Bill C. Castengera's Blog, page 4

Society Is A House Of Cards

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When you hit adolescence, and everything embarrasses you because you haven’t figured out a way to cooly cope with the unforeseen, and then young adulthood thrusts itself upon you, almost expecting you to be a positive and contributing member of a society that fakes having their shit together, you come to realize that life is just a house of cards.

Everything you see, everything that seems established, is hanging on by a thread so thin, you can almost imagine that by sheer will alone, you might be able to break that thread. You could watch everything we’ve created, everything we’ve propped up on imaginary foundations plummet to the depths of forgotten dreams. It’s true.

When I was younger…at least younger than I am now, I faithfully believed in things. Someone in the know might have called it naïveté. Either way, what I believed to be true and firm was exactly the opposite. I believed that adults had all the answers. They are just as lost as I am. I believed that companies were strong, their foundations impervious. Those companies are hiding debts or have gone out of business. The veil has been lifted, my adolescent and young adult beliefs shattered.

As usual, and holding true to what personifies me as me, I spin it positively. I now believe that we can mold this world with much more ease than I had originally imagined. We can create, we can bring forth new ideas and they will be heard. The establishment is not established. The foundations of everything are not solid. No one has the answers–we don’t even know the questions.

I arrived at these conclusions as I thought about the digital age. There’s something going on here. As more and more information is stored digitally, or on servers, or in the ‘cloud’ I begin to wonder about past knowledge. If we lose our electronics, whole volumes of knowledge and art is lost. There is no hard copy, nothing that future generations could literally dig up. I wonder, too, if mankind has gone through something similar in the past. We have no way of knowing if it did.

I have always been a fan of the actual book, as opposed to the digital edition. I could never really articulate why. Maybe I subconsciously want knowledge and art to survive a catastrophic event. Subconsciously I want to be able to rebuild knowledge if our electronics fail. I don’t consider myself a doomsday prepper, but in 3000 years from now, after the atomic decimation, after the mass-EMPs have been detonated and we are finally at a point of rediscovery, maybe I believe, in some small way, that my copy of Catch-22 will be dug up and put in a museum somewhere. Maybe it will give future generations a glimpse of what they never knew they had forgotten.

I guess there’s no real point I’m making here, other than the fact that I have realized that everything is an illusion, built and maintained to give us the comfort of stability. But it can all collapse at any second.

The world is filled with half completed projects, projects that they thought were completed at the time but since then, we have discovered new technologies to improve upon them. Only now, we’re smart enough to know that there may be some new technology in the future to advance the projects further, and so we don’t consider them complete. Things are always improving in this way. The present is a mess. It’s an illusion of completion, an illusion of stability, but all the while we are building up our house of cards, desperately praying that the wind doesn’t blow it down, but knowing that it could at any moment.

Written by

Bill C. Castengera

Author of Shift!

Purchase Shift! on Amazon!

Wear A Purple Hat

Somewhere deep within, somewhere quietly brooding inside of my psyche, there is a malnourished, socially unkempt, and psychologically naive hunchback of a person clawing at the walls of my brain to be released from the confines of his tiny cell. He emerges occasionally, just to make his presence known, just enough to give his host that odd quirk, that almost normal edge that fools people most of the time. And I beat him back, trying my best to decommission the bastard, but he always recovers and comes on again, just as strong as before, just as nimble and adept at the attempt to fortify his position as the premier personality as he always is.

At first glance, I fit in. At first glance, I am a social giant, an agent of normal society, outgoing with charm and personality to boot. In a snapshot, I can make the whole seem like a masterpiece, the music heavenly and inspiring–all of that. But I get inside my own mind. My uncontrollable urge to inwardly reflect damages my ability to prove that the whole suite IS a masterpiece. Instead I’m forced to demonstrate the simple etudes and sell people on the fact that the rest is of equal quality. I’m a pretty good salesman. Despite my ability to sell the full suite sight unseen, there are times when a piece of the drivel goes public, leaked beyond my ability to curtail its release. This small fact has made me a master of cleanup, able to reign the crazy back in, and present a beautiful snapshot of sonata in behind it almost immediately. So fast in fact, that people often wonder if that glimpse of mush ever really happened at all. It has become an arrangement I can at least comfortably handle.

