This is a plea to small businesses on Twitter — and even those not yet on Twitter.   I need you to put better stuff on Twitter.  Because as a professional social media steward, it’s part of my job to share your messaging with other people.  Yes, even when you’re not the client.

That’s right — I’m looking to extend the reach of your Twitter messaging.  For FREE.

But I’m not going to pass along junk.  And that’s where you come in.

You may be shooting yourself in the foot without even knowing it.  Because it’s not just ME who needs you to do better.  Everyone in social media depends on you.  Yes,  you!

In social media, a lot of what we do is relationship-building.  If a company approaches its social media efforts in an entirely self-serving way, they will probably wind up embarrassing themselves.  An example of this is when a company uses Twitter exclusively to unleash a stream of its own advertising on its followers.   Not only will they fail to get the results they want, but they might cultivate an obnoxious rep that distinctly turns OFF their target customer.

So, a good social media steward looks for ways to genuinely help her client’s target audience — for example, by providing links to content that is helpful and/or entertaining.

I have one client in particular whose target customer is the New Jersey small business owner.  For him, I have a Twitter strategy of calling attention to New Jersey small businesses — in a good way.  For instance, I do a lot of “retweeting”.   (In short, this is one way of reaching more people with your tweets, and it’s a positive thing.)   On a daily basis, I’m on the look-out for messages to retweet — but I won’t retweet just anything.  It has to be relevant to my client’s followers.

I have no use for straight-up advertisements, such as a tweet that reads, “We do the best carpet cleaning in the region.  Call us!”

However, I might retweet something like this: “3 home remedies for removing wine stains from your carpet”, with a link to an article on the carpet cleaner’s web site.

Why might I retweet that?  For two reasons.

One, my client’s followers might be able to use that information.  Who doesn’t get a stain on their carpet now and again?  And anyone who finds that tweet useful might think — even for just a fleeting moment — “Wow, I’m sure glad [my client's company] passed along that information.”  Bingo!  Warm fuzzy feelings for my client — and his company’s name is remembered.   Maybe that reader will recommend my client’s company someday, based on his Twitter chivalry.

Two, that carpet cleaner can see when his tweets are retweeted.  He can see exactly who’s helping him out.  So here’s a small business owner (my client’s target customer) who is now aware of my client’s company.  Furthermore, he can now associate good feelings with my client’s company, because we retweeted his message.  We helped the carpet cleaner and his web site get noticed by lots of new people.

When your tweets are retweeted often enough, your name becomes more familiar in the Twitterverse.  It’s repeat exposure.  So the more retweetable stuff you generate, the more successful your Twitter efforts will be.  Because it’s not just about reaching the people who already know you and follow you — it’s about growth beyond your current circle.

So when you help me, you’re also helping you.  Give me stuff I can use.  There are no strings attached.

Sharing your stuff makes my client look good.  And I think your business should take advantage of that.

What could you be doing better on Twitter?  If you’ll allow me, here are just three of my pet peeves:

1. You’re not on Twitter.  It happens to me several times a week.  I want to mention someone on Twitter and I want to provide a link back to their Twitter profile — but their business isn’t on Twitter.   You just missed out on free publicity!

2. It’s all about you.  Sometimes I’ll decide I want to give a perk to a particular business by retweeting one of their tweets.  I go to their Twitter page to choose a tweet to share — and they’ve got absolutely nothing I can use.  All of their tweets are self-focused.  It’s an endless stream of “Need your bathroom cleaned?  Call us!”  and  “Look at this picture of an apartment we just cleaned!”  and  “Did you know we give senior discounts for cleaning services?  Call us!”.

Now I’m not saying you should never tweet this stuff.  But I am saying you’re not giving yourself much chance of being retweeted by people like me.  (And there are thousands of people doing social media.  We’re all looking!)

What’s the remedy?  VARIETY.  Intersperse some tweets that are just plain helpful, or fun.  “Shareable”.  For example, these cleaners might occasionally tweet a cleaning tip: “Vinegar and baking soda will whiten your shower grout.”  Maybe they’ll tweet a link to an article on their company website: “Here are 5 ways to clean your shower grout before holiday guests arrive.”  Maybe they’ll tweet something that has nothing to do with cleaning: “Santa arrives in Millersville Town Square 3 PM Saturday!” or “Unbelieveable — a car that runs on canola oil!” with a link to the article on the web.

