The first person to suspect my pregnancy (other than myself) was a pediatric nurse in Australia. He patiently hashed out my symptoms with me during his night duty at the ER.
When my dishwasher started spewing suds and I had no idea what was wrong with it, a man in Arkansas assured me that I had probably just added too much detergent. He was right.
I keep up with my friend Kristen while she reports from the Middle East. Every tweet is confirmation she’s still alive.
Back in February, I had lengthy discussions with a high school student in London about his A-levels. Got the chance to encourage him a bit and heard all about what universities he’s applied to.
After Little Bit got her first round of shots and had trouble eating, a marine biologist in South Carolina put my mind at ease by telling me this was normal.
When I couldn’t remember the word for that thing that connects planes to their gate, a guy from Colorado reminded me that it’s called a jetway.
And right after Little Bit was born, a self-proclaimed insomniac from Washington was the first to congratulate me.
I’ve met writers. I’ve attended writing parties (amwritingparty, to be exact). I’ve had fairy dust sprinkled on me and chocolate chip cookies offered after a bad day. I found both of my first-round crit partners. I’ve trash talked SEC football with people I don’t know in real life. I’ve interacted with people I never would have met otherwise. And I’ve talked to literary agents, editors, and authors almost every single day.
So to all those who say Twitter is useless: Time to reconsider.