Not Talking About Bad Reviews

I’m not going to talk about bad reviews. Every writer has had this experience, I expect. It’s nothing unique, to read the sort of cruel, mean-spirited review designed to destroy the little pleasure a writer has in her writing—that is, sharing it with a reader. Bullies are everywhere. It’s not like they’re all hanging around the teeter-totter on the school playground. I mean, they must grow up, right?

I’m not going to talk about bullies, either, or try to describe what it feels like to have a stranger attack you—sort of like that Gary Larson Far Side Cartoon, a deer hiding behind a tree, and a hunter’s raising his rifle, and the deer’s thinking, “What’s going on? Do I know this guy? Think!” I need to find a copy of that cartoon and tape it to the wall next to my computer.

It is weird, like you’re walking in the grocery story, and you pass a stranger loading spaghetti sauce into his basket, and all of the sudden he turns around and punches you in the stomach. That’s what it feels like. Naturally you are going to avoid the spaghetti aisle after that! I was starting to feel like I wanted to avoid Goodreads, so I wouldn’t accidently read something so ugly and mean it made me want to quit writing all together, and not even hang around talking about books. Because I didn’t want to put myself into the path of a bully who might mistake me for an easy target. But I’m not going to talk about that, either.

The reason why I’m not going to talk about any of this is I was just downstairs in my apartment building, and I had my Nissan Cube stuffed to the gills with boxes of books. I was unloading them from the car to take into my new apartment. And a neighbor walked by, and saw me, and started picking up boxes of books and helping me put them into the elevator. And then another neighbor came by and pitched in, without a word. Just a smile. And by the time I got the books unloaded into my new place, and opened a few boxes and played with my lovely books, I remembered that most people are the ‘pitch in and help without a word’ sort of people, and there are a lot more of them out in the beautiful world.

So that means I can start on my new story, without feeling more than the usual amount of dread in my stomach that I’m about to be punched out in the spaghetti aisle. I just drove fourteen hours in the last two days to fetch my lovely books, and fourteen hours is good for at least a novella: something new and fun and unusual for me, Mari Moto’s Magical Dragon. And when it’s done, I’ll put it up on my Goodreads blog in case any of my neighbors might like to read a good story.