent slander if they don't. I'm looking into that...)

Had my "defender" let this sleeping dog lie (the detractor's low rating of DeForest Kelley: A Harvest of Memories has been there for years  with an occasional diplomatic letter of support for me from others) there would have been no follow-up "defense" of her position... and I would not now be tarred-and-feathered by accusations I feel compelled to counteract point by point.

I'm telling this tawdry story simply to throw a spotlight on the ugly fact that too many people have become absolute monsters to people they don't even know.

They attack others' characters as part of a daily ritual.

The vitriol they contain must make them ill inside physically and mentally.

I just don't understand it. 

Why would a person give away their power like that? Why would they allow another's opinion to rile them to a point where they're willing to come across like ogres themselves simply to make the other person look worse than their own words already confirm?


I think much of the world has gone insane. I know we live in a fallen world but it would seem to me that our charge is to get back up and try again with a more level head and a renewed heart. That doesn't seem to be happening. 

I don't get any joy in castrating or castigating others, even when I disagree with them. I don't understand how anyone would.  Verbal violence is an alien idea to me since I grew up and decided to become an adult.  Causing each other spiritual harm is not in my playbook.

I hope those of you who follow and/or support me will do so in ways that reflect well on yourself, on your God, and on me.  I don't need the support of people who are going to treat others like pond scum. That only exacerbates an already-festering sore.  It heals no one, raises no one, blesses no one.

You reap what you sow.  Remember that and this blog post will have done its job.

If you can't defend me with love and diplomacy, don't defend me at all.  That's all I ask.

Check Out This New Book from a Friend of Mine, Chandel L. White!

https://www.createspace.com/3487814

Befriend Author Chandel  White on your Facebook page and help him get the word out to your Christian friends.


Thanks!

Brigitte Thompson Publishes My Newest Article on Making a Living as a Virtual Freelance Writer

Thanks, Brigitte, for featuring me in your blog this week!

It's just too bad that the news I have to share is discouraging these days.  Gone are the days when I could encourage people to hang a virtual shingle. It's MUCH harder these days to stay afloat without multiple sources of writing income.

http://writersinbusiness.blogspot.com/2011/10/making-living-online-as-copywriter.html

Try a listing at wordworker.com and the free listing at yellowpages.com.  I'm trying them now. Let me know what you think of them.  So far I haven't had any bites from them yet, but I'm new at both places...

I'm putting an ad on multiple craigslist sites, too. My friends across the country are posting the ad for me and I'm getting some clients that way.  The ad I'm posting closely mirrors the home page of my business website (kristinemsmith.biz).

The UFO De Saw...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V-ER0aaxsHg

SERVAL SON WILL BE CATALOGUED in the PUBLIC LIBRARY SYSTEM SOON

Hurray!  I just learned yesterday that SERVAL SON will be catalogued in the Public Library System sometime very soon. As soon as it is, all library systems in North America will be able to order it for their various branches. This is HUGE!!!

The cataloguing will be done in Issaquah and copies will be ordered for five of the King County (Washington State) public library branches: Shoreline, Burien, Bellevue, Renton and... Seattle? (I can't remember the fifth branch. Grrr...)

I hope those of you who have read and liked SERVAL SON will call your local public and school libraries and ask them to order the book when it appears in the catalogue. That would be fantastic!  Many hands make light work.

I can't do this alone. It takes a village.

RIPOFF ALERT. WRITERS: GET YOUR MONEY BEFORE YOU DO THE WORK.

I have more than a handful of regular clients but one of them (a long-time semi-regular) just lost his access to me entirely. He told me to spend ONLY two hours on a brochure and then decided he wouldn't pay for it because he was dissatisfied with the results.

I should have refused the project the moment he directed me to spend just two hours: I wanted to, but I didn't want to disappoint him; he has been a good customer and a fun guy to work with. I knew that rushing an important job like his brochure was stupid: rushing a project doesn't produce excellent results unless the project is a no-brainer (and brochures are BIG brainers)!

I'm actually "madder" at myself than I am at him. I was trying to give the guy a decent product on his budget; almost 3/4 of what I did was great; about 1/4 was not up to par, because I ran out of time.

And I got the shaft for it. I got NOTHING for it. I could redeem it, given another half hour or 45 minutes, but he'll probably do that himself--or have someone else do it--and then get a 100% great brochure that converts like made for NOTHING.

This won't happen again. Not to me. That's for sure. I'm going to get hard-nosed even with regulars and demand the money before I put fingers to keyboard and head to task. That's the way Elance and other freelance websites work. I have to be that way, too, it looks like, for reasons like this. You can't even trust the people you've done business with for a couple of years, it occurs to me now. (Sadly!) (He actually owes ME some services that I haven't redeemed yet.)

I need the money. I spent the time he allotted, not a minute more (after rounding down other projects I'd done for him previously to save him money).

What has just happened is a disgrace--but it's not my disgrace, except that I trusted someone I shouldn't have. THAT won't happen again!