This is more of an apology than anything else. This morning, in an attempt to get up to speed with new technologies as us author types are supposed to, I opened an Instagram account. I have a real aversion for social mediatry, posting pics, pointless inane comments and general time wasting and only ever got into it because publishers insist upon it. I used to FB in a bumbling sort of way, but seem to have lost the plot somewhere along the line. Goodreads I have never discovered how to work. Linkedin won’t let me access my account anymore—it probably died of boredom. Twitter, except for poetry is too fast and furious and no good for reaching book buyers as far as I can work out.
That leaves Tumblr (when I find out what it does I might approach it with something shorter than a ten foot pole) and Instagram. I got my account set up okay, then tried to post something, but it’s not that simple. You need to post via a telephone. To get the pics or docs to the phone I think you have to send via FB. I don’t do things like that since the screen of my phone is about the size of a small matchbox and I never send messages because it takes so long, what with wiping the wrong letters and overriding the auto correct. Anything that requires connecting via a phone is a non-starter as far as I’m concerned.
So apologies are in order for the kind people who followed me to welcome me into the Instagram fold. I’m stuck in a time warp and can’t communicate with modern people. At least a blog uses words typed by my own fair fingers on my trusty computer, and pictures sent by cosmic carrier pigeon through said trusty computer. I know that without all this palaver, nobody outside my mystic inner circle is ever going to have even heard of my books. But that’s the way this particular cookie crumbles, until I find another way to get my books out there. Now, where did I put that magic lamp? Genie! Genie!