Wednesday morning: warm, and getting warmer. Finding shade outside the local coffee shop that hasn’t yet opened, K. and I compare notes on the surprises of producing a radio show. A communications professional, she pushes the necessity of social media, of relentless self-promotion. It’s work that doesn’t come naturally to me.
Wednesday afternoon: hiding from the muggy heat in my basement work space. A private message on Twitter comes from B. with links to an interface for curiosity-driven story development. I click through to the stuff dreams are made of. Wheels turn: how might I do something akin?
Thursday morning: spitting drizzle moistens the sidewalk between me and the cafe. Podcaster J. assures me I’ll love this course and that book on storytelling. She’s right. There’s so much to absorb. I feel damp with rain and opportunity.
This social media thing is like leaving breadcrumbs, hoping someone will find your scraps on the littered forest floor and follow you out of the woods. It feels just a tad Quixotic. A diet of breadcrumbs seems simultaneously insufficient and overstuffed.
I nibble around the loaf’s edges, slowly developing a taste for it.