My little brother no more

I called my baby brother tonight.

Considering I just turned 50, and he's now 44, he's not really my baby brother anymore. But, of course, he is. Even though his life experiences, I am sure, far surpass my own. After all, he has married, raised children, bought a house or two, become a business owner. 

I have done none of these things. 

I haven't spoken to him in over two years. Not since our dad died. And not because he did anything wrong. He didn't do anything wrong. But I think, because I treasured him for so long, I expected...something. I don't think he knew, though, that I did treasure him. But I did. I adored my baby brother. I can only remember ever adoring him, from the time he was a tiny baby. And after, as an adult, for a very long time, he was one of the only reasons I stayed close with that family. My dad, of course, being the other reason, and the main reason.

When I was nine, and my little brother was three, we ended up in the Children's Hospital together, he to get his tonsils out, me to get my tonsils and adenoids out. I recall, vividly, our dad staying with us for some time once we had checked in. He played games with us, read us books, sat while we ate our dinner...and then he had to leave. I don't recall him stressing this, but I do remember that I felt very responsible for my baby brother. 

The next morning we went for surgery. All I remember of that day is 1) someone asking me to count to ten, and 2) waking up in our room very groggy, with our dad at my side, and vomiting blood in one of those weird, small, oddly shaped basins. And that was in the late afternoon. I was pretty much unaware of much else for some few hours. But when night came along, and it was lights out on the ward, and my dad had obviously left at some point, my baby brother, who was in a crib next to my bed, started crying. Now keep in mind, I was nine years old, and I was a skinny little girl. But my little brother was crying, this little boy that I adored and (I suppose on some level) had promised to take care of, and so I went to his crib, pulled him out, and took him to bed with me, where he soon fell asleep. Some time later, a nurse came and took him from me. I don't know how she knew, unless she'd come by on rounds. But she took him from me, put him back in his crib, and told me very harshly that he had to sleep in his own bed. I remember that specifically. And what I also remember specifically of that moment is that he SCREAMED.

Now keep in mind he'd just had his tonsils out. I don't think screaming was a good thing at that point. But the nurse just turned and walked out. And I remember feeling very angry. I was nine years old, and my baby brother was doing his best to scream his lungs out in the crib next to my bed, and I just couldn't handle it. I got out of my bed, went to his crib, and he immediately wrapped his arms around my neck as I pulled him out once again. I took him to my bed, and we curled up for awhile. And then he said he had to go to the bathroom. And so I climbed out of the bed, and I took him in my arms, and I carried him out of our room, past the nurse's station, to the bathroom. 

I remember two things from that specific time: When I carried my baby brother to and from the bathroom, the nurses on duty commented, "Oh, that's so cute" or something to that effect. In other words, they saw me, and didn't stop me. The other thing I remember is that there was some sort of stand set up, and it provided Freshie (which was a kind of Kool-Aid, back then), and I asked my little brother if he wanted some, and he said Yes, so I poured two paper cups, and took them to our room. I remember this vividly. And the nurses never stopped us. I took him to bed with me, and that's how we stayed until the morning. 

And that is all I recall of that time.

I have never been close to any other members of that family, other than my dad. I had always sought out my youngest brother, specifically because I had always felt so close to him. Well, as it turns out, that closeness is not something that stands the test of time. He grew up, and so did I. But he grew up in ways I never did, at least in terms of responsibility. He married, raised a family. Something I never did. And so a distance was introduced. And that kind of distance is not something you can ever close, and maybe that is how it should be. 

Childhood is priceless and irretrievable. You cannot hang on to something that is bound to change in ways you can never conceive of. For many years I wished to have again the relationship I had always had with my little brother. But it's entirely possible that I misunderstood that relationship, and it had changed long before I became aware of that change. It would not have been the first time that I had been misled into believing that some relationships are unchangeable. That I had misled myself. And I have been very guilty of that in the past.

So, after two years, I contacted my baby brother again. Out of the blue. And I told him, because I hadn't, "I had to walk away." And he said, "Well, that was your choice. I didn't understand it, but that was your choice."

And he's right. It was my choice. And I would not do it differently. But, after a few more minutes of conversation, he also said, "You know where I am. You can call me, if you want to. I would like you to." And I said I probably would. And I probably will. 

I cried after I talked to him. I have missed him, and I feel bad for the decision I made, even though it was the right decision. I feel I should have told him why, even though at the time it was instinctive, and I didn't know why. That I had to come to terms with a lot of things. And one of those things was, even though he is my baby brother, he is not my baby brother. Not anymore. And that is an important distinction. 