3. Where the heck are you?  Please be sure to put your geographic location on your Twitter account.  PLEASE.  Sometimes it matters.  For example, this one particular client I’ve cited has a local New Jersey focus.  I want to retweet stuff from New Jersey businesses.  But if I can’t be sure where you are, I might pass you up.  This is especially important if you own a franchise.  Other franchisees in other areas may have Twitter accounts, and sometimes it’s impossible to figure out which account belongs to your local franchise.

Some business owners are struggling to understand social media, its value, and how it can help their bottom line.  I undertand — it’s still new (ish) and evolving rapidly.  But in my humble opinion, smart entrepreneurs should be getting on the bandwagon, and learning and adjusting as they go.  It’s better to be present at the party and feeling a little awkward in the corner, than not being there at all.

Furthermore, some business owners believe they don’t have time to do social media (and do it right).  I agree.  I know what’s involved, because I manage social media for other people — for businesses, thought leaders — every day.  I even have accounts that are outsourced from marketing agencies and other social media freelancers.  Even they don’t have time to give their clients’ accounts their undivided attention.  It’s not just the “doing” that takes time.  It also takes thought.  It takes study, analysis, and experimentation.

So believe me, when I see businesses who aren’t on Twitter (or Facebook, or LinkedIn, or Pinterest) and should be, I understand.  Running a business is an exhausting thing.  Running your own social media requires a clone, because it’s like a separate business-within-your-business.  And for the same reasons, I understand when I see a business stumbling around on Twitter and posting lots of junky stuff I can’t use to promote them.

However, I urge you to do something rather than nothing.  If you’re not on Twitter, at least set up an account.  Give me something to refer back to.  Maybe you’ll actually start tweeting later.

And if you’re on Twitter but don’t have a strategy (other than to advertise yourself), treat yourself to some professional help.  Hire a social media steward for a one-time consultation.  You’ll get lots of quick, smart advice on how to improve what you’re doing.  Ideally, outsource your social media to a steward, so you can feel good knowing your business is constantly active in the social media world and generating attention, without you having to look at it daily.

At the very least, please remember that social media is loaded with opportunities for free advertising.  But I need you to help me help you.  So do all the other social media professionals out there.  Make your social media content shareable.  Make it helpful, informative, entertaining or inspiring.  Not only will professional “sharers” like me find you irresistible, but your fans and followers will do your advertising for you — and it’s always twice as powerful coming from them.

- Kim Brittingham

E-mail:   hello (at) kim writes dot com

I was a writer who needed help once.  I’m still a writer who needs help — I just happen to be a little further along than some others.  That’s why I don’t mind giving a sincere writer a hand up.

But giving a lazy writer a hand-out?

Don’t even ask.

But what do I mean by a “lazy writer”?

A lazy writer wants all the glory of “having written”, but doesn’t want to be bothered putting in the hard work of actually writing. In fact, some lazy writers don’t really want to be writers — and they don’t even know it yet.  All they want is to be rich and famous, somehow — and for some reason, they’ve zeroed-in on writing.  Maybe they watch a lot of Murder, She Wrote.

Also, some lazy writers have bought too much into the phrase “It’s who you know”.  Yes, who you know helps a great deal in getting published and paid.  But getting in touch with the right people to open doors for you is not a substitute for doing the work.

Fortunately, many lazy writers will only be lazy writers for a short time — just until they realize they’re being lazy, but a genuine wish to be a better writer eventually prompts them to get serious and hunker down.

A lot of young aspiring writers fall into that latter category.  They grow up with some vague idea that they’d like to be a writer, maybe because they love writing and have been told they’ve got a knack for it.  In their naivete, they just don’t know how the whole “being a writer thing” works.  When they realize there’s work and commitment involved, the meant-to-be writers get to it.  The others get bored and do something else.

Here’s why I can’t be bothered with a lazy writer.

