Darren Endymion's Blog, page 37

Difficult and Unrealistic

These words describe my goals. I am still reeling from the publication of my first book. It has been a rocky road…

Mmmmmm…Rocky Road.

Where the hell was I?

Oh, yeah, writing goals. Since two of my next projects have virtually the same structure (which took some time to get down to my satisfaction), I decided that writing them at the same time would be wise.

The result of such thinking.

Another issue is my lack of a schedule. I have read Stephen King’s On Writing and various other accounts which stress the need for a set schedule. They are absolutely correct. When I get going, I kick everything out and work fairly fast. But getting to that state is a challenge. Writing a novel seems to take me about three months. Getting my ass into the chair to write takes about the same length of time.

What I think I am facing.

Yet, I think that I can be done with my novella-in-progress within a month. I have written two pages and three of synopsis as a rough guide. I have written out a very important family lineage for the other, larger, ambitious project. I have researched and built in my mind varied layers of work.

And yet I think I can be done in the next month, which is cluttered with feverish social activity (with some of my dearest friends who also have no idea that I have ever dreamed of publishing a single sentence anywhere—blog included—much less that I have already done so…I dunno why I haven’t told them. Yet, I was careful to thank them in the beginning of my novel, Winter’s Trial. Why? I’ll go into it some other time, I guess).

I am trying to write something else, a snippet of a larger, unconnected novel at the same time. I’d like that to be done within six months. I also want to write a novel (or novella) about super heroes, maybe a free- floating short story, and then the next wolf book.

This is what I envision.

I know I’m capable of it. But my motivation is somewhat lacking after that initial flurry. Of course, every time I even think that I go into a writing frenzy, then stop, which is like an old car trying to start before a long road trip.

So, all things considered, are my goals difficult and unrealistic, or will I buckle down and do it?

I hope for the latter. Maybe I can turn to my friends and their unknowing support for a Care Bear stare. Or, with my friends, a kick to the ass and some oddly loving verbal abuse. *shrug* Whatever works.

Drinking, Migraine, Malaise, and Anticlimax

What do these subjects have in common? Not a damn thing. Almost.

This is an update, folks, and I mean it to be a brief one. Sorta.

1) Drinking — I did a lot of this at my friend’s wedding. He and his groom looked absolutely amazing and there was only a brief misbehaving by a straight couple teasing my newest, butchest lesbian friend. However — and this seems to be the way of things with me at all outings — people do their damndest to get me drunk. The good thing is that I never pay for drinks. The bad thing is that I’m not terribly tall, I don’t weigh much, and I don’t drink much, so getting me drunk is not a difficult task. Consequently, I watched the wedding through a haze, almost like watching a bad soap opera on a TV ready to go out while the gayest voice ever conceived by man or drag queen whispers  shallow nonsense behind me.

2) Migraine — Yesterday I had my first migraine. My eye hurt, it was all on the right side of my head, and toward the end, when I decided that going home from work was the only viable option, the edges of my vision began to pulse. It was terrible. I don’t wish that on anyone, and I feel like I am still recovering. How the hell do people deal with this shit on a regular basis?

3) Malaise — My writing, once again, has paused. Why the hell did I think tackling two projects at the same time would be a wise decision? They have the same flavor, the same tone, and the same sort of structure. One is potentially large, the other will be a novella. A part of me doesn’t want to jump into that editing schedule again, but if I don’t write a billion pages, it will probably be easier on me. Meh. More about that in the next entry, I guess.

4) Anticlimax — I think that time where the joy and surrealism at having published a novel with a traditional publisher has passed me. I was reading a blog entry by S.D. Perry on the dreaded Goodreads and she mentioned something like this. She has written very good novelizations of the Resident Evil games (if you’re even a marginal fan of the games, I recommend picking up your favorite corresponding book and going from there. I have enjoyed every one I have read).

Recently she wrote what I believe is her first original novel and she wrote an entry that I could not agree with more. She was talking about how her novel being published didn’t change the world, it didn’t change her, and things just sort of went on like they always had. She mentioned that she’s not suddenly a bestseller or a millionaire and, really, nothing significant changed for her.