I often wonder if other people have this inward process of thought. If others, too, are suppressing bouts of second guessing, lack of confidence, and unhealthy self examination. Maybe it’s human nature. Who can really say they are openly honest 100% of the time? I believe that most people are not. Not are they not honest with others, they probably are not even honest with themselves. But the reality of it is that I really don’t know if this is the case at all, and so I can only judge it from my own instincts, my own inward mental activity and strive to at least be honest with myself, which is a hard pill to swallow. That pill is proverbial, for your reference, in case you thought I might ingest a foreign hormonal crutch into the already unbalanced mix. In digression, I think that personal honesty is important to one’s development as a human being. It is a facet to life that humanity pays too little attention to. This process of internal awareness and personal growth can be practiced without anyone else’s knowledge of it. It’s strictly a mental exercise. It takes time to become honest with yourself, to examine how you truly feel about something and why. It’s so easy, as busy as we make ourselves to accept the surface feeling of something and then move on, without much more thought about it.

Language is a barrier to feelings. If we can not articulate how something makes us feel, how can we really even justify those feelings to ourselves? It’s difficult, and often, the feeling of difficulty is so great, we don’t even try. It takes too much time. Anything worth doing is difficult. I’ve heard that somewhere before. It makes sense, I guess. So, I suppose what I’m really wondering is do I fit in? Can I fit in? People ask this question of themselves. Normal. Am I normal? And I wonder, then, what defines normal? Normal is what most people are doing. If the population of the world wears purple hats, and I don’t, I’m not normal. It is a little distressing how willing I am to make sure that I fall in line, that I too purchase a purple hat so that I’m not outcast, exiled from the right of humanity. We are defined by our individuality as people, and what we, personally, have to offer that others cannot. Yet, we don’t want to be TOO individualistic, TOO off the grid and unable to reconcile what the masses consider to be normal.

So, I’m saying that my desire to be normal is a forced action, a fraudulent move so that others can feel comfortable interacting with me. My inner hunchback, that abnormal creature clawing to get out is my individualism, my need to be different, expressive, and creative. But everything in me tells me to keep him chained up, locked away because people just won’t understand it. Not in this world, where purple hats are the going trend.

(Originally published on SuicideByChainsaw – blog)

Written by

Bill C. Castengera

Author of Shift!

Purchase Shift! on Amazon!

Writing Prompts Are For The Weak

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Write something. Do it. Dance. You are the puppet. Go on now, create. Create on command. Create when the mood doesn’t strike you. I expect a masterpiece, too, not some half-hearted attempt. I expected every word and line to be profound.

I have always found that the notion of writing–even when the writing mood is not in full force–to be easy. I don’t understand nor have I ever experienced writer’s block. Don’t misunderstand though. I don’t churn out the masterpiece. I can always consistently churn out garbage. The point here, though, is that I have never experienced a time when I needed a prompt to create said garbage. I have never not(yes, that’s a double negative, but stay with me, I’m trying to make a point, here) had something to write about. I don’t get it.

It’s totally possible that I’m missing the point of these writing prompts I seem to see everywhere. I view them as a crutch. I view them as an evil counterpoint to glorious creativity. Writing prompts are suppose to serve to get the creative juices flowing, but instead, I believe them to crush creativity. They help unimaginative people showcase fake creativity. Again, maybe I’m missing the point. If they serve to help one simply practice the art of story telling, maybe I can muster up the ability to give them a pass. After all, great musicians must practice scales to get a good understanding of different keys. But even then, I think the argument is weak. If I really use the musician reference correctly, practicing scales would be more like working on spelling and grammar and less like practicing the art of creating.

Writing prompts go against everything I believe writing to be. The whole point is to create from scratch, to use your mind to create something that is unique and new. Here’s a simile: writers who use writing prompts are like the chef who can only cook with the recipe in front of them. There is no creativity. A cup of sugar, two eggs, a cup of flour. Anyone can follow a recipe and come out with some pretty darn decent dishes. I can not accept this tamed animal. I want the wild one.

Again, I have come up with some really amazing garbage. But it’s mine. The idea of the story is mine. It is my personal content and belongs to me. They say (this is the collective they, as in a mass of industry professionals who believe that their beliefs are always the correct ones) that every story has been told, that every idea already imagined and written. I say (that is the singular me, a solitary and most likely incorrect individual speaking as if I actually know something) how dare They! Do not attempt to downplay creativity. They, in an attempt to discredit my creativity, challenge me to come up with an original idea. Challenge accepted! I shall not use writing prompts, no crutch to the creative promiseland!