For one thing, the world is filled with writers, and some of them give it their all.  They constantly work to improve their craft; they’re always looking to learn and then apply what they’ve learned.  So to my mind, those are the people who deserve the breaks.

But for another thing, as a reader, how good can I expect your writing product to be, if you’re not interested in trying that hard?

Life’s too short to read crappy, half-hearted writing by lazy writers.

There’s one way I can always tell a lazy writer, right from the start.  Lazy writers ask for information that’s easy to find.

For example, one lazy writer approached me in an online forum, first saying how serious she was about becoming a professional writer.  Then, in the next breath, she asked if there are any magazines for writers.

Yes, there are.  Several.  Try googling “writing magazines”.  You’ll get smacked in the face with The Writer Magazine, Writer’s Digest, Poets & Writers Magazine and Writers’ Journal.  And that’s just for starters.

In fact, the four magazines I named are the same writers’ magazines you’ll find on the newsstand at your favorite bookstore and in the periodicals section at your local library.  Even my supermarket carries three of them.

So it makes me wonder — how “serious” could this woman possibly be about becoming a writer, if she’s not even aware of Writer’s Digest?  I mean, I know we all have to start somewhere.  But some resources are so obvious, how could you miss them?

Anyone with real passion can’t be held back from chasing what they love.

I met a woman at a party once.  She found out I was a published author and cornered me.  “Three years ago I finished a book about blah-blah-blah,” she said, then asked, “Can you tell me how to get it published?”

This woman didn’t know anything about how book publishing works.  Not a speck.

And there’s a point in every author’s life when they didn’t know a speck about publishing — they had to learn.

And yes, I understand that asking for tips from someone more experienced is part of knowledge-seeking.

But what kind of author with a burning passion to get published lets her manuscript sit around on her hard drive for three years, waiting ’til she runs into someone at a party who just happens to be an author, so she can say, “OK, I’m ready for my instructions now”?

Well, at least she wrote it, you might be thinking.  That’s not lazy. 

But if she’s that ho-hum about figuring out how to publish the damn thing, I can’t help but wonder about the lackluster job she did on that manuscript.

Nowadays, when a writer asks me a very general question about some aspect of professional writing — whether it’s the writing process itself, getting an agent, getting published, anything — I counter with a question of my own:

“Tell me — what do you know already?”

It’s a real time-saver.  Because if they clearly know absolutely nothing, I can direct them to some basic resources that every beginning writer should tap.  Magazines, books, web sites, writers’ conferences.

If they’re sincere, then I know those resources are exactly what they need to get started.  And a sincere person will be stoked to track down those resources and dive right in.

Alternatively, if they reveal that they know something, I can tell they’re serious enough to have learned that much.  And then I’m thrilled to help them fill in the gaps, and find their next step.

But if they’re lazy, that one simple counter-question saves me a lot of breath.

Of course, occasionally, a lazy writer will get frustrated by my response.  “I know.  I know all that stuff is out there.  But I was hoping you could tell me how it’s really done.”

There’s no secret.  Not that I know of, anyway.  Not that I used to get published.  I just worked hard and learned as much as I could.

“No, I wasn’t looking for a secret — I guess I just wanted you to help me.”

Help you?  Help you do what?  Write the book for you?  Have the whole career for you, and just let you put your name on it?

Even one of my oldest and dearest friends asked for an introduction to my literary agent, to which I awkwardly replied, “Well, don’t you think you should write a book first?”

So you really want to be a professional writer?  Great.  I’m your biggest cheerleader. And if there is a secret to it, maybe it’s this:

Start moving in the direction of your dreams, and resources will appear along the road, like magic.

But you have to set out on the road first.  Because the UPS man isn’t going to deliver the dream to your front door in a tidy brown package.  Not today, and not tomorrow, either.

I stumbled upon a little treasure trove of papers from the University of Oklahoma’s online digital archives, titled the “Indian-Pioneer Collection”, that has kept me fascinated for weeks.  Among the papers are thousands of interviews with actual American wagon pioneers — wisely and systematically collected and transcribed in the 1930s, before these rugged souls kicked the bucket and took their first-hand stories with them.   If you have any interest in this sliver of history at all, you must check out these archives.  You’ll be riveted.