To me, anyway.

A Dear John by any other name

Dear Winnipeg,

I'm sorry, but I'm leaving you.

For too many years you have been cold to me, colder than any other (okay, there was Churchill, but that was short-lived), and I just can't handle it anymore. And even when you were warm, your warmth was fickle, changeable, not to be trusted. I often found myself holding my breath, hoping, This time, let it be this time, when I would be convinced things would change. But, no.

In truth, and this may be hard to hear, I have found another, much warmer, much greener, and very friendly. There are gay issues that cause me some concern (where you have almost none, and I love that about you), but I feel those things can be worked on. Indeed, things are looking very hopeful in that regard.

I loved you once, I really did. But I think, over time, what I really loved was the idea of you. Of course, the fact that I hadn't really experienced any other didn't help. Oh, sure, when I was younger, there was Texas, and California, even New Mexico, but they were so foreign, so far away. I couldn’t seriously consider them. But now that I am older, now, with my new-found freedom and experiences afar, I embrace distance, and what was once foreign is no longer.

You have been good to me, and good for me. If not for you, I would not be who I am. I doubt, however, that I have had a similar impact on you. In fact, I doubt I've had any impact on you at all. You will continue on in your slightly naïve way, believing that there is nothing wrong, that everyone loves you, and you can do no wrong. And that saddens me.

I have so many good memories of us: Summers! (Mostly awesome.) Walking through Assiniboine Forest (even though the trees are kind of short and unimpressive), the Zoo (okay, no, not the Zoo, not ever), the malls (though they lack the prestige of other malls I have visited, but let's not get into that), the Wolseley district (even with those distasteful garbage bins, but let's not get into that), the one-way streets which make the downtown so (maddeningly) easy to navigate. The MTS Centre (it was about time). The recent introduction of IKEA (too little, too late, sorry). The Festival du Voyageur (okay, no, I've never enjoyed that). I've even enjoyed your downtown (which, yes, has it's negatives, but let's not get into that either). The Jets! (Well, I'm not a hockey fan, but you deserve an NHL team.) Walking from one end of the city to the other. That was certainly a good thing. At least because I could. Not because it was beautiful or stimulating. Okay, enough of the good memories.

I came back to you, many times. Each time I left (and, as you know, I left many times), I told myself this was the last time, I would not return. Yet I did. I didn’t want to, but I had to. I had nowhere else to go. And you welcomed me. That was very sweet of you. And truthfully, I expected nothing less. But the time has come now for me to leave for good.

Please don’t take this personally. It’s not you, it’s me. Okay, no, wait, it is you. But that’s not your fault. You can’t help who you are. Changing is not in your nature. I accept that. I hold nothing against you.

It will take me awhile to get my things together. Please be kind to me during this time. I promise to speak well of you. I always have, and I always will. But you and I do not have a future together. And I am expected elsewhere. I am sorry I cannot say that I will miss you. I wish you nothing but the best. Because you deserve it. You really do. I only hope you live up to your potential. Because I see so much potential in you.

All the best,

Rebecca

www.rebeccaswartz.com

In the name of research

Sometimes, some people do things that you really just have to shake your head at. You know they deserve a smack upside the head, or a kick to the shins, but they've behaved so badly, all you can do is gape at them, before shaking your head and walking away.

As part of my research for the novel I'm working on, I needed an historic house. Hillsborough has plenty of historic houses, to go along with its plenty of history. I knew this, and it's one of the reasons I chose the area for my book. I've driven and walked around the town quite a lot, and saw many houses that might do, but there was really only one that I thought would do. It was a handsome white house, up on a hill, not far from where we live. We pass it every day, sometimes more than once. It has four Corinthian pillars supporting the portico; they dwarf the front door, giving the house something of a grand appearance, very Southern. I personally think it's quite attractive (not that I would want it), but my sweetie does not find it so.

I kept thinking this house would be perfect for what I had in mind, but I didn't know what the inside looked like. There's an important scene that takes place inside the house in my book, and I wanted to see if such a structure could support what I had in mind. One day, just before Christmas, I noticed a For Sale sign out front. And I thought, Oh, maybe that's how I can get a look inside. I wasn't going to pretend to be a buyer; I was an author, I had a business card, I did not need to pretend anything.

So off I went to the realtors in town, and I walked into their cramped little office which looked as if it had been recently thrown together, and badly at that. A mousy-looking little guy with mostly silver hair and a bit of a stoop to his shoulders came out of the back and asked how could he help me. I introduced myself, passed him my card, which he glanced at, and then told him why I was there. I said I wasn't interested in buying it, I didn't have a million dollars (the asking price) laying around. I asked if it would be possible to see the house from the inside.