I feel the same. I didn’t expect any of these things to happen to me, but neither did I expect this nothingness. I have physical copies of my novel on my counter ready to send to my best friend and my uncle. I have my own copy on my bookshelf. And while this last does give me a bit of a tingle, there’s really nothing else. I feel an accomplishment, I don’t have this demon hovering over me, pushing me to write more all the time or to send the novel to another agent. But nothing in my day to day life has changed as a result of this novel which I am so very proud of.

It’s a tremendously odd feeling of anticlimax that I did not expect. I think that’s why writers quit or jump right into the next project. There’s a high while writing or editing or waiting for your novel to be published. The dip after the newness has worn off and the next thing gets going is a dull, gray nothingness, a valley after the heights of accomplishment. I seem to be making my home in said valley, I think.

*shrug* I will deal. I always do.

Cosmic Joke

Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if humans aren’t some cosmic joke.

Everything that tastes good or which is too extreme (food, sex, etc.) will kill you slowly. Candy = diabetes. Fast food = death. Too much sex = disease. Processed foods = life expectancy of 40 years. Pizza and chili fries = downward spiral of shame.

Thankfully, I have a naturally high metabolism that won’t let me go beyond a little thick. Thankfully, I am not even at that point right now. Not for lack of trying, mind you. But I lost weight and was working out and I hated every second of it.

Life is like Australia–everything wants to hurt you (and probably bathe in your blood).

Elizabeth Báthory. 10 points if you got this reference without having to Google her — even if her most infamous sickness probably never happened, she was still a very, very sick murderess.

And don’t feel obligated to be a pretentious health nut and say, “Fruit is nature’s candy!” Shut up, Marge Simpson! This isn’t the place for you. *cackle, bitter* I love fruit and vegetables, but I’m wondering why Nerds and chocolate and deep fried foods and butter and delicious decadence isn’t healthy for you. It’s like we were programmed to like the things which will rot us from the inside out.

The average weekend with my friends and I

And working out holds no fun for me, and I don’t think it really does for anyone. It hurts. If you’re pushing yourself and doing it right, you are straining your muscles and this results in pain. The act of working out, the actual process is painful and invasive. Your muscles do not feel good after. They are exhausted and they hurt. And unless you are a goddamned Cenobite, who takes joy and sexual pleasure out of being tortured, then working out is not fun.

Cenobites — are you really striving to be like them?

Anyone who says that working out makes you feel good is lying. No. It’s painful. The aftermath, when you are healthy and your body looks good and you feel good and you have that sense of accomplishment–those are the things that make working out worth it.

What of sex, then? You want to die fast? Go for it. Chlamydia, societal shame, gonorrhea, HIV, pregnancy…all these terrible things can happen from sex. And it only takes one slip up for any or all of these things to happen. Only one. It may not happen this time…but what about the next?

Yes, he’s hot, but your death may dangle between his creamy thighs

What? Yes, I’ve gained a little weight this Halloween season. So what if I’m feeling a little insecure? Maybe I DID recently run into an ex who only looks better and skinnier as he ages. What of it? Maybe he DID hit on me and I refused to even consider taking my clothes off in front of him because Halloween has made me feel like Jabba the Hut’s hideous brother. Maybe I am butter…I mean bitter. So what if that’s where this amusing little rant comes from. Humans could still be a cosmic joke.

Don’t judge me! *cackle, running away to eat more candy*

Another Wedding? Damn Everything!

Yes, some of this is a retread, but I’m ripping myself away from the soul-eating succubus that is Disgaea D2 and writing other stuff tonight (yaye!). So, I pulled out something brief that…well…I might have mentioned before but with more dramatic details.

I’ve mentioned before that I love Halloween. The entire month of October is dedicated to watching horror movies and decorating and shoveling candy corn in my face and spending every weekend with my closest friends and generally wishing I could stop time and eat up autumn.

Then one of my friends had to ruin it by planning his wedding in October.

I am thankfully not in the wedding party for this one, but my closest friends are, meaning I will be spending some of October alone. It is, of course, all about ME. *cackle*

I wish the best for my friend, but he totally jumped into this one. Met, moved in three months later, developed a relationship based on need and alcohol, became engaged about two months later, and decided to have the wedding little more than a year after meeting his betrothed. Whatever, if they are happy, then I’m happy for them.