My initial curiosity about American pioneer life started with Laura Ingalls Wilder’s series of books which I read and re-read as a child.  I then followed the Little House on the Prairie television series with girlish fervor.  I was captivated by the purposeful simplicity of showing up to a whitewashed one-room school house in a calico bonnet, ready to kick McGuffey’s Reader ass and win the approval of a gaunt, bespectacled prairie teacher.   I loved the drama of a good Minnesota blizzard, the heartbreak of obliterated crops, and the evil joys of rolling Nellie Oleson down a steep hill in a wheelbarrow.  Besides, Little House was the one thing my grandmother and I could always find to talk about.  She, too, watched it religiously.  “That Charles Ingalls,” she’d sigh dreamily.  “He’s a good and godly man.”

It sounds a little nuts, but what led me to google details of American pioneer life recently was receiving a video game for Wii this past Christmas.  The Oregon Trail.  The object is to get your family across the Oregon Trail to Oregon City in a covered wagon — alive — before the onset of winter.  Along the way, you encounter obstacles like Indian attacks, snake bites, starvation, heat exhaustion, and broken axles.

It wasn’t something I asked Santa for.  I didn’t even know the game existed.  My partner was out shopping and saw it and said, “I thought you’d like this.  I know how you love all that Old West stuff.”

I started to wonder about some historical aspects of the game — that is, when I wasn’t steering my wagon around protruding rocks like a woman possessed, and cursing my youngest for getting cholera AGAIN.  (“You know what,” I was heard to say, “I’m about ready to let this kid croak.  He’s dead weight.”)

And that’s how I came to find such authentic anecdotal jewels as this:

“…I went to live with my uncle in the Choctaw Nation.  He owned his land there and he and Auntie were both very old and Uncle did nothing but hunt or fish.  I lived with them until I was grown.  They lived in a big four-room log house and had everything one could wish for in those days for we did not know so many things to wish for as we do now.  My playmates were Indians and I was about grown before I could sing a song except in the Indian language.  I surely knew a lot of Indian songs, though, and I though they were pretty and have taken part in their dances but cannot say I ever understood the beauty and enjoyment the Indians seems to get out of the dance.”

“I was a great big girl when a neighbor child died whom we had all played with and some dozen or more of us about the same age went to sit up with the body after it had been laid out.  They laid the body out on a cooling board and covered it with a sheet that went down to the floor.  There were hogs under the floor and I did not know it so away in the middle of the night, a great big old hog decided to turn over and lifted the entire floor, upsetting the corpse.  I thought the boy had come alive and was turning over and I screamed and screamed and one of the other girls fainted.  I didn’t faint but my knees get right weak every time I think of it after all these years.”

- From An Interview with Mrs. May Crabtree, Altus, Oklahoma, University of Oklahoma Libraries Western History Collections, Vol. 21, Interview No. 8232, 08.16.37.

Not only are these interviews full of tales worthy of a Little House episode, but also some amazing insights into the lifestyles of these intrepid people.  There are stories of cowboys, widows, school teachers — people who actually walked the walk.  Far more satisfying than the glossier 19th century archtypes passed along to us from Hollywood.

 So saddened by the news of Davy Jones’ death.  Davy Jones was my very first fantasy boyfriend.  I got to see him in concert with the Monkees twice, and in the early 90s I experienced the best Davy treat of all.  There was a stage version of The Brady Bunch playing in Greenwich Village.  The cast of ”The Real Live Brady Bunch” performed several different episodes during the show’s run, but I waited to buy my ticket.  I was hoping they’d do my all-time favorite episode — the one where Marsha busts into Davy’s recording session to beg him to perform at her school dance. 

Finally, they did it — “The Real Live Brady Bunch” did the Davy Jones episode.

Starring Davy Jones, in person, as himself.

I think I still have the souvenir poster somewhere in the basement. 

In honor of Davy, here’s a replay of an old blog I wrote several years ago: “Lust, Kindergarten, and Davy Jones”.

