Too Old For Twitter And Other Shocking Developments

There's no picture. This post is meant to go against every thing I have read about being a successful writer in this day of mass media. I knew I had to write it and post it when every thing about it made me uncomfortable and I worried about people hating it. Here is my truth, I don't want to have a monetized blog or website. Money is a necessity and I know that I will make money from my writing in the near future, but not through ads or sponsors. That is someone else's gig, not mine. I want to gain readers who like my writing and find value in it. My niche? Don't have one. I write about my life and my life isn't a niche. ISO: Readers who can relate to real life.

I started to pursue building an audience by fitting into a pretty little box, but it never felt authentic. It made me feel dirty, like when I was young and I would be anyone a boy wanted me to be if he would say he liked me. Tell his friends about me. Sound familiar? Like me here, like me there, share me here and everywhere. Then I will know how important I am. Then I will be someone. I have set up thumbnails of myself all over the world wide web to find out who likes me and who will share me and I check those numbers often. Too often I have found. I let them dictate how I feel about my writing. I'm a 34 year old version of my 18 year old self, hoping I'm good enough to be LIKED. Hooray!!! Two more people that say I am okay. Two more LIKES that confirm I am a good enough writer to have self esteem today. Then I wake up to other insecurities.

A new day holds the thousands of other bloggers, writers, published authors, writers with degrees, writers with  connections, and mommy bloggers who I "need" to read. So I do. Then all the LIKES become dog shit on my Old Navy flip flop. Being smart and witty is the norm out in the blogosphere, having your own voice is a requirement, and being edgy isn't even edgy anymore. Without a few titty pics to link to Twitter, no one cares. You're UNFOLLOWED as quickly as you were LIKED and FOLLOWED. I think I met Twitter too late in life, because there is only one person who gets to see my mammary glands and you should consider yourself blessed it isn't you. I sold out too many times when I had no self esteem, I'm not selling out to get the inside scoop on whether or not I can write. I can.

Another shocking revelation? I'm too sweet for Twitter in my elderly state (I know, right)  and it only took me 24 hours to realize that. There were all these tweets going back and forth about who was funnier than who, which Twit had the best line, retweet me so I can feel like a whole person for 30 seconds. Thousands of followers for people who pick fights with complete strangers and post pics of their bare tits while bragging about how they need to be treated like a princess. It was frightening and a very clear glimpse into what our society has become. This is what we want. We then become disinterested seconds later and tune in to some other train wreck IE; jackass CEO of a clothing company, pageant moms and abusive athletes. I have become disinterested. I thought I wanted thousands of followers to my blog every day, thousands of people following my sass mouth on Twitter and eventually a published book about my crazy life. Revelation: I don't have a sass mouth, my tweets are so mild in comparison that people would assume I'm a nun. If I can have thousands of passionate followers without being a fucking sell out, I'll take it. Otherwise, I will keep blogging and writing and loving the 100 people per day who are interested.

I am done marketing myself as something I am not and if that's what I "have" to do to get published, I will publish myself. And by publish I mean print off copies at my office, staple them and sell them out of my trunk. If  my family and friends are the only ones who buy my book, well I can rest assured that at least they have fantastic taste. I want to share my writing, not spend countless hours tweeting or checking my blog stats so I can be happy. I'm happy because I write and people like it. I write because I live my life and have experiences that shock my brain and make me want to tell a story.  That's my plan. I'm going to go live and write about it.  This is the first summer in six years that I get to make my own schedule and spend everyday with my kids,  I'm taking advantage of it. I will have blog posts, when I feel like it. I will honor my commitment to websites I contribute to. I won't be Tweeting nude pics or hourly updates and my Facebook page will return to the random shit you have come to love. No recipes or running tips. No links to shit you can find on your own. Just me and maybe a shameless plug for my blog. I'm weaning myself off so I can put one foot in front of the other and write a book for you to read. You know, like they did in the old days.

Written by Mandy Brasher owner/author of Busy Being Happy 2013 (Because people be some plagiarizing motherfuckers)

Fuck That Shit...It's Friday!!!

It's Fuck That Shit Friday!!!! I wish everyday was fuck that shit day because I am constantly coming into contact with people and situations that deserve that label. Homeless dudes bumming smokes from me on my break. Fuck that shit. People yelling at their kids in a grocery store. Fuck that shit. Putting away laundry. Fuck that shit. Waking up in the morning. Yeah, that's a given.
I'm really interested in this recent craze of bloggers who are trying to convince us that they have their shit together and need to do a daily brag about how much they get done in a single day. A day that, just like yours and mine, is made up of only 24 hours. That's if you don't sleep which I have decided, they don't. How is it possible to bake ten loaves of bread, clean your whole house, cut all of your twelve children's hair, make three meals from scratch and workout for three hours? Are these women on crack? Possible. I think  the more likely conclusion is that they are meth heads, Lortab addicts or take anti-anxiety pills for fun. It's hard for me to believe that like the rest of us, these women need naps or ever have dinners that include sugar cereal and toast. They must be cut from some special cloth that enables them to never have a mental breakdown or feel the overwhelming desire to take a potty break that lasts for the entire showing of Monsters, Inc. I have taken that poop break before and it was completely necessary in order for me not to strangle the people I love.
I can't be entirely pissed about seeing their life play out like a Friday night sitcom because I for one am guilty of stealing their recipes, appreciating their decorating ideas a little too much and feeling more motivated to take my kids on an outing. Mostly out of guilt. I convince myself that their must be something seriously wrong with me if I can't live up to these unreachable standards. In turn, I attempt to do it all and then get so overwhelmed that I can be found rocking myself to sleep in the corner of my bedroom with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Smoking isn't allowed in my house, so then I get in trouble.
If there had been Internet when my grandma was raising kids, she would have been that blogger. She was smart, funny and good at everything. When I say everything, I mean everything. She baked everyday, had a garden before it was hip and at one point had five kids who were preschool age or younger. She was Superwoman. There was one way to wash clothes when she was raising a family and it wasn't in an energy efficient washer that did all the work. It was by hand. She ground her own wheat and for awhile, had a goat that she milked daily to feed one of her babies who was lactose intolerant. Beat that, raw milk bitches!!!The fact that she never sat down and possibly never slept has been well accepted by her children and the many people whom she took dinners to, visited with on their death beds and ran marathons with. Yeah, she was an athlete too. If these blogger bitches want some real competition, they need to go back about 50 years and meet up with a real homesteader. I love all the hipster terms for going back to the basics of growing food and eating healthy. You fucking hipsters.
As I have noted in previous posts, I am not doing it all nor do I want to. I am doing only what I can mentally handle today and sometimes not even that. If you follow me on Instagram (which you should) you will see pics of my kids without their hair combed and backgrounds of my house with dog hair growing out of my sofa. Our Christmas card photo was an impromptu pic of my kids in our dining room and I had clearly not decluttered my house for many months. I am sure people who received the card wondered what  I was thinking sending out a photo from an episode of Hoarders to celebrate Baby Jesus's birthday. What I was thinking is "I don't have time to do a proper photo op today and if I don't get these fucking things in the mail now, it's not going to happen until Easter." That's my reality. Usually I remember to feed the dog and sometimes my toilets get cleaned but I will never be organized or efficient enough to have a mommy blog about my perfect life. And if I ever try, please slap me while simultaneously handing me some liquor. And by some, I mean a bottle.
Find me on Instagram: mandybrasher
Twitter: @BrasherMandy
Facebook: Mandy Smith Brasher