The wedding is going to be a mess, though, and a veritable illustrated encyclopedia of gay stereotypes. Empty stomachs, profound amounts of booze, more Madonna music than any one person should be subjected to, ditto the Sex and the City quotes (my friend is convinced that he’s Carrie Bradshaw when he’s more like Any Winehouse), a group of raging alcoholics, and one person’s day to be the most popular person on the planet, all to celebrate a relationship based on sycophancy and booze.

I was offered payment to take someone’s place at the *ahem* “bridal” shower. I declined. I was on the receiving end of a text-tantrum about not wanting to go to said shower weekend. I laughed. I was not, however, given the opportunity to bring a guest to the wedding. So, I plan to fake leprosy and have the person I intended to bring pick me up early. Last year I got a flu shot and had the typical reaction to it – a fever and mild crankiness. I’m wondering if I can fit in this year’s shot a few hours before the wedding. “No, really. Feel my forehead. I’m totally *fake cough* sick. *adoring Pikachu eyes* I came here to support you on your wonderful day. *genuine gag*”

“You’re the most wonderful, beautiful person EVER! Squeeee!” *vomit, convulse, die*

Notice that I am only mentioning my friend and not his husband-to-be? Yeah, because the HTB is immaterial. This isn’t his day, it’s my friend’s. Did I forget to mention the fact that my friend has been texting his ex literally morning and night, telling the ex that he thinks about him every day and he misses him?

Given that my friend (whom I do love very much, despite my bitching) is infringing on my Halloween weekends, maybe I’ll listen to clips from The Exorcist during the ceremony. Horrifying movie, yes. But when you take certain quotes out of context, they are freakin’ hilarious. Considering that Groom #2 is more obsessed than in love, I think this is how it would go:

Priest equivalent: Who gives this groom away?

The Exorcist: [pointing to the nipped, tucked, over-boobed, surgery-laden mother of Groom #1] Your mother sucks cocks in hell!

[Later]

Priest equivalent: Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?

The Exorcist: [glaring at the crowd] You keep away! The sow is mine!

Priest equivalent:  …to have and to hold…

The Exorcist: Now kindly undo these straps!

Priest equivalent: …from this day forward…

The Exorcist: Until she rots and lies stinking in the earth.

Priest equivalent: …as long as you both shall live?

The Exorcist: [raspy] Uhhh-huuuuuuh.

Priest equivalent: Then, by the power…

The Exorcist: The power of Christ compels you!

Priest equivalent: …vested in me…

The Exorcist: It is He who commands you! The blood of the martyrs commands you!

Priest equivalent: …I pronounce you…

The Exorcist: Faithless slime!

Priest equivalent: …husband and husband…

The Exorcist:  La plume de ma tante! [growl, raspy cackle]

Priest equivalent: You may now kiss.

The Exorcist: Stick your cock up her ass, you motherfucking worthless cocksucker!

*cackling like a lunatic* Please remind me not to listen to the audiobook for The Exorcist before coming here to write. Dangerous, offensive things happen.

You realize, of course, I am going to think these things throughout the entire ceremony and I will be giggling my ass off, nearly exploding with the effort of trying to stop it.

Rather like this.

Yeah. This should be fun. If it’s particularly heinous, I will share the juicer details.

What fun is misery if you can’t share it?

October’s Blockage

Those who have been with me for a while know that October is my favorite month. As a lifelong horror book and movie addict and total sugar junkie, Halloween is my favorite holiday. It’s also the time when my friends and I are all together the most, carving pumpkins, hanging out, watching movies, and being total nerds. Judge if you will, but it’s like a month long burst of all those good feeling Christmas is supposed to have.

There are only a few things that can ruin or dampen these good feelings. Regrettably, this October has two of the biggest.

 

1) Interruptions

From a previous entry, you will know that I’m not a big fan of weddings. I was in the last one I went to, and though I bitched about it forever, I really enjoyed myself. Being a selfish shit, I apparently just don’t like being inconvenienced to celebrate the love of others (this does not change regardless of whether I am single or not). This is either caused or exacerbated by my normal introverted nature.

