I Have a Following

ducklings

I was brought up in the fifties with a Remington typewriter and a pen. Now, after 2 billion people have started their own blogs, I’ve jumped into the fray. The advantage of being a narcissist: my voice is unique and will rise to the top of 2 billion blogs.

Writing, and loving to write, is not enough anymore. A writer today must have at least a modicum of tech knowledge, and more important, a writer must be “connected.”

I just found out what a flash drive was a few years ago—now I have to figure out how to “market” my blog. I’ve bumbled around and I have managed to link the blog to a bunch of social websites, most of which I’d never heard of and still don’t understand the point of, but tonight I really messed up.

I discovered something called “networked blogs.” The article stated that this was a “must have” marketing tool. As with Tumblr, Stumbled Upon, Twitter, Pinterest, et al, I created an account and put in all the proper tags, html codes, appropriate URLs and my mother’s maiden name.

When I checked my blog to see how it looked, I discovered that I had followed my own blog.

That’s like voting for yourself for homecoming queen. No, it’s even worse—at least when you vote for yourself, no one knows. (Yes, of course I voted for myself for homecoming queen. It was the only write-in ballot. The homecoming committee snickered at me for months.) Let’s face it, when you follow your own blog, the whole planet knows. It’s as bad as liking your own Facebook post.

Are there such things as homecoming queens anymore? I hope not. It’s so ridiculous. After all, one of the major reasons for rebelling against England was to do away with kings and queens. Then we turn around and invent ways for Americans to be kings and queens. Well, mostly queens.

In the fifties there was even a television show called, “Queen for a Day.” Befuddled housewives were adorned with a fuzzy, queenly robe and a fake crown. The newly crowned queen also won the thing she begged for, along with a few bonus prizes. Of course, the woman who won the fakery had to demean herself in front of millions of viewers. Each hard luck story was judged by something called an “applause meter.” The women vying for the crown had to divulge their personal and financial tale of woe; if the audience clapped loudest for her, she “won.”

Let’s just say a woman’s best chance at being chosen queen for a day was to have a family with multiple, serious issues and the ability to cry her eyes out. The queen then got to sit on a “throne” and watch as her prizes were announced.

There is no equivalent show today, but we still have hundreds of millions Americans who glue themselves to the TV to watch any royal wedding or funeral. Wait, I stand corrected: any British royal wedding or funeral.
What’s that about? No one cares if the King of Sweden or the Queen of Timbuktu gets married. After 237 years, there remains some odd fascination amongst many of our colonists with the British royal family. Americans say they think the very idea of royal blood is hogwash, but they’ll get up at 3 a.m. to watch a royal wedding live from London.

Whatever. I’m following my own blog until I can figure out how to unfollow it. That’s a bit like unfriending myself. But then, unfollowing and unfriending were never part of my lexicon. And that’s another thing; spellcheck should recognize the words “unfollow” and “unfriend.” Enough with the red squiggly lines. They are now words, people.

If you visit my blog, you will see at the bottom right corner of the page, my newly installed “Networked Blogs” icon. And you will see that I am networked to myself. Yes, it looks like I have voted for myself. Call me Queenie.

by Paulette Zander Ink to You

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8 thoughts on “I Have a Following

  1. When I first set up my blog here on WordPress I accidentally clicked the ‘Follow’ button above. I got an email from WP telling me that I was now following myself. It also said – swear to God! – “You’re so vain. You probably think this blog is about you.” I laughed. Nice to see that they had a sense of humor.

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