Twitter Adventures (or how not to network)

So, everyone has been telling me to get on Twitter. My daughters, friends, well wishers --- those who would like “Gaia’s Children” to be as successful as Harry Potter. After a lot of procrastination, I decided to swallow the bullet. So, Twitter fans, I’m there with the pompous sounding ID of @paulauthor. (I refuse to use Kieniewicz as only Poles know how to spell it.)

A week on Twitter has sobered me to the realities of social networking. It’s not as if I haven’t read and taken to heart good advice on how to attract followers. There’s a ton of it out there but like reading about driving a car and actually doing it --- well things don’t quite go as expected.

What’s my purpose --- it’s to connect with people who read science fiction, who may appreciate a book review, recommendations on interesting books, who may even want to sample “Gaia’s Children”. Plus I want to get closer to the zeitgeist and find out what people are reading and what they’re thinking about.

After choosing an ID, and building a profile that I though might not be too offensive, I started following people. Twitter is a time commitment. You can spend an hour on it and find you’ve barely moved from home base. Using various search engines I quickly found science fiction fans. Most are science fiction writers, publishers and editors. Where are normal people who don't write, but love to read?

Perhaps the readers don’t always list “science fiction” in their profiles. To find them I searched through tweets that contained the name of one of my favourite authors (Ursula Le Guin, Margaret Atwood, Philip K Dick etc.) I did find a few SF readers that way, though I was never sure if the tweet I latched onto was a one-off. After hours of searching I found 65 people I wanted to follow.

I started tweeting --- about interesting books, book reviews,science fiction small news and so on. Also retweeted some tweets and replied to a few. I never mentioned "Gaia's Children" as I didn't want to appear to be selling a product. My followers began to grow. I now have 6. Of those, four are women who are promoting porn sites. Maybe the tagword "fantasy" threw them off? The two others are people I'm glad to connect with. I'll find out soon whether my future followers will maintain the same ratio of 2 porn-site followers to 1 SF reader.

I have a lot to learn about how Twitter works.

Gaia's Children --- Kindle Edition

The Kindle Edition of Gaia's Children is now available for download. Please pass the word on to your friends, facebook friends and tweet-ees, those who'd like science fiction, wolves, a uniquely Scottish story, or just a good read. You'll meet some unforgettable characters that you'll want to spend some time with. Try out some sample chapters.

Sophia Through Time

Sophia Through Time tells the story of a woman who has fallen from heaven to find herself trapped in our world with no memory of how she got there. Alone, but immortal, she searches for the way out of the world. Her path crosses the lives of many eminent philosophers: Lao Tse, Socrates, Aristotle, Rumi and others but none of them can tell her why she is in the world. In a series of vignettes (taken from my unpublished novel Aristotle’s Beard) we follow her journey through time, confused and perplexed by our world, to finally discover liberation.

Individual installments will be posted monthly. Click on Sophia Through Time

Scottish Rain Dance

Over here you don'r expect to see a rain dance. In Scotland there are only three certainties: death, high rail fares and constant rain. Last year, while England had record-breaking droughts, Scotland had record-breaking rain. The met-office pundits wagged their heads and claimed that they’d expected it all along. A consequence of global warming. However prolonged dry spells do happen. For several weeks we haven’t had a decent downpour. Plenty of gale force winds to tear slate tiles from the roofs; a few snow flurries, but no rain. Last April we had a month-long dry spell that made me start watering --- something I almost never have to do.













Perhaps because of those dry spells the locals, for hundreds of years, conducted weather spells to open up the heavens and dump some extra rain on the land. According to “Description of the Parish”, 1726, every May 3, there was a fair held in Botriphne (today’s Drummuir). Among the festivities, a woman ritually washed a wooden statue of Saint Fumac in a nearby natural spring. We don’t know who she was, other than her function, as the keeper of the statue. Presumably that statue was passed down to a designated family member upon her death. The purpose appears to have been to secure plentiful rains for the fields. If the ritual smacked of witchcraft, that didn’t seem to bother the locals much as there’s no record of any censure by the Kirk.

As far as we know, Saint Fumac, an associate of Saint Columba, established a mission at Botriphne in 570, close to the natural spring. Because springs were venerated as healing centres, and sacred places, Christian churches tended to be built nearby, to give a Christian meaning to the old practices. Pilgrimages to the wells were banned following the Reformation but despite the bans, such pilgrimages were common until recent times. People still sought out the help of the Well Guardian for healing, rain, wealth or protection from damaging winds and rain.






Botriphne Kirk, built 1820 on the ruins of an older Kirk







According to MacKinley's, "Folklore of Scottish Lochs and Springs", the statue-washing at Botriphne ended in the late-nineteenth century on a memorable May 3 when the skies opened with a vengeance, and the nearby river Isla broke its banks. The statue was caught up in the flood and washed downstream. It came to rest at Banff where the local minister, a bit less tolerant than the folk of Botriphne, declared the statue as idolatrous and ceremoniously burned it.

Today the spring still flows strong. Recently, the Rev. J. S. Stephen conducted several baptisms there. A curious irony. Despite all our attempts to construct our human temples over the spring and officially suppress it, the spring’s ancient power still makes itself felt.

