I won’t apologize for not writing in months. I know there are exactly one of you that wait with baited breath to read all I have to say. It hurts me more, because some deluded part of me wants to use this to promote my other writing. Other writing, which, at this point, does not exist.
I looked up two names on facebook today of people whom I do not like. Both were ruder to me I could possibly imagine. Both were not as talented as they thought they were.
The woman said things like, “With all due respect….” The boy, who I knew from my poetry class and a communal living environment, would make comments like, “This poem reminds me of Sister Wendy.” Pretty much everyone hated the boy. I don’t know about the girl. I never asked, but the boy was generally thought of as an ass hole.
Why do I care after all these years? I’m 35, these people happened to me in my early twenties. Do I like them? No. Do I forgive them? I honestly feel like I have nothing to forgive. Does this have anything to do with my most recent career roller coaster? A search of her name reveals a flourishing television career and he is happily holding up a “World’s Best Boss” glass. (Like Michael Scott’s in the Office.) I wonder if it is a gag gift. He looks really happy, though, and for him I am glad. Maybe if he had been happy before he wouldn’t have been such a jerk.
What about her and her “cascading blond hair and halogen-bright smile seem straight out of an orange juice commercial.” How are my feelings about that? When I was younger, I wanted to be a serious, stage actress. I love words, and still do, and I loved being on stage. What she has is closer to what I wanted. Now all I want is to go back to being a behavior therapist. I want to write. I want to mother my six year old.
None of these things have to do with them. None of them stop me. Sure, in the even I write a book I will have snarky reviewers, but even they cannot stop me. I want my books to sell well enough that I’m welcome to write another one, I don’t necessarily need a best seller.