Social Media and #Pitmad Update

man lost

Let me start out by saying I’m grateful to be here.

No, seriously. I’ve spent the last few hours fumbling my way through twitter, goodreads, and a few cover design pages. My last post outlined five goals for promoting my book. I’m happy to say I can check off all of them.

The big #pitmad event was today. Much thanks to Zara Kramer with Pandamoon Publishing for favoriting my pitch for Master, I look forward to querying you shortly.

Anyway, contacting potential cover artists was a piece of cake. I’m not too particular – if the portfolio looks professional, I’m in.

After that I logged some hours on goodreads. God I’m lost there. I posted in three different discussion threads, then updated my page with a worthless post. If you like laughing at clueless people, scroll down and read the comment that begins with “waddup goodreaders.” I don’t even know how to link directly to the post, but here’s one for my profile page. I’m sure all 1 of my goodreads friends can’t wait to check it out.

One of the big highlights of my day was having a few of my tweets retweeted. By some mega-twitter accounts and highly established authors, mind you – Carole Gill, J. H. Moncrief, and Charity Parkerson. Apparently they liked what I had to say. Or maybe they just thought my hopeless twitter account would give their hordes of followers a good chuckle. I really want to thank them properly, but I’m not yet educated about twitter etiquette. Do I say: Thanks for retweeting! @twitternamehere(?)

Please answer if you know how to solve this dilemma. I signed up to follow these word-weaving powerhouses, but feel obliged to properly express my gratitude.

Happy #pitmad day everyone.

  • Thomas M. Watt

The Writer of Words

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The words the words the writer of words,

The one who lives for the nouns and the verbs.

Alone in his attic, gone to his room, thinking of something, a plot twist or truth.

The words the words the writer of words.

Prose doth he speak, knows what he knows, sees what folks doesn’t, see what folks done.

Thinking it always, see words less speak, teaching us something, writes what we read.

The words the words the writer of words.

Always he does, tinker his best, lays down the rules, opens his chest.

Let’s us all in, to that weird little mind, provides for us glimpses, of thoughts stuck in time.

The words the words the writer of words.

What is this talent to roll and to go. What is this desire to describe just one rose.

A man of the world? A man of the arts? A maker of stories? A thief of used plots?

What is his trait, why does he think. Why does it matter if we like what we read?

What is this passion? From where does it come? Secluded in nothing, promises to him none.

Not laughing funny, not getting laid, not getting read much, not getting paid.

Still he can’t sleep. Still he does write. Still his pen scribbles. Still he sees light.

Where is this end? At what tunnel he thinks? Does he not know that he’s working for free?

Find his reward, please show it to me! Tell me the prize to take on this disease!

Tell me for once, just give me one word, give me a reason this mans lives so absurd!

Well I’ll tell you reader, I’ll say what I know – The thought of not writing fills writers with woes.

For when pain does come, when life is unfair, there’s two kinds of escapes, addicts all do share –

One is through drugs, sex and bad things. The other’s through art, hearts raised to beauty.

For a man of the world does not see these two lines – he is a fool who thinks they’re both of one kind.

But I tell you something, for I have once seen – A man in his mind accomplish impossible things.

For hours spent thinking, writing fine lines, imagine the way to reach that pinnacle high.

How does that happen, to whom does it go? Who are these writers we have come to know?

They are the ones who persisted the best, they are the writers who pushed on from the rest.

Through all the rejection, the hatred and such, the loss of a lifetime, the miss of one’s touch.

Keep going forward, make that book great. Get that shit perfect, work through night’s late.

At the end of your life, on your death bed, would you rather have quit, or stuck it out to be best?

Is it not worth the struggle, not worth the strife, to see your own words, passed on through time?

I say it is, I say that I do, the words I do love you, now please love me too.

The words

The words

The Writer of Words

– Thomas M. Watt