Ok, reigning this back in….I think a truly creative person is the one who comes up with their own writing prompts. Realistically, we all write with a prompt in mind, but I can’t make myself use a writing prompt that someone else created. I almost feel a sense of fraudulence if I do that, a sense of plagiarism. I am–we ALL are–creative enough to come up with our own ideas. Let’s do that.

Written by

Bill C. Castengera

Author of Shift!

Purchase Shift! on Amazon!

Tortoise and the Hare: That Fable Is A Lie

This fable has been lying to us. And our children. It is why we find ourselves surrounded by millenials. It is why there is a sense of entitlement, and it is based on assumptions so far off the beaten path of reality, it confuses us. Hell, we have been indoctrinated by this fable, told that it’s true, and no one has ever questioned it. But it is inherently wrong, inherently biased, and the story basically lies to us by omission. In other words, it leaves out two major components.

There is a mathematical and statistical element the story leaves out, and that is the fact that in this scenario, there are only two options: you can be fast and lose the race, or you can be slow and win the race. The other two statistical options would be that you can be fast and win the race, or you can be slow and lose the race. The best outcome of the four possible outcomes, is to be fast and win the race. But the fable never allows us this option. There should be two more animals in the race.

Why would the fable not afford us these two options? I motion this as a conspiracy to keep mediocrity at the status quo. If you grew up believing that slow and steady wins the race, never believing or even hearing of the converse alternative that slow and steady could, in fact, lose the race, you will be destined for perpetual failure.

And fast, while not always efficient, could lose the race, but what if one could be fast and efficient? That’s a story I could believe in. That’s a story that pushes people to success. Slow and steady always wins the race? Lies!

I nominate the cheetah and the snail as additions to this famous foot race. The snail is slow and always loses against the tortoise. The cheetah is fast and always wins because there is no wasted energy–he is efficient. I want to be the cheetah, always racing to the finish line and slapping the other three with my golden trophy when they finally cross it.

Being consistent but slow is not a quality people look for in a potential job applicant. They want speed. They want speed and efficiency. That’s what separates the mediocre from the talented. That’s the type of thing that gets recognized. We have grown up believing that slow and steady is the desirable course, and it’s not. That sort of thinking will keep you employed but not promoted. Get it? Those of us that have figured out that the fable omitted the other two contenders rise to the top.

The powers that be want us to be middlemen. They need the middle class to differentiate themselves as superior. This indoctrination helps them in that endeavor. But now you know. Be the cheetah and leave your competitors believing that slow and steady wins the race. They can be on the podium with you, but they’ll be a little lower. You’ll have the blue ribbon, and it will be your national anthem they’ll be playing at the ceremony.

Written by

Bill C. Castengera

Author of Shift!

Purchase Shift! on Amazon!

The Girl At The Gym

The girl at the gym finally chased me outside after my workout and asked if I wanted to hang out sometime. She works behind the counter and tries to make small talk with me when I check in. She has no idea what she just got herself into.

Before I go in there, I consult the list of the things that I keep on my phone that really pissed me off this last week. I sit in my car, in the gym’s parking lot, and re-live my anger. I do it mostly because negative thoughts fuel a great workout. I work out harder when I want to break every bone in someone else’s face. It’s a good negative-into-something-positive growth exercise, too, but then, when I’m properly amped up and absurdly pissed off, I go inside to begin my work out. Getting greeted at the counter by a smiling whore is not part of my plan. I am usually cordial but quiet, since I don’t want to lose my anger-buzz. I say hi, and try to move on quickly, but she always wants to know how my day is going, or make a comment on how it’s been slow today, or how she can see how fit I’ve become since starting there, or how she wants me to hold the back of her head and punch her square in the face for talking too much…maybe not that last bit, but mentally, that’s where I usually am.

So today, after my workout, she chased after me after I left and there in the parking lot asked if I’d be interested in hanging out sometime. Gotta give her some credit for putting herself out there, and since I definitely don’t consider myself what someone might call a “looker” I was at least a little surprised and flattered by the proposition. Again, and to keep us all on pace here, it was after my workout, and thus my level of aggression had dissipated through sweat and muscle exhaustion. But this girl, the poor thing, had no idea of what she was asking of me. I hesitated, and maybe she thought I was trying to come up with some reason why I couldn’t, maybe rejection was expected or maybe I implied it by hesitating, but really, I was trying to figure out a way to make her comprehend what she was actually asking of me.

