Why I Pulled the Plug On My Twitter Account

True confession time. I didn’t create my Twitter account for the purpose of social interaction. There, I said it...or um...wrote it. No, I opened the account for the purpose of selling books. I know. That isn’t something I’m supposed to admit. My presence on social media is supposed to be all about developing relationships, isn’t it? But the honest to God truth is that most authors were on Twitter for the purpose of selling books, and so was I.

When I published my first short story through a now-defunct, small Canadian publisher, one of the first things I did was create a Twitter account for my author profile. Back then, an author was expected to establish a social media presence. That’s what authors did, especially new ones. I still see authors and publishers pushing book promos through social media, so I guess it’s still a thing to do, but I started questioning the effectiveness of marketing books through free social media a long time ago.

Sure, when I first signed on, I met some interesting people through Twitter. That was back when being on Twitter was new and authors actually hung out on their Twitter feed. There was some real-time social interaction. I still maintain some of those early connections I made on Twitter through Facebook.

As the number of people I followed grew, so did the speed of the tweets flying through my feed. There were too many to keep up with, and I couldn’t hang onto one of them long enough to start a conversation.

The people I met were other authors. I never once made a connection with a reader or book blogger through Twitter. Never. I followed authors, and authors followed me. So when I pushed my books over Twitter, I was peddling them to people who were doing the same thing I was doing. Were we even paying attention to each other’s tweets any longer? I don’t think so.

Then, the inevitable happened. I discovered there was a way to automate my Twitter feed. Twitter automation killed real-time interaction amongst authors. I wasn’t there. Just the tweets I had scheduled at the beginning of the week. When I signed on, there was no else there either. Just their tweets. One time, I tweeted, “Is there anybody out there?” I got no answer.

This exercise in futility didn’t sell books. It didn’t gain me any new readers. It didn’t foster new relationships. It was a waste of time. I stopped automating. I stopped popping into Twitter to see what was going on. My feed died from neglect. I almost forgot Twitter existed.

Now, I know there is social interaction on Twitter. I read about it in the news. Every day someone tweets something that someone else disagrees with or finds offensive, and the tweet receives a flurry of angry tweets in reply.

I don’t want anything to do with what spews forth from angry, hateful people on Twitter. For me, use of the medium has lost its intended purpose, and I don’t want to wander into the swamp of dissension that hangs out in other places on Twitter outside of author-land.

So bye-bye, Twitter. I wish I could say it’s been nice knowing you, but for the most part, you’ve been a pain in the butt.

I'm Not Mary Sue. My Name Is Denise.

NOT MARY SUE!

Her name is Mary Sue. She’s a time and space traveler, zipping from book to book, scene to scene, unmindful of physics. The woman is disdained throughout the literary world because Mary Sue is a thinly-veiled representation of the author. She appears when the author interjects a little too much of herself into her characterization.

I'm not Mary Sue. My name is Denise.

My life is not entertaining enough or adventurous enough to be at the center of a suspense story. My characters are so much more than I am. I try to write them stronger, smarter, braver, fiercer, sassier, bolder, more flawed, more compassionate, more sensitive, more emotional, more impulsive, more conflicted, and so much more interesting than me. None of them are perfect.

So when a reviewer assumes the thoughts and opinions of the character are my thoughts and opinions, I’m disappointed and dismayed. Actually, I’m a little bit wounded. How could someone who doesn’t know me assume I’m that shallow, mean, cold-hearted, stupid, uninformed, disrespectful, immature etc.?

One review, in particular, has gnawed at me for years. I've considered responding, but responding to reviews is considered a really bad no-no. So I've kept my angst to myself all these years.

First, let me say I have a tremendous amount of respect for law enforcement officers and I believe most of them are trying to do the job right. So... Just because I write a bad cop character doesn’t mean I think all cops are bad. Just because I write an innocent ex-convict character doesn’t mean I think all convicted felons are great guys. No, I don’t think all police officers treat victims of violence as horrible as the detective character treated my heroine.

I started writing because I didn't want to read about one more perfect hero or heroine. Human beings are not clones, and characters in books shouldn't be either.

If I didn’t write flawed characters, if all my characters were wonderful pristine people, if they all conformed to stereotype, my characters would be dull and flat, lifeless, and boring. 

Maybe I should put a disclaimer at the beginning of each book:

The opinions expressed in this book are the characters’ own and do not always reflect the views of the author.

As strange as this might sound, I don’t always agree with my characters. I don’t always approve of their behavior. I don’t always think like they do. I don’t always behave as they would. Sometimes, they say things I wouldn’t say. Sometimes, they do things I wouldn’t do. Actually, most of the time, they don’t act or react like I would at all.