Farewell to my favorite cuddly toy and stripey-blazered Brit.

Lust, Kindergarten and Davy Jones

By Kim Brittingham

I was having lunch with Kate recently, and she was concerned that she might be a sexual freak.

“There’s something wrong with me,” she insisted.  “I am just way too sexual.  It’s not normal.” Then leaning forward, she added softly, “I can remember having sexual feelings as a kid!  I’m talking, like, a little kid!”

I turned my head and gave her a squinting, sidelong glance.

“I’m pretty sure that’s normal,” I told her, nodding slowly.  “Human beings do experience sexual sensations long before puberty.”

She bit her lip.  “Really?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” I said, hoisting myself atop my soapbox.  “Although there are plenty of people who’d deny it, because the idea of a sexual child disturbs them.  But it’s totally natural, and it has nothing to do with abuse or exploitation.  Children are sexual beings and they’re capable of having feelings of arousal all by themselves.  I hate that society wants to make it so shameful.  That’s what leads to perversion and abuse.  Like priests and stuff.  All that denial.  Demonizing the urge.”

She gnawed through two french fries, one after another, then asked:

“So…how young is normal?”

I shrugged.  “Well, I don’t know.  I’m not a child psychologist.” Then I thought for a moment.  “But I do have a story that might make you feel better.  About me, when I was a kid.”

Her face brightened, a signal to continue.

“O.K., well, I was just thinking about this recently.  I was trying to decide if my sexual experiences have any place in my memoir because, you know, it’s one of those major themes of human life – sex.  So I brainstormed a list of major sexual moments and realizations and stuff, and I actually remembered my earliest experience of arousal.  I was four years old.”

Every day when I came home from kindergarten, I watched a line-up of after-school TV that went exactly like this:

The Flintstones

Gilligan’s Island

The Brady Bunch

The Monkees

My favorite Monkee was Davy Jones.  He was so impish and seemingly harmless, and he had the dreamiest deep brown eyes and a perpetually glossy lower lip made for kissin’.  And I knew every Monkees song by heart, even if I didn’t understand the romantic sentiments and light socio-political jabs I was parroting.

When the TV station started advertising a Monkees double album, I begged my mother to order it for me.  (You get not one, but TWO volumes of the Monkees’ greatest hits, all for just $4.99!  Call now!)

Beginning the very next afternoon, and on a daily basis for weeks, I asked my mother if my Monkees records had come in the mail yet.  And she’d tell me, “They say it takes 4-6 weeks, sweetie,” or “But there’s no mail today, it’s Sunday.”

Then one day the mailman left a slip of paper in our mailbox to tell us we had a package waiting at the post office.

“I think that’s somebody’s Monkees album!” my mother sang.  “We’ll have Daddy pick it up on the way home from work!”

I remember being irked that it took him three long and torturous days to get his butt to the post office.  But 32 years later, I still have a perfect picture in my mind of my dad as a young man with a Burt Reynolds moustache pulling open the screen door and stepping into the tiny front foyer of our Northeast Philadelphia row house, holding a square, flat brown paper package under one arm.  Obviously, a moment of significant emotional impact to have stuck with me like that in Technicolor. Davy Jones had come home to me, wearing nothing but a thin wrapping of tree pulp.

In my bedroom, I played “Cuddly Toy” on the plastic record player again and again, until the disk bore a pale, circular ribbon where the needle had worn down the vinyl of that one track by two shades of gray.

I kept the album cover propped up where I could see it.  It was white with the red Monkees logo in one corner, and scattered pencil sketches of the Monkees’ faces, each about the size of my little palm.  The artist had captured Davy’s angelic good looks to swoon-worthy perfection.

I was also a big fan of The Brady Bunch, so when Davy Jones made his guest appearance on that now-famous episode, I was positively riveted to the console TV in our living room.  Transfixed, not by the television’s own Pledge-polished gleam or the stylish faux-ironwork insets flanking its watery screen – no.  It was all about Davy.