The hesitation clearly made her a little uncomfortable, and weirdly, in a rush, maybe she was trying to give me an out, but she clearly got nervous after the question and my awkward hesitation. She said, “Do you work a lot?” I don’t claim to be an intellectual, and I was confused by the question. After it was all over, I realized that she was supplying the excuse for me, to possibly spare herself the humiliation of rejection. It’s just that he works a lot,she could tell herself later. But since I hesitated yet again, the silence became even more awkward and so she then said, “What do you do, anyway?”

“Here’s the thing. I’m a writer. I am troubled, and I drink too much. I have a character flaw where I observe people too long because I’m trying to figure them out. It’s awkward and people are offended and confused by it. I’m a borderline sociopath. I think inwardly too much, and I read into other people’s actions far past what is considered normal. I fake getting along well with others. I just don’t. And so I’m thinking you would be wasting your time with me, since I know you’d end up getting hurt and angry at me in the long run.”

Her eyebrows lowered in thought and skepticism.

“Okay…?” She said, and then more awkward silence.

Realizing I had not said any of that, instead, I backed away quickly, telling her that I was in a super rush and we’d talk about it next time I was there the gym.

Today I became a member at a new gym.

Written by

Bill C. Castengera

Author of Shift!

Purchase Shift! on Amazon!

On Rednecks…

The old Ford shook when he turned the key. It was like someone was shaking an old box of rusty nails. He fucking loved his truck. It drank gas like it had a leak somewhere–but it didn’t. It just wanted fuel. The truck was white, but the orange Georgia clay it frequently drove through tinted it, and he liked the orange tint on his white truck. It was rugged. It was worn. It could haul some shit.

His jeans were blue, but the fabric dye had worn away considerably on his knees and ass, making them appear white in those spots. A thick belt and large, oval brass buckle completed the ensemble, completing a look that screamed ‘good ole boy.’ The orange clay caked at the bottom of those jeans connected him to the truck, an association in which he reveled.

He treated women the way women deserved to be treated. He opened doors, he spit out his tobacco before he spoke to them. They were a treasure to be treated as such, and to be respected as such. Every woman was a goddess, and he was at worship during their immaculate presence. Goddammit, he was respectful.

The violins on the radio accompanied a banjo, bass and drum beat, the cornerstone of his musical desires. It evoked something in him that was raw, unspoiled by what some people might call ‘classy.’ Well, it had violins, wasn’t that classy enough? They could keep their tuxedos and fluted wine glasses, filled only halfway with a blush wine that sparkled in the moonlight. He would take beer over any of that. Out of a can. No need for pretentiousness. Impressing people by being fake was not in his wheelhouse. Simple things would do. He was not a complicated man.

He liked hunting and camo and fishing and wilderness. He didn’t want for much. He didn’t need others to survive. He was self-made. And while we all scramble for a foothold in this crazy life, he just listens, the silence of his voice and fearlessness of his actions, despite the judgement of others, is where he feels most comfortable.

We need him. We need him when the zombie apocalypse is upon us.

Written by

Bill C. Castengera

Author of Shift!

Purchase Shift! on Amazon!

14 things I learned in 2014

The new year is upon us, or will be shortly. Every year, I revisit what I’ve learned throughout the year with the hope that someone, somewhere might benefit from it…this year, however, unlike previous years, I’m putting it in list form to make it easier for future generations to catalogue the near-divine wisdom they might glean from my experiences. I know you’re literally foaming at the mouth with anticipation, so without further self-inflation, I shall now reveal what 2014 has taught me:

1. Your attitude makes you either a hot commodity or an undesirable paper weight.. No one likes a complainer. Everyone gravitates to someone that has a good attitude despite negative outside influences.

2. There are dreamers and doers. Be a doer. It’s great to have dreams, to aspire to something grander than what you have, but without action, dreams will stay dreams. Make a change. Go make your dreams a reality.

3. Slow down. There is something to be said about taking some time to slow down and survey the landscape. We’ve all been in that mindset, where things are happening and moving so quickly that you finally look up to catch your breathe, and years have slipped by without you noticing it. Catch those years before you lose them. Take a moment to exhale.

4. The grass looks greener, but maybe it’s fake.. My neighbor has the best looking lawn in the neighborhood. I was so jealous, being somewhat of a lawn junkie, myself. I was off of work one day and saw a service come to his house and spray his lawn. Insect repellant, I thought, but I went over anyway. Turns out it wasn’t insect repellent, it was green dye! Are you freaking kidding me?! He didn’t have some hidden landscaping secret, he had paint.