Last year I wanted nothing more than to have my friends married. I love them both and that made me shut up my whining and suck it up. Eventually.

I am under no such moral constraints this time. First, I barely know Groom #2. Second, Groom #1 is a train wreck. Reports are that he is still texting his ex, saying he misses him and loves him, blah, blah, blah. This would just be understandable (if unacceptable) cold feet…if Groom #1 had ever stopped texting said ex. Third, the wedding is on a Sunday night and no dinner will be served. Groom #1 is a wonderful person who happens to think that he is a west coast version of Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City (writing talent not included). He is going for what he thinks is currently trendy rather than something timeless. He is having an hors d’oeuvres bar, no food, trail mix to curb the hunger of the separate wedding parties, and expects the partying to last deep into the recesses of the night. Some bitches have work the next day. Fifth, Groom #2 is a sweet sycophantic echo who cheerfully regurgitates what Groom #1 says and does. Sixth, this wedding will be filled with no food, plenty of alcohol, an overdose of pretense, and what seems like one person’s Most Popular Day—groom #2 being incidental and not intended to consume any of the spotlight.

My duties for this wedding are to make a pizza run with my friend (featured in the previous wedding), bring it up to the hotel room for those who are in the wedding and not satisfied with the seed bell snack, toss the pizza in their respective troughs, and back away. And to be polite and smile as though this wedding was the single most important moment of MY life. Thank goodness for honed acting skills.

This has taken up two weekends in precious October.

 

2) The Weather

This is the other thing which can ruin the feeling of autumn and October. I live in a place where there are 2, maybe as few as 1.5 seasons, and most of those are watered down versions of their glory elsewhere. I remember when September was part of autumn, where you could feel summer die and give way to the beginnings of autumn. No more. September is full-blown summer, and it lasts so long that it sometimes creeps, all unwelcome, into October.

This is the case now. We had a mild summer, for which I was thankful, though that usually means that our version of winter (usually termed “mild autumn weather” in normal places) will be exceptionally boring—high 60s and mid 70s from November to beginning February.

Then September killed us, violating us with the heat we thought we escaped. And it doesn’t want to let go. It was 93 degrees this past weekend, the first weekend of October, 82 today, and is supposed to spiral down to upper 60s and then climb right back to mid-to-high 70s. Where I live, any day not in the 70s or 80s is abnormal. Rain is virtually unheard of—if we get a little two day drizzle this winter, one will see all over the news “Storm Watch, 2013” emblazoned in red letters on every local news station.

So, it feels as though I am disconnected from my favorite season and the people I prefer to spend it with. I can’t stand the heat. A few of the people closest to me seem to think I have some sort of reverse seasonal depression—heat and sunlight and lack of seasons depress me. Moving will be an option, however sad, but not yet. And so I currently suffer through the blandness of our 1.5 seasons.

I want orange and red leaves, a wind which changes from so mild that it almost cannot be felt to the crisp wind and days of autumn. Sun and cold. Maybe a few clouds. Some people call where I live paradise, and I both understand those people and think they are some alien species from the planet Stupidia in the galactic system of Blandaxia.

All I want are my friends, a few orange leaves, a horror movie or two (dozen), and something other than perpetual summer.

In short, I want October.

Reality – 1, Me – 0

Note: I wrote this post before the previous one, “Writing ‘Till My Wrists Fall Off”. This is how I was feeling before that one. If you have read that one, you know that things turned out okay.

 

Lately I have been whining about writing. I was stupid and didn’t become involved enough in another project once Winter’s Trial was waiting or being edited. Maybe I wrote the subsequent short story too fast; I don’t know. I was reading around tonight, and this is a fairly normal reaction after initial publication. But I didn’t know that before, and the thoughts would not stop plaguing me.

So, I whined more, finally making my friends throw up their hands and change the subject.

Publication was a huge goal, a mountain, something I have wanted for about a billion years. It’s not mainstream and it’s a small debut, but it’s still a huge achievement (I guess). Now that I have achieved that goal, I kept asking myself if I wanted to continue. Do I want to write? Is this still a dream I want to pursue in the future? Or was it some lame bucket list item that I can cross off and never think about again? Now that I have climbed that mountain, do I want to climb the next one?