"Oh, of course," he says, "I don't see a problem with that. I'm not the agent for that property, but I can call him and set up a time to visit. Would you like to do it today?"

I was surprised by this, but had nothing planned, and so said, "Sure."

We agreed on a time of three p.m. I thanked him, and again made it very clear that I was not interested in buying the property. He laughed and looked at me, raising his eyebrows. "Well then, why would you want to see it?" he asked with a smile, and of course I figured he was joking around with me and the question was rhetorical.

When three o'clock rolled around, I was parked just up the street from the house. The fellow I'd met earlier showed up a minute later, parking behind me. We greeted each other, then made our way up to the house. He showed me the outside, a little postage stamp of a yard, a short section of wrought iron fencing affording no privacy from the neighbours I could clearly see, but that wasn't important to me. I just wondered why people would want such a place, situated as it was. We went back to the side door, which was open, with only the screen door closed, so we could see in. My guide knocked, and called out, waited perhaps five seconds, and then opened the door.

In we went, with him saying, "I know we're expected, I guess so-and-so (the actual agent for the property) isn't here yet." (Okay, I know what you're thinking: Is this guy even an actual real estate agent? Seems kind of cavalier, right?)

Once inside, the first thing I see is beige wallpaper with vertical thin green stripes. Everywhere. How anyone could find that attractive, I don't know. But again, that wasn't a concern of mine. I just wanted to get a feel for the layout. I could make it look anyway I wanted, and likely do a better job than whoever their interior designer was. There's a small library to my right, and a stairway leading upstairs in front of me, and a dining room or something to my left.

My guide waves me forward. "Have a look around," he says, "do what you gotta do. I'll see if the homeowner is here."

I take four steps into what seems to be formal dining room, and then the side door to the house opens, and this big guy comes in, old, greying, but still rather formidable-looking. My mousey little guide greets him with, "Hey, here's so-and-so!" (Obviously, I'm not bothering with names here, there's no point.)

The big guy comes up to me, eyeing me closely, which made me uncomfortable. I introduced myself, and held out my hand. He ignored it, pointedly. I felt myself colour slightly, and said, "Ohhh-kay, that was rude" slowly and carefully and loud enough for him to hear. He frowned, but said, quite brusquely, "Have a look around, let me know if you have any questions."

So I said, "Sure, okay," even though I was thinking this was maybe a bad idea. I wandered into the kitchen. Both men followed me, and I looked around at the windows, the counters, the woodwork, getting a feel for the house. And then, before I could speak, the big old guy starts talking about which appliances are staying, about the age of the countertops, about the newer windows.

"I'm not interested in buying the house," I told him, and he frowned again. And I thought, Oh, shit.

The mousey little guy doesn't say anything. Not a word.

"I thought you understood that," I then said. And I told him who I was, what I was, and why I was there. I described the relevant part of my story, and started to explain why I needed an inside look. Before I could finish, he interrupted me, waving his hands and saying, "Whoa, whoa, no way, hang on." And again, I thought, Oh, shit.

Before I know it, there's another old guy in the room, not big like the one guy, and not small like the mousey one. He was right in the middle, and he looked very puzzled. The big guy says, "Here now, here's Mr. so-and-so, the homeowner, you tell him what you just told me and see what he has to say."

And so I did, I started to tell the homeowner what I was after, I told him the relevant part of the story, and before I got finished I was again interrupted. "Okay, no, no, that's enough, you're done," he says, waving his hands before him like the other guy, as if I've been yelling at him non-stop for ten minutes.

"I'm done?" I said, frowning now myself.

"Yes! You're done!" he says, his voice rising. "This is ridiculous! You come into my house, with this story of a story, and I should just let you wander around? You could rob me blind! No, no way, you're done. Out you go!" And then he rounded on the mousey little guy. "And what were you thinking? You call yourself a professional? I don't believe this!"

And the mousey little guy says, without hesitation: "I thought she was a buyer."

I turned to look at him in disbelief, my eyes much wider than normal, I'm sure, but I kept my mouth shut. I apologized for the misunderstanding, and for wasting anyone's time, and promptly left.

The mousey guy followed me out to my car. He said, as I opened the car door, "I know what you've got in mind, and maybe I can help you with another house, if you want to keep looking."

"Um, yeah, no," I said, as politely as I could. "I'm a writer. I'll just make something up."