5. Be an ethical marvel. You have to live with yourself, you might as well do it without a guilt complex. No one knows your motives but you. Take a minute with that. That’s pretty cool. Do things that make you proud of yourself. Take some time to impress yourself, and only yourself. Keep that locked away. It belongs to you. Some people feel the need to let others know what great things they’ve done. But that is shallow and unfulfilling. You always know right from wrong. Do the right thing and you’ll feel better about yourself consciously and subconsciously. It leads to confidence and trust.

6. Secrets DO make friends. Keep secrets. I’m not talking about not telling the detectives who the murderer is. I’m talking about negative thoughts and feelings. There is no need to tell Martha her new hairstyle looks like a dodo’s nest. It will only hurt her feelings and strain your relationship. No need to reveal negative things to people that are of little consequence.

7. You are who you are. Put yourself out there without shame. I recently interviewed Ray. Ray was looking for a job because he failed as a full time novelist. He was open and honest about his desires and failures. I found that I was a little jealous of his ability to freely relay this information to me. He wasn’t ashamed of it and I imagine that he felt a sense of liberation. Imagine being able to honestly admit failure without being afraid of judgement. That would be nice. Or being able to honestly tell people your dreams and desires? Why do we feel the desire to keep these things hidden? Be who you are without fear of judgement. People will like you or they won’t. It’s their problem, not yours.

8. Patience and personal interaction is better than stuff. When you are on your death bed, I’ve always wondered (though I suspect I have an idea) what do you think about your life? Do you think about the televisions or the cars or the really nice house you have? Hell no. You think about the people in your life, and how they will remember you and what lasting impression you might have had on them. You think about them, how you’ll miss them and how they might miss you. Ultimately personal interaction is more important than material goods. In the end, it’s all just stuff, and you are not the sum of your stuff.

9. Hold yourself accountable. No one else will. Well, your boss might. But you are ultimately responsible for your own actions. I have known some people that are the victim in anything negative that ever happens to them. They were not the cause of it. It is the difference between things happening to them and things just happening. As a society, we are becoming less willing to take responsibility for ourselves. If I walk down a flight of stairs and slip on the roller skate someone left there, tumble down the stairs and break my leg, do I blame the skate? Do I blame the person that left the skate there? Or do I blame myself for not seeing the skate and failing to avoid it? Maybe all of it, but I’m willing to bet that most people don’t ever blame themselves for any part of it.

10. If you take a chance and fail, it’s better than never taking a chance and always wondering. Take the chance. Life is short. See where the rabbit hole leads. What’s the worse that could happen? You fail. Yep that’s it. Get over yourself and swallow that pride.

11. Fake it til you make it IS good advice. I read a story about a young lady who got promoted to be the dean of students at a top university that felt she wasn’t qualified to do the job. But she tried her best to do it anyway. She knew she was a fraud, and she felt that others saw her as one too. But she kept trying. She did the job even though she didn’t feel like she could ever fill the roll as the dean of students. One day she looked up from her desk and realized she had been faking it for three years, and she was getting good at the job. She was no longer faking it. She WAS the dean of students.

12. Walk away. There can be a time when the battle is not worth it, when defeat becomes more favorable than the anguish the fight will cause you. Walk away from it. I’m not saying to give up when things get a little tough, I’m just saying to assess the stress involved, the stakes, and make the healthy choice. There is no shame in walking away. Sometimes it’s the best choice.

13. Be selfish, but don’t be a dick about it. Give selflessly, but goodness gracious, take care of yourself from time to time too! You can’t give yourself to everyone all the time and not do something for yourself now and then. You deserve it. But let’s not go overboard and start ONLY thinking of yourself, okay?

14. Stop talking and listen. You’ll hear things that make a difference. People will want to be around you. So many people only stop talking to organize their thoughts long enough for another rant. Don’t compete for talking time. Listen.

As the sound of the fireworks outside begin to reach a crescendo towards midnight, I’m pretty humbled by what 2014 has taught me. I could call this the “Year Of Personal Enlightenment” and I wouldn’t be too far off. Maybe there is some truth in the saying ‘older and wiser’ after all. I never would have thought so only a few years ago…

Happy new year, everyone.

Written by

Bill C. Castengera

Author of Shift!

Purchase Shift! on Amazon!

I’m Not A Big Fan Of Poetry.

There’s not enough words,

All it is, all it can be–is imagery…even so,

It’s good verbal exercise…

A candle melting wax on grasping fingers

Or needles scarring skin with ink

The beauty of pain on flesh can linger

Prompting thoughtless men to think

The pain of life endures

As chapters in a book

Can never be as pure

As the innocence of crooks.