On and on it went. It was a bit nauseating, really.

I have been “researching” my (probably over-ambitious) next novel for months. It doesn’t take that long, seriously. I was stalling. I was taking weeks off between subjects, thinking, plotting, planning, etc. Mostly, I was stalling. And that made me wonder why. I used to say that if I ever was published, if I had that “in”, I wouldn’t flounder around. The predominant time it took me to get Winter’s Trial out there was shopping it around to agents (failed!), and I thought that once that got published, the floodgates would be opened and the writing would flow forth unhindered.

I was wrong, it seems. There were bigger issues I needed to tackle.

On my countertop lay a package I didn’t dare open for about a week and a half. It was my trib copy of Winter’s Trial. A physical freakin’ copy of my work, and not some bullshit I printed out on my ancient printer. Bound professionally, worked on, and viable.

Tonight, when the whining reached a ghastly crescendo in my head, I opened that package. I opened the book. I looked at the words I wrote. They were there. My characters: Austin and Cristiano meeting, Taylor bitching about Quinton calling him “Scrawny”, William’s letter, Pearl and Elena…all of it.

Having surged ahead in my research earlier today, then seeing that, then posting the musical inspiration entry here, it all reminded me of why I did it all. I like writing. I like my stories. I don’t know that I will ever be able to write as anything more substantial than a hobby. But I do it because I love it. I don’t HAVE to write another thing in all my life if I don’t want to. I can fade into greater obscurity than I now revel in.

Then why was I researching my next big project? Why was I agonizing about the whole thing? If I didn’t care, why was I doing it? Was it the death of a dream I held for so long, or was it looking up a very long staircase, wondering if I could ever get to my destination?

The answer seemed so obvious, really. If it didn’t matter, then why would I be bitching and whining about it? If I really could drop it all, then why was the thought causing me such agony? Then reality knocked my ass out with the totally obvious answer:

Because I don’t want to give it up and never did.

Duh.

Writing ‘Till My Wrists Fall Off

It would appear that my malaise has lifted. Part of my method of writing or plotting, I guess, is to write out a brief synopsis. I say “brief” but it never, ever is. It starts out that way, but as I write the thing out, I am struck with a tsunami of ideas that thread their way through the story.

That’s not to say that my characters behave as I’ve ordered them to. In fact, they rarely do. They are full of attitude and are terribly stubborn. I wonder where they get it from?

What I get from the synopsis is really the interrelationships of characters, their backgrounds, and how they intertwine with the story. Then, as I actually write the story, they do what they want and I let them do it. I’m fortunate in that they usually do what I want, even if I have to threaten them.

So, after puttering around and doubting everything about my writing (I will post that entry next time, purposefully out of chronological order), I sat down and asked myself what I wanted to write next—if anything. I thought that I would write what came out of my head.

This is what happened to my brain.

Some of this story wants to be big, like out of control big. But, it’s not a big story and shouldn’t be bloated just so I can cram it full of ideas I happen to like. I need to let the story dictate everything. I realized that some of the ideas in the Nuclear Brain Incident would be better in another novel and attributed to other people whose characters they are more suited to. Plot lines spun out like silk from a meth-addicted spider’s backside. Some things I thought would go well wouldn’t, so I saved them elsewhere.

I wrote until my wrists hurt and it was well past my getting-ready-for-bed time. I have a feeling that I will think about this a great deal before sleep finally comes. I will chase down the fleeing Sandman, only to be left cussing in his wake.

Catch me, bitch.

It was definitely worth it.

Musical Inspiration

Inspiration comes from the most varied of places. Mine seems to come very often from music. And frequently, it is totally random and completely laughable.

There are the obvious dramatic songs that inspire me to think of great battles, or heinous fights, or magical battles, or the like. These are songs like Storm by Vanessa Mae (which sounds to me like a giant X-Men fight), The Battle from The Gladiator soundtrack, Our Solemn Hour by Within Temptation, O Fortuna the Apotheosis remix, just about anything from The Lord of the Rings soundtracks, or One Winged Angel from Advent Children/Final Fantasy VII. (You want dramatic battle music? Choose any of those.)