‘Tis the Season for gathering

Christmas time --- What comes to mind is getting together with family. Not necessarily the family in which one was raised. More often people who have a special significance for you.















Last week on a night when the winter gale blew trees sideways, tore slate tiles from the roofs, and the snow spirits danced in circles in Huntly Square, Amber and I went to the Huntly Area Cancer Support Centre’s Christmas party. Usually I’m allergic to parties and have to be dragged out to them. So many words get thrown about that mean little and are quickly forgotten, that I tend to zone out. But not this time. This was the first Christmas season with my new, extended family. There were volunteers I knew from Thursday afternoons at the Centre. Some had a recent bout with cancer, and were still undergoing therapy. Some I met for the first time.














Fiona, Magda and Bobbie lay out a beautiful spread for us. The punch bowl was filled with sweet but lethal punch . Alistair made sure that our wine glasses were filled. And so once the food and wine took hold we all felt like singing. Liz Hunter led off with several beautiful solos of Christmas carols, and then we joined in. Her angelic voice made ours sound a bit raspy but no one seemed to mind. Or appeared particularly self-conscious.













We traded many stories that night. Pam Heinemeier apparently lives in the house where George MacDonald spent his early life. When I was much younger his fantasy books cast their spell on me. I still regard him as a mentor. We talked about how the railway line first came to Huntly, about several springs in the Huntly area that traditionally have curative properties. Ian Clive Hunter, an artist who lives in Andalusia, described his work and religious Spanish art.

We'd have stayed longer, but the howling wind outside let us know it was time to go. And so, after saying our good-byes, we went off into the swirling snow.

AWAKENINGS (On the Perth-Aberdeen train)

We all know them.
Unasked for moments when the veil is drawn aside.
And then we see; not only see but understand
What’s so clear; so obvious.
How could I have missed
What's been staring me in the face?
Days or even years?
You bask in the morning sun on a new landscape
With no room for thought,
Or that it’s only a glimpse.
That the veil may be drawn again
And leave you among grey shadows.

And mama, with an old brain
Riddled with plaques and tangles
Looking at me for days, but not really looking,
Not knowing who she is. Where she is.
She awakens.
That smile, half laughing on her lips
Is there for me.
Her open eyes sparkle,
Dewdrops in the morning sun,
A look of more than a thousand words.
She takes my hand; an iron grip
That will not let go.
A moment, a minute or an hour.
Then she looks away.
Withdraws from us,
Returns to the twilight world
Or to a place beyond that I know nothing of.
Not yet.

Huntly Area Cancer Support Centre

On Thursday afternoons I volunteer at the Huntly Area Cancer Support Centre. Set close to Huntly Square, it's a place where those touched by that dreadful disease can find support, advice, friendship and healing.

Cancer is a scary word, so doctors don’t like to speak it when delivering their diagnosis. Families don’t talk about it. Children are most often shut out. I remember, because 18 years ago my wife was visited by cancer. We were bewildered, confused by the range of options, decisions to make, whom to tell and when. Nothing was simple or certain --- except for the reality of the scourge. Luckily we had a supportive network of family and friends. I leaned heavily on whoever was within earshot. Help appeared from unexpected sources. There was a box of oranges that turned up on the doorstep. People who offered to pick up the kids, or keep them for a few days. Or stay with them while I was away on a business trip. Warm soup was often delivered to our kitchen. A religious minister came by regularly and gave my wife a healing. But not everyone is as fortunate as I.

Which is why, when I first heard of the Huntly Centre, I asked if I could help man the front desk. Having traveled the road from cancer diagnosis through various stages of treatment and death, I know something about the way. Also that a cancer diagnosis does not mean that death is inevitable. Most important when confronted by the unknown is to live each moment to the full, not to shut down or succumb to fear or despondency. All medical studies have shown that those who maintain a positive spirit tend to survive. Ones attitude often affects the efficacy of the treatment. Which is where the Cancer Centre comes in.














I found an extraordinary group of people dedicated to helping cancer victims their families and carers maintain their quality of life. Carers are often equally battered by the disease. Depleted. After sharing our stories I felt that we’d known each other for much longer than a few hours. All volunteers have a strong empathic sense. Some worked as nurses or as alternative healers. Others like myself have a history with cancer.

Clients walk in unnanounced, some referred by friends or doctors; others see the store sign and open the door to see what's inside. Often they just need someone who will listen to them; help them deal with concerns or fears, in a non-clinical setting. Sometimes they only need information or a referral to a MacMillan nurse. For clients struggling with the side effects of chemotherapy or radiation, the centre offers Reiki, Reflexology, and other complementary therapies.

On my first day at the Centre a woman came in. Distressed, and in obvious pain from cancer treatment, she asked for a Reiki treatment. Reiki is an ancient, non-invasive treatment where the healer’s hands move above the body, but do not touch it. The treatment relaxes the client, eases pain and helps restore their energy levels. It's effective not only for patients but for carers or family members who need an energy boost. Therapeutic Touch, a similar healing art, originated among nurses in the United States. It is practiced by thousands of nurses in many hospitals.

Pam took the woman to the therapy room. An hour later when the client emerged, she had a more peaceful look about her. Not healed, but with more energy and in less pain. Perhaps not as overwhelmed by the disease. The treatment must be doing her some some good, because she keeps coming back for more.