I indulged in a minor volcanic eruption of emotional honesty a couple of days ago. The pressure had been building for a long time, and there had been rumbles, but this time I finally went kablooie, complete with poisonous online gassing and a pyroclastic cloud of ash dumped on my life partner. I feel a million pounds lighter now that it’s done.
I’ve spent my life burying sharp spiny personality traits beneath a thick pretense of congeniality. It was the easy way to insulate myself from rejection. This blast cleared away a lifetime’s accumulated be-a-good-girl garbage. Underneath it all, I am an intelligent, sarcastic, impatient, opinionated misanthrope with a major curiosity bump, and guess what? That’s the bare face I intend to show the world fulltime now.
Over the last few months I’d become a world-class expert in the art of making excuses for friends. I felt pushy when repeated promotional requests got only grudging results. They’re overworked, I told myself. Sick. Overwhelmed by their own lives. They don’t understand how to help. As time wore on, I took the burden of inadequacy on my own shoulders: no one was helping because I didn’t deserve it. If my work was any good, friends would be excited and actively looking for ways to help me succeed.
Now I know that I was wrong. I didn’t suck. You did. You’re all great people, but some of you have been truly crappy
friends supporters. (edited in the spirit of ruthless fairness.) Abysmal failures, in truth.
Yeah, I know it’s still a cruel, nasty thing to write. Negativity alienates people. Complaining is unattractive. Smart people keep their pain to themselves and soldier on with smiles on their faces. No one likes a whiner. Everyone hates bitter bitches.
Screw it. I’ve been betrayed, and this is me on betrayal and anger. Take me or leave me. It isn’t the entitled manifesto of, “take me at my worst, or you don’t deserve my best.” Far from it. This is a case of, “I gave you my civilized best, and it wasn’t good enough for you, so fuck all’a y’all.”
That said, I’m ready to dust off the ashy debris, climb out of my wreckage and start over. If you’re willing to roll up your sleeves and join me, I’ll be mightily glad for your company.
Still with me? Huh. I really wasn’t expecting that.
One last little request. If you’re staying the course, skip the excuses. They all go splat into one of two unflattering categories, and when you try, I feel a compulsion to eviscerate them point by point.
Category #1: I had better things to do.
I haven’t had a chance to write a review
Sorry, I hadn’t gotten around to reading it yet
But I did write a review on
You wrote one review on one book of the two you read, on one site? Sorry, no cookie for you. Both books are listed with three major vendors and a review site. I made that data available more than once, and copy/paste makes multiple submissions simple. I should know. I do it all the time for authors I like. So of course I would’ve been happy to walk you through the steps. If you’d honestly wanted to do it.
Oh, but wait, there’s more. Category #2: I couldn’t be bothered.
But I clicked “like” on your new page .
I do support you. I share your links/posts/pages.
I tried to post a review, but wouldn’t let me.
Hard? Cry me a river. I had to write taglines, blurbs and author bios. It didn’t take me two months. Yes, Amazon sucks because they make you write 20 whole words. “I liked it. What more do you need to hear? Buy this book. You won’t be disappointed. That is my review.” Boom. Done. iBooks and Goodreads let you click to rate without reviewing, and people who feel passionate about authors even rate books that haven’t released yet. I swoon at the thought of all the work and ethical shadiness involved in clicking an icon on a site you already visit. (sarcasm)
That goes for Facebook too. Did you invite all your friends to like my page? I know you didn’t. Don’t lie. When it comes to shares, like Santa Claus I know who does and who doesn’t, so… thanks to four of you.
You tried to review or but there’s no evidence? Technically inept doesn’t fly as a valid excuse when you’re using an ereader. If the process was so daunting, why did you never ask for help? Maybe you didn’t want to thrill me to the toes with the news that you were writing a review? Your pants are smoking, and there’s a distinct scent of bovine excrement in the air.
Just. Don’t. Explain. It only dredges up the bitter pain. Molten lava rises.
Okay. Rant over.
Hi, there. Good to see you. Let’s have some fun together.