Then I get the random ones, ones that build entire scenes in my head: full, complete, unearthed, and striking. And they are usually from the most innocuous, strange, and unexpected sources.

Once I was inspired by a Cyndi Lauper song, A Part Hate, to create an entire race of fantasy characters based solely on two lines. Characters I have yet to see the likeness of elsewhere.

Another time (and this one is just funny) I thought up an entire, dramatic, storm-commanding merman scene in the last 30 or so seconds of a song. The song? *snort, snicker* Your Disco Needs You by Kylie Minogue. It was such a dramatic scene, but the inspiration is a light, fun, gay-as-hell 70’s style dance song. I can’t explain my brain. Seriously.

On a more serious note (ha!), I wrote Austin’s entire shower scene while listening to Albinoni’s Adiago, Adagio in G Minor for Strings and Organ which I got from the 99 Darkest Pieces of Classical Music, available as mp3 download on Amazon. The whole album is ridiculously inexpensive there and I love that whole series—99 songs in a loose theme for $4 – $5.

Recently, while thinking of my new project, I happened to listen to Mariah Carey’s Emotions. Say what you will, I loved her flute tone when she used it well, and this was one of those times. I particularly liked the third bout of her crazy-high notes, and I pictured lightning flashes, sustained lightning, a tumultuous sea, and a shattered ship. The entire beginning scene of what I hope is my next novella wrote itself in that time.

I have had others, but these are some of the most absurd and random. Feel free to check these songs out on YouTube and laugh at my brain. Why not? I do.

Dream House Blues

I am not in the position to buy a house, nor am I in any mood to move out of state…yet. However, about a year ago, a friend and I were talking about where we want to live when we grow up and we both settled on the same type of place. In that spirit, we were looking around at different houses in one of two cities we chose. (All photos taken from the previous real estate listing…which is still up, the teases)

And we found this:

Three bedrooms, several bathrooms, a built in jacuzzi, the entire basement sectioned off into a game room, a gym, and a miscellaneous room, almost 5 acres of land, isolated with trees on all sides and on a hill. This is the view:

As a dream home, we could do a lot worse. There was even a YouTube video of the home and the premises. It was the stuff of dreams for two people who would like more than what they have (renting, never owning), in a calm, green place with real seasons (though neither scorching summers nor harsh winters)…and, um, did I mention a beautiful house?

The kitchen was a dream, and I don’t even cook that much.

Oh, and then to watch TV in this:

The house was on the market for over a year. My friend and I would go look at the listing, sigh, and dream a little more. Then yesterday, I went to brush the dust off this dream and got the long-expected shock: the house has been sold.

Here’s the real kick in the ass: my current APARTMENT rent is a mere $125 less than the mortgage on this beautiful house. It’s not a billion miles from civilization, it’s not in a red state, and it’s in a place I generally would love to live. I know there’s a hell of a lot more to buying a house, but this one stuck with me, and the thought that I could work from home (in a different state, something not currently allowed for my work position) and take a roommate and be paying for this gives me angina.

It was only a dream, and I realize that. It brought me to a place of peace and helped me form my goals. As my dear friend said, it just means an even better house is waiting. I wish the buyers of this house nothing but good and peace and happiness. I hope they enjoy it far more than I ever could. Not out of some pretentious wish for happiness for everyone. No. Because if I can’t have it, then the people who DO have it had better love it! *cackle*

Dream? Unrealistic right now? Yes. But, I feel a loss nonetheless. So, I say goodnight to this house and to this particular dream, and slowly move on to the next.

Reviews, Venom, and Toughening Up

Reviews are a touchy subject. Everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion, and that’s some of the beauty of the subjective starred rating system. And what writer or filmmaker has never felt maligned unfairly by critics, amateur or otherwise? Yet, the dearly departed Roger Ebert had a fantastic formula. I have never read a single review of his that has failed to amuse me, and that was the point. Why read a review full of bile? Mr. Ebert had a few of those, but largely he was an urbane, civilized, totally hilarious man. There’s too much of that pointless stupidity out there, and he was one of the best for a reason.