As he crooned somewhat cross-eyed into the recording studio microphone dangling above him, I thought he looked even cuter than he did on The Monkees.  There was something different about him.  Longer hair, perhaps.  That, coupled with a quiet, roguish sophistication that could only come from having shed the dead weight of the (in my little girl’s opinion) three inferior Monkees.  Gone was the bowl haircut, gone the goofy faces made at the camera to zany, rubbery sound effects.  This new Davy was subtle, and spoke straight to the loins.

The episode was nearly over and Marsha had tried everything to reach Davy Jones and convince him to sing at the school dance.  She sat, dejected, as a nattily-dressed Davy appeared at the door behind her and was escorted quietly into the living room to Mrs. Brady’s obvious delight.

“Marsha, there’s someone here to see you.”

Oh my god!  Davy Jones – he’d come to see Marsha!

Left alone together on the couch, Davy coyly suggested to Marsha that he needed a date for the dance – and did she know anyone who wanted to go with him?

“Do I!” Marsha cried, and she leaned her body forward and kissed Davy Jones on the cheek.

Do you hear me?  She threw all caution and decorum to the wind!  She lifted her body closer to his, brought her face to Davy’s own sweet hairless face, and placed her moist and eager lips upon his cheek.  On his flesh.  She put her mouth on his face.  Not that far away from his mouth.

The four-year-old me found this incredibly hot.

But it wasn’t over.

Davy received this bold kiss without complaint. Accepted it, see, as though he wanted it.  And his eyes locked onto her face and followed it as she drew her head away from his, post-kiss, and sat down again.  Yes, he watched her withdraw, eyes twinkling with a touch of the devil.  Wow. And then, parting those plump, moist lips, he spoke.

“Well! How ’bout the flip side?”

….did you catch that?  Davy Jones asked for MORE!!!

Davy Jones wanted her to do it….AGAIN!!!

And he just plain ASKED FOR IT!!!

Ohhhhhhhh. Oh, holyMarymotherofGod.

That moment of his asking – that seemingly innocuous, lightly-delivered “How ’bout the flip side” was the single most erotic moment of my half-day kindergarten pencil box-toting life.

To the extent that a four-year-old kid can be hot n’ horny, my friends – I was.

A deep longing, like a length of rope tugged between the depths of my belly and my someday-womb — there it was.  Arousal.  Because Marsha Brady took the initiative — whoa! Baby! No holding back! And because Davy Jones wanted more, and wasn’t afraid to say so.

Whhhhhhhhhhhhhhhew.  Damn.

So don’t tell me little kids don’t feel the urge.

Or maybe, like Kate, I’m just way too sexual.  Like, abnormally so.

Nah, I don’t think so.

Hey, thanks for hanging on through the end of the story.  But did you really think you were in for the sordid details of Kate’s inflamed libido?

Hah!  Cheeky monkey, you.

Hate

Here’s something that might cheer you up — a little.

The following text was copied from an actual document, created by an employer in England for his employees in 1852. (The last line is my personal favorite.):

Office Staff Procedures

1. Godliness, cleanliness and punctuality are the necessities of a good business.

2. This firm has reduced the hours of work, and the clerical staff will now only have to be present between the hours of 7 a.m. and 6 p.m.

3. Daily prayers will be held each morning in the main office.  The clerical staff will be present.

4.  Clothing must be of a sober nature.  The clerical staff will not disport themselves in raiment of bright colour.

5.  Overshoes and top coats may be worn in the office but neck scarves and headwear may be worn in inclement weather.

6.  A stove is provided for the benefit of clerical staff.  Coal and wood must be kept in the locker.  It is recommended that each member of the clerical staff bring 4 lb. of coal each day during cold weather.

7.  No member of the clerical staff may leave the room without permission.

8.  No talking is allowed during business hours.

9.  The craving for tobacco, wines, or spirits is a human weakness and as such is forbidden to all members of the clerical staff.

10.  Now that the hours of business have been drastically reduced the partaking of food is allowed between 11:30 a.m. and noon, but work will not on any account cease.

11.  Members of the clerical staff will provide their own pens. 

The owners will expect a great rise in the output of work to compensate for these near Utopian conditions.

Document reproduced within the pages of Victoria’s Heyday by J.B. Priestley (Harper & Row, 1972).