How to be popular - there's an app for that...

As my Instagram account crawls its way to a 300 follower milestone, I wondered how I could promote it a bit better and reach a wider audience. I mean I'm not saying I'm an incredible photographer, but I've got ambitions and I've seen some accounts with thousands of followers and likes and wondered, with I admit a jealous heart, how on earth they did it.

So, with the power of a quick google search I discovered that they probably aren't as popular as they seem. In fact, there are many tools out there to create illusions of grandeur. Take LikePotion for example. You just hop on there, like a few random photos that come up, earn points and then spend those points in getting likes for your own photos. In a few minutes a bunch of people who don't even really look at what you are sharing click 'like' and Bob's your uncle - you are super successful.

But what's the point? Surely a 'like' earned from someone who appreciates what you have created is the only one of value? Why are all these people craving fake popularity? How can it make you feel like you've achieved something when it is essentially meaningless? It's like buying a degree. You can't use it to become a brain surgeon without the lessons and learning to get you there.

Why are we not content with what and who we are? Without wishing to sound too melodramatic, it seems to me that not being happy with yourself and seeking to essentially buy popularity only takes you down one road - and that's to depression. There's an interesting article on the subject here.

On that cheerful note, I think I'll stick with my organic growth (much healthier)!

However.... if you'd like to follow me and like all of my photos and make me super popular you can find me on Instagram here @lisawrightstuff!! Tee Hee!!

No vacancies?

Journal page from the heart

I am shamelessly stealing/borrowing this poetry from both Ange and Rumi. Written by the latter, I found it on the former's blog and it sang to me a tune of recognition.

This human being is a guest house. 

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Rumi

It has been a busy period in this particular 'guest house' - high season for visiting emotions. Some seem to have set up home, while others flit in and out with no regard for reservation or planning. When the Sorrows come to stay with naughty children Depression and Mope they are usually bent on taking over the place, filling every nook and cranny with their dreary moods. They are not the most profitable of house guests that's for sure as they leech productivity and cast a weariness over all in their path. They play mournful tunes and spend too much time in bed. How am I supposed to change the sheets when they are weighing them down?

Fortunately I do believe they are thinking about leaving. I dropped a few hints - like printing out their invoice and packing their suitcases and they sense a shift in my once subconscious welcoming attitude towards them. You see, I've had an enquiry from Joy and Gratitude. They are desperate for a visit and let's face it, who wouldn't open their doors to these moments of sunshine?

Sunday evening syndrome

Nearly 8pm and the gloom sets in. Perhaps I should have opted for a career that involved shift work, one of those four days on four days off type things then Sunday evening syndrome would be a few and far between experience. Or of course, if I ever managed to put pen to paper in a more lucrative fashion, maybe I could be that professional writer/creator of my dreams and work whenever I damn well felt like it! Tonight, not even the pleasure of writing (or seeing that I had 18 comments on my last blog post - thank you everyone!), can quite lift the cloud of despondency settled firmly upon my bonce. That's the trouble with weekends, they are just so much more fun than going to work. I can also look forward to at least an hour of tossing and turning in the bed, unable to nod off and obsessing about how tired I'll be when the alarm trills into life at 6.30am (ouch!). Is it just me or does everyone have trouble sleeping on a Sunday night? Still, look on the bright side - at least I've done the ironing* and who knows, there may just be something worth watching on TV ... and the England ladies won the World Twenty20 in the cricket!

* Speaking of ironing - that Keri Smith has a lot to answer for... Thanks to her great idea, my ironing (YES KERI, THAT'S MY IRONING - NOT MY PAINTING OR WRITING OR DOING NICE CREATIVE THINGS) took me much, much longer than usual. Why? Well, could be something to do with picking off tiny pieces of pulverised paper pulp from my darks' wash? Tear this page out and put it through the wash she so thoughtfully suggests. What a wheeze. I even smeared it with some suitable stains to see if Persil really does wash whiter. When I unloaded I couldn't find it anywhere. It certainly wasn't in the trouser pocket any more or tucked in a sleeve or sock. I stuck my head in the washer drum, spun it around a few times in a most perplexed manner (the drum that is, not my head). Then I noticed the tiny specks of white adorning my black t-shirt; my son's school sweatshirts; my best new skirt from Monsoon; my new lime green top....