I remember reading a review on Rotten Tomatoes about the movie Abduction (which I have not seen, by the way). Nobody liked it; let’s get that out of the way. Only teenage girls and gay men who think Taylor Lautner is pretty to look at (and he is) and only need explosions to entertain them liked this movie.

Yet one top critic went out of her way to be…well, a total, inappropriately hateful bitch. Rather than be amusing or snarky or even try to just tear the movie down for its apparent plot holes or bland cinematography, she decided to tear apart Lautner, then only 19 years old. She said, “Sadly, it is already apparent that Lautner shall never learn to act in his, yours, or any other lifetime.” She leaves off the personal attacks for a moment to say stuff like, “…this movie is about as cutting edge as unmowed grass, and dumb as a sack of bolts.” She continues, “And indeed it is running for his life that occupies his minimal IQ for the rest of the film…he becomes the Jason Bourne of his local junior high.” And the insults continue. “…Lautner has a repertoire of two facial expressions…”

She is neither original nor as intelligent as she would like to pretend to be. And being hateful for the sake of being hateful is reprehensible. I don’t know Taylor (and for those wondering, NO my Taylor was not based off him. Though my Taylor wasn’t based on him, either, I prefer Taylor Kitch, thankyouverymuch), but I do know that the plot and script for that movie were universally seen as terrible. What did he have to work with? Further, were all the personal attacks necessary?

He’s sitting in his bank vault, doing a Scrooge McDuck in his piles of cash, no doubt. He has likely never seen that review in all his life, and he’s probably tough enough (now) to deal with the hate.

I, however, neither have Mr. McDuck’s money vault nor the toughness of those who have had to deal with such vile, pointlessly mean-spirited criticisms. One of my first reviews was harsh, ill-informed, admitted to skimming the book, and said there was too much going on. And I’m glad for that review. Do I think it was accurate? Of course not. What else am I going to say? That reviewer is in the minority and that makes me happy. As some wonderful people have told me, I can’t please everyone. And, frankly, I wouldn’t want to. I’m glad I went through that. It toughened me up already, and that is invaluable.

But I would be lying if I said I came to that place easily or quickly. It’s like sending your baby out to have stones or rose petals thrown at it. It’s difficult. But I’m glad for it now, even though I thought about it a great deal at the beginning.

However, what of those reviewers who are mean just to seem important? Isn’t that pretty much what all deliberately cruel reviews are intended to be? I thought about this after reading my negative review, and that review of Abduction has stuck with me for a long time, solely because of its venom. Further, when you see that these types of hateful reviews are more than common for a reviewer, that they are the overwhelming majority, you have to wonder about the reviewer him/herself. What motivates these people? Deflected fame? (Nobody’s going to get famous criticizing me…I was referring more to the Abduction hag.) A self-important air of thinking themselves better because they are self-proclaimed harsh critics? A crusader, a veritable super hero, saving the unwitting and less intelligent from making a mistake their fragile little minds couldn’t handle? I think those feelings are probably very common in the group we are discussing tonight.

It hasn’t been a long time, nearly a month since publication for me. This is my first novel, and I know I will get over it. I’m glad things turned out the way they did. As a fledgling writer, though, it happens. You get caught up in your own head, and as humans, I think we focus on the negative more than the positive. I know I did. And I’m glad for it. I mentioned in other posts knowing that I would need to get a thicker skin. And I am doing that all the time.

Still, I had little else to write about tonight, and I just finished a book wherein there was a very telling quote, and it started me thinking again. So, I have now assaulted you with my thoughts on it.

While reading Her Mother’s Daughter: A Novel of Mary Tudor by Julianne Lee, I came across the most fantastic quote. It made me cackle and I took much solace from it. It is a definite, true, beautiful thing, and I may have to have it inscribed somewhere. I doubt Julianne Lee will ever hear of me or care if she did, but I’d like to give her a cyber hug anyway.

I shall leave you with the quote, and hopefully say no more on the subject:

“It is difficult for me to take to heart every word from a malcontent bent on making himself more important in the eyes of his fellows by criticizing everything he sees and hears.”

Preach, sister! *cackle, running away*