I’m not my characters. I’m not Mary Sue.

New Year's Resolutions? No. But I Do Have Some Writing Goals

Happy New Year, everyone! Some of you are glad 2017 is over and history. Some of you might be sad to see the old year go. I have mixed feelings about 2017. Some good things happened and some not so good things.

I’m started this new year off with some goals. And I’m happy to report that I’ve already completed my first task: cleaning out my clothes closet. So I’m marking one task off my list already. Yay!

Someone told me she was trying this new method of deciding what clothes to keep and what clothes to toss. No, it’s not the hold-it-in-your-hand-and-decide-if-it-brings-you-happiness method. I tried that with questionable results. It depends on what day I’m trying on a certain piece of clothing if it makes me happy or not. This new method is called the backward hangers method. Turn all your hangers around backward, and after you wear a piece of clothing, hang it forwards. By the end of 2018, you should know which clothes you still wear and which to get rid of. We shall see if this method works on New Year’s Day 2019.

So onward to my writing goals for 2018.

Goal Number One: Release at least four books.

The Rush of Winds Through Magnolias and Wild Rose were the only two new books I published in 2017. I did a lot of writing last year, but most of my new work is scheduled for release in 2018. Truthfully, I should have concentrated on finishing the Haunted Hearts series, because toward the end of 2017, my personal life interfered with my writing schedule, and the release of book number ten was postponed longer than I had planned.

The final book in the River Road Set of Haunted Hearts, The Sweet Madness of Honeysuckle is on pre-sale now and set for release on January 21, 2018. So that’s release number one.

I’ve completed the first book in the new Prescience series, Second Sight, with a tentative release date of April 15, 2018. Here's the link to a chapter one sneak peek. My goal is to have the next book in the series Dream Sight written before I release Second Sight, and release Dream Sight six weeks later toward the end of May or the beginning of June 2018. So that’s books number two and three.

My plan is to complete Oceans Apart for release in September 2018. So that’s book number four.

And last but not least, I promised Jane that I would start the Dare Island series this year. So hopefully that’s book number five.

I know it’s an ambitious goal, but Second Sight and Honeysuckle are already written, and if life doesn’t get in the way, I might be able to release all five books.

Goal Number Two: Establish a regular email newsletter schedule and stick to it.

My goal is to send out a newsletter every other month. Every month is too much. I want to send you news about my writing and my release schedule that is informative and of interest, so I don’t send out a newsletter just to send a newsletter. Hopefully, there will be more news to report in 2018.

Goal Number Three: Start a Facebook Group just for my readers.

I love getting feedback from readers and interacting with you. A private group would make communicating so much easier. I want to make it a place where my readers can go to view content that is exclusively for them. Sneak peeks. Special offers. Contests. I'll let you know when the group goes online.

I'm excited about my goals for 2018. I hope everyone has a happy, safe, successful, and totally wonderful New Year.

Denise

Sneak Peek at The Sweet Madness of Honeysuckle

I'm finally able to give my readers a peek at the cover for the last book in the River Road set of the Haunted Heart Series, The Sweet Madness of Honeysuckle. So here's the cover:

Here's a sneak peek from the book:

It was almost time to open, and R.J. hadn’t shown up yet. Tricia leaned on the bar and shut down the string of curse words she had been about to utter. She straightened and rubbed the back of her aching neck. The bed in the spare bedroom was uncomfortable, and she had woke up with a crick in her neck.

She considered her options. If she didn’t open on time, the only people she’d be pissing off where the regulars who showed up right at four come rain or come shine.

Nope. R.J. wasn’t going to do her like this. She grabbed her cell phone out of her bag, intending to call him, but the call wouldn’t go through. She glared at the phone as if it could feel the mean thoughts she was hurling at an inanimate object. Hadn’t she charged the thing before she’d left the house? Why was the battery already drained again? Was she going to have to get a new phone?

Aggravation. That’s all it was. Just another freaking aggravation to deal with.

The overhead lights blinked. She listened for the rumble of distant thunder. The lights went out every time it stormed. But as she had come into work, it had been a clear day. No sound of thunder. She went into the back office to use the house phone, but strangely enough, the line was dead. What the hell was going on?

As she turned to leave the office, the clank and rattle of metal on metal came from the storage room. She eased along the bar and grabbed the baseball bat from under the counter. With it over her shoulder, she inched toward the open door of the storage room. She flipped the light on.

“Who’s there?”

No one. The room was empty of humans. Plenty of cases of liquor and bottled beer. But no humans.

“Must have been something shifting.” She reasoned with herself, but she wasn’t convinced.

