Okay, before I get to the Friday Fraction, let's deal with the birds issue. I joined Twitter a while back and have had no luck in figuring it out. I fly to my nest now and then to "tweet" (that's what it's called right?) but I have NO IDEA what it's supposed to do for me other than make me feel silly and confused. Silly because I feel like I'm talking to myself (though I have a few followers) and confused because I have no idea what the purpose of twitter is.
Birds travel in flocks and I'm assuming twittering is supposed to help you connect with people like blogging and Facebook, but I just don't get it. I have a few people that I've found and I hear their tweets on my page, but I'm not sure how to "communicate" with other people. Is there no such thing as communicating on twitter? Do you just tweet and let it float out there with no one to answer?
If you'd like to add me to your flock, I'm justJoanS. Also if you'd like to explain the whole twitter thing to me, I'd be eternally in your debt. I'd offer to name a child after you, but I'm done having children so you'll have to accept my undying gratitude instead.
Okay, now that the bird issue has flown south, let's get to the Friday Fraction.
Today's excerpt comes from my WIP (as in still being written) young adult novel, BEAUTY: A MYSTERY SOLVED (lame title, but it's a WIP people!!). Here we go:
Dad says Mom picked my name. Maybe she thought naming me Beauty would make it so. She was wrong. Or maybe she really thought I was beautiful. I've seen my baby pictures, and if she thought my wrinkly pink face with too large eyes and mess of frizzy black hair was beautiful, she needed an eye exam.
Perhaps I could be beautiful. I don't know. I've never tried. Why should I? I was condemned to sub-zero status on the first day of kindergarten and haven't moved even a millimeter up the hotness chart since.
I've often wondered if things would be different if Mom had lived past my fourth birthday. From the photographs I've seen, she was beautiful and maybe I could have learned a thing or two from her.
Dad insists my stepmother, Candy, could give me a few beauty tips. Maybe he's right, since she certainly taught my stepsister, Melody, how to spritz, spray, powder, and gloss her way up the hotness chart. But I can't bring myself to ask for advice from a grown woman who dresses like a high school girl and has invested enough money in cosmetics to pay for my first year of college.
As for my stepsister? She's too busy idolizing miss popularity, Charity Davis, to pay any attention to me. No one ever paid attention to me. I liked it. But my days of invisibility ended when Charity went and got herself murdered and I became the prime suspect.
And that's all for today.