Web Site: http://www.biodagar.com
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This afternoon I was dwelling in Twitter, when I suddenly found myself confronted with this message:
Your Twitter account has been suspended.
Apparently, I violated Twitter’s Rules by Evading permanent suspension. In my disbelief, I tweeted this from my serious-work-only account:
Twitter suspended my personal @biodagar account (which is for creative work, not work work). Ref screenshot.
What the hell does this even mean? I haven’t been suspended – ever – in the ten years of being on Twitter. pic.twitter.com/eTJusfVIHX
— Leticia Mooney (@LeticiaMooney_) November 13, 2018
One of my friends suggested it was for the crime of ‘wrongthink’. It’s entirely feasible. I have spent the last little while sharing things about Gab, and Julian Assange, and The Golden Age of Bullshit.
While this was initially quite confronting, particularly given it’s been my primary promotional vehicle for my writing and creative work since 2008, I’m choosing to take it all in my stride.
You see, darling reader, I’ve been hatching a plan to build a promotional methodology that is entirely social media-free. I’m not sure what that looks like yet. But once I have planned it and started to use it, I’ll be capturing data so I can write about it, share the lessons, and help others to leverage what I’ve done.
In the meantime, this means that the only way to hear about my work is:
As for social media, while the entire concept has paled a lot over the years, I’m giving Gab a crack. You can find me at https://gab.ai/biodagar. And so, here’s to enjoying more time in real life, and spending more time creating amazing works.
Admit it. You spend your waking hours dreaming of an envelope that turns up in your letterbox every month.
An envelope that you wait until you’re alone to open. Sliding your finger under the seal, you slowly pop it open and, licking your bottom lip in anticipation, tug at the postcard hiding within. Letting the envelope drop to the floor, you hold the postcard in both hands, trying not to devour the writing on its front too quickly, savouring it for as long as you possibly can. Then, having inhaled the short, fast, breathless writing, you close your eyes with a smile, and the postcard drops to your side…
You need to join my Flash Fiction of the Month Club.
Flash fiction. On a postcard. In an envelope. Delivered to you anywhere in the world, every month.
Don’t you want an experience like that? Join here.