Along Came Daddyhood

Ok, so I'm the Tiger Woods of domain infidelity. A thousand apologies. This is really it though. Same name: Along Came Parenthood. Different address: www.alongcamedaddyhood.blogspot.com.

But there's a bigger issue here. It's bigger than you, it's bigger than me, and it's bigger than the actress who plays Precious in Precious.



It's my unconditional surrender to social media.

I've tried to fight the good fight of avoiding Facebook and other social media destinations, but it isn't realistic. And I hate that. No seriously, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THE DEPTH OF MY FURY.

I think there comes a point when you have to consider the reality of a situation versus your preferred reality. I want to write. That is clear. Ideally, I would like to be writing in, say, a nice bourgeois coffee shop when a big time publishing executive crashes into me. Naturally, my completed manuscript spills into their lap. Moments later, after the cookie shrapnel and coffee carnage has cleared, I have a book deal.

How great would that be? I don't think that's asking too much.

But it is asking too much. What I am learning is that to be in the mix, you have to have something of a pulse in this brave new world of the socialized internets. 

I've been filling out query letters to send to literary agents and a major point of every letter contains questions about your platform.

My what?

I don't have a platform. I have a son, a wife, and a job. I have a book collection. I have a huge hat collection. But no platform.

My unabomber approach may be noble or pure or something else that's overblown and lame, but it isn't getting me any way. Literary agents prefer to represent writers with more social media savvy than the average Amish patriarch (Amish neckbeard optional).

And so, I cry uncle to the unyielding grip of myface, spacebook, and whatever other avenues I'll be familiarizing myself with in the not to distant future. I guess Desire is matchmaker of unlikely bedfellows.