Behind her, something crashed. She twisted on her heel. A stack of glasses had tumbled off the back bar and landed on the floor.

The dead phones. The strange noises. The flickering lights. The crashing glassware. Everything was combining into one massive case of freak out.

She shook off her paranoia. “It’s all just a coincidence. Get a grip.”

Tricia leaned the bat in the corner, pulled the broom and dustpan out of the storage room, and began to sweep up the broken glass. That’s when the house phone and her cell phone started ringing in unison. She froze with the dustpan in her hand. A crash came from the storage room.The broom and the pan fell out of her grip. She rushed through the back room and flung the back door open. R.J. had his key out to let himself in.

“Whoa. What’s wrong?” He glanced over her shoulder. “Is he here?”

She shook her head, but she couldn’t make any words come out of her mouth.

“Tricia, talk to me. What’s going on?”

She stared at the barroom behind her. “The lights... and the phones... and the glasses... Something really strange is going on in there.”

When she turned to face R.J. again, he had a skeptical expression on his face. His eyes reflected a bit of amusement but mostly concern.

“It’s probably just you’re imagination, Tricia. You’ve got to be exhausted. I’m sure you didn’t get much sleep. I didn’t.”

“I’m telling you that the lights flickered and... and...” She grabbed his hand. “Come and see for yourself.”

She dragged him behind the bar. The glassware was still shattered on the floor. Then, she pulled him into the storage room. A shelving unit had toppled over and broken liquor bottles littered the floor. The stench of spilled alcohol filled her nose, and she pulled the tail of her shirt over her face.

R.J pulled her out of the storage room. She stalled outside the door, immobile.

He nudged her upper arm. “Are you okay?”

Of course, she wasn’t okay.

She allowed herself a moment to force a bit of calm. “First, I couldn’t get my cell phone to work. It was like the battery had run down, but I charged it this morning. Then, I tried the landline because I was pissed at you for not showing up on time again—”

“So really this is just you being pissed at me?”

“No. Listen to me. The landline was dead. It was dead, R.J. Just like my cell phone. Then, I heard some strange noises in the storage room, but when I turned on the light in there, nothing was out of place. No one was there. But while I was in there, that stack of glasses on the back bar fell off and broke. I got the broom and the dustpan to clean it up, but the house phone and my cell phone started ringing at the same time. Then I heard a crash in the storage room. It freaked me out.” She grabbed him by the shirt collar. “This is not my imagination.”

He studied her face a long time. “Do you believe in ghosts, Tricia?”

She cackled. Yeah, that’s exactly what her derisive laughter sounded like. “Ghosts? Are you freaking kidding me? No.” She leaned into him. “Someone is playing tricks on me. Is it you?”

“Me?” He croaked a bit. “Why would I do something like that to you? I’m trying to help you.”

She released his collar and backed away from him. “Right? That’s what you say.”

R.J. held her gaze, steady and calm. “Yeah. That’s what I’m trying to do. Actually... I talked to a friend of mine about putting an alarm system in your house.”

“Really?” Why would he do that for her? “I can’t afford an alarm system.”

“I didn’t think so, but Craig said he’d install the system for free. It won’t be monitored, so there won’t be a monthly fee. But maybe an alarm going off would be enough to discourage an intruder from coming inside.”

“Why are you doing this for me?”

Her question seemed to stump him. A puzzled frown formed on his mouth. “I don’t know. Maybe I just don’t want you to be afraid.”

“It’s not your concern whether I’m not afraid or not.” She wasn’t trying to be harsh.

“Maybe there’s enough cop left in me... I don’t know.”

He wasn’t telling her the whole truth. She could see the flickers of guilt in his eyes.

“There’s another reason you’re trying to help me, isn’t there?”

He leaned on the bar and released a long sigh. “I don’t want you to leave.”

As if someone had shoved her in the back, she fell forward against him. Her head popped up to look him in the eyes. She tried to push off him, but his arms wrapped around her.

“I didn’t do that on purpose, R.J.”

“I know. I saw. It was like someone pushed you.” He smiled. “I think I like this ghost.”

She shoved and stepped back from him. “That...” She waved her hand between them. “That ain’t happening.”

The pounding of a pissed off customer at the door to the parking lot interrupted them. She rushed to unlock the door, thankful that she didn’t have to finish the conversation they’d started.

For the rest of the evening, every time she glanced toward R.J., he was staring at her with a strange expression on his face. If she didn’t know better, she would have called the look mushy.

Maybe he didn’t want her to leave, but she wasn’t sure she should stay. Pulling him into her mess wasn’t fair to him. She didn’t want to lead him on just to run away. Running again was inevitable.