Eyes are shut and eyes are open

Giving glimpses like a blink

The proof of pain is visual

Prompting thoughtless men to think

When end meets present day

Surely time will quiet down

And I’ll have time to stop and say

I never meant to cry or frown

But life is fleeting, harsh actions quick

Sober red dulled down to pink

Life burns down to wick

Prompting thoughtless men to think.

By Bill Castengera

This Girl in This Bar

billccastengera:

Fred Colton’s writing is….amazing…

Originally posted on FRED COLTON:

So I do not get sued: image from pbs.org

Midnight on Saturday and a new girl was on his lap. Three Jacks in his system; four gins in hers. They were in a dim bar with a skyscraper across the street. He wore a slim blazer and—you get the idea. Mad Men, without the smoke. He was a writer and she was…something. He forgot. But “writer” was really too simple a label when you consider what he actually did, which was: he took his time into a building every day and turned it into money. Then he took the money and turned it into beer or something stiffer, which unlocked a measure of carnal courage. He took the courage and leveraged it for pussy, which turned into secrets and pain, which he then turned into words. That was the fuel he needed. Nothing else worked.

If you take me home, she…

View original 239 more words

Handling Bad Reviews

Writing is art, and as such, an artist gets critiqued. It goes with the territory. I framed my very first rejection letter, excited that I was actually submitting my work and getting it out there. I had the mindset that even negative feedback was a positive evolution in the process of writing. I went into it with such a positive attitude, realistic about the fact that not everyone would like or understand my work. I told myself that I would easily move past unflattering feedback. But when I wrote the book Shift! I was unprepared for what I always considered myself well equipped to handle. I submitted my work to publishers. I got a few bites, I got a few, “thank you, but no thank you.” All were relatively formulaic, and I was confidently and positively pushing through.

Ultimately, after publishing, I was fortunate enough to get a few good reviews. I was even handling the mediocre reviews with grace. “It’s not so hard,” I thought. I had heard horror stories of how people struggled with how they handled bad reviews. I felt that I was able to detach myself adequately enough to not let a negative review affect me. So far so good. It was smooth sailing. Even the publishers that had said no to my manuscript were easy to brush aside. I thought I was handling it very well.

What I didn’t realize is that a “no thank you” was not the same as a bad review. Even an “I didn’t like it” was not the same as an honest, poor review. So about four months after I released the book, I got my very first real bad review. It shook me a little, I will admit. I was not quite prepared for it. Personal attacks, I could handle. A review of “your writing style sucks. You suck and you should stop writing to spare us from your mediocrity for good.” would have been met by me with grace and ease. The problem with the poor review that I received was that it was a well thought out, beautifully articulated, and constructive poor review. I had been so prepared for the personal attack, for the empty criticism, that I had never prepared for an honest, constructive review of my work.

The review called out things that I did well, and things that I did poorly. And the bad definitely outweighed the good in the reviewer’s opinion. Even at the end of the review, the reviewer noted that maybe they were “too far out of my intended audience.” It was an out, but it was not enough of one for me to come back from defeat. Over the next few days, I thought about it, and how discouraged it made me feel and I finally understood the angst other writers express over poor reviews. Since the review had come to me in email, I was able to respond if I so desired. I was fortunate that I allowed myself those few days of reflection before I responded to the critique. Every tip everywhere says not to respond to poor reviews, but I decided that I was going to respond, because dammit, I am who I am, and to hell with those writing tips. Bad move? Maybe.

It’s not what you might think. It was a short response, but I took the high road. I told the reviewer that I sincerely appreciated such a candid, well thought out and constructive review. I took special care not to make excuses, not to tell them I was sorry they didn’t like it, not to tell them that other people had read it and liked it. I was sure not to try to explain things I thought that maybe the reviewer didn’t consider. I simply said thank you. And I meant it, sincerely. It was difficult, but it allowed me to move past it and continue to push forward. After all, I recently wrote a blog called Understanding Creative People that explores why writers do what we do. This is why a bad review, though it deflated my narcissistic need to be recognized as the greatest writer on Earth, didn’t stop me from pursuing my need to put words on paper.

In fact, after it killed my desire to create, and after taking a few days off to step back, I was rejuvenated. I knew I would never stop, but the critique had shaken me. It was an eye opening event. At the very least, I am now mentally prepared for the negative, constructive review, which will ultimately make me a better writer…and so the wheel continues to turn…

Written by

Bill C. Castengera

Author of Shift!

Purchase Shift! on Amazon!