For what it's worth, I did end up finding a better house, a house more suitable for my story. I drove around some more, discovered this house way off the road, went on up, and met the homeowner. When I told him who I was, gave him my card, and told him what I required and why, he listened carefully. I told him the story of the other house and the experience I had there, and promised him I was a law-abiding citizen and would not rob him blind. This made him laugh, and he ended up giving me a tour of his house, which I had just finished researching online (historical Hillsborough, remember?), and answering my questions.

But now, every time my sweetie and I drive by that house on the hill, either I will say, or she will say, "There's the house I was thrown out of."/"There's the house you were thrown out of." And then we laugh and shake our heads.

Because sometimes, that's all you can do.

www.rebeccaswartz.com

Little stick girl

I've been a scrawny little thing my entire life.

Actually, I personally have never called myself scrawny. Or skinny. Or underweight. I've always called myself lean. And sexy. And kickass. But, I digress.

I'm 5'5", and my "ideal" weight should be around 125-130 lbs. The most I've ever weighed was 110. Mostly, I've been between 100 and 105, and awhile back, during a particularly rough time, I was down to 96 lbs. A coworker said at the time that I was too skinny to be walking around. That made me laugh, but of course, it really wasn't a laughing matter. She was serious, and concerned, and I got that.

The thing is, while I may admittedly have been kinda scrawny, I was almost always in really good shape. I worked out. Especially during my 30s and early 40s, I was very buff, with well-defined shoulders, back and arms, and killer six pack abs. (My legs were always chicken legs, I was never able to build them up.) And I was always healthy. My health has never suffered.

(Here's a little side story for you: I was adopted when I was 15 months old. I was taken from my biological mother for reasons unknown to me--but you can guess, since every other child, 9 of them in fact, with different fathers, had been taken from her. At the time of my adoption, I was just introduced to orange juice, and a bit of egg. My adoptive father, every time he told me this, marveled at it, with a shake of his head. I was hungry all the time, crawling on the floor and eating crumbs if I could find them.)

Once, a woman I was dating (the one who tried to kill herself three times because she couldn't cope effectively with life in general) called me anorexic, which hugely offended me. Not because I was or wasn't, but because she used it in a pejorative sense, as an insult, when you never should, and obviously she hadn't a clue about high metabolisms, about eating (I do love to eat) and not being able to gain weight, about wanting to gain weight when many women just wanted to lose it (and so many wanted to give me their extra weight, hahaha), or worrying about not having any extra weight if you end up in the hospital with some terrible illness or injury, and could die for the lack of it. But people can be ignorant, and behave badly, and I've met my share.

So why am I writing this blog post? About the skinny me? Well, because the skinny me no longer exists. And I can thank my age (almost 50, believe it or not), menopause (pretty much done, thank god), and my (hearty) enjoyment of beer and less cardio over the last 12-18 months (frankly, the laziest I've been ever). I have managed to gain 30 lbs, so I am now a somewhat fuller figured 140. Okay, not really fuller figured, but I have filled out, and while I'm not entirely comfortable with my belly and thighs, and I know losing about 15 lbs of it won't be completely easy peasy, still, it took me my entire life so far to get here and experience this.

The (stupid) thing about menopause is it changes a lot of things. Things that are often taken for granted. I'm not going to get into those things, and you should be grateful for that, but let me just tell you, for me, it's not as bad as it is for some women, yet it's still a pain in the butt. My butt, in fact, which is no longer the sexy little butt it used to be. And mostly, really mostly, I'm okay with that. Being the slender, little kick-ass almost-butch-but-not-quite I've been my entire adult life was cool, but I'm alright with the almost-50-still-cute dyke I have now become. Some things suck, but they're inconsequential next to the fact that I am still who I am (though more mature, and thank god for that), and also because, compared to some people, I actually have matured, and some people haven't, and I feel genuinely sorry for them. But I promise to never blog on that topic, or those people, and I will keep this blog relegated to my own life and experiences. Because that is how it should be. 

So in closing, I'd like to say that getting old sucks, but I'm dealing with it pretty well (and yes, I know I'm not old yet), and that the CHANGE OF LIFE hasn't been as horrendous as I'd been led to believe. But the generation I could have learned from, I never got to know, because I was raised by a woman who came from a generation and a country that knew nothing about sharing, or learning, or teaching all they could have, because they were themselves repressed. And that is much more difficult to come to terms with, I am sure, than the relatively easy transition I am experiencing without their guidance. 

In the end, I think, we learn so much on our own. Because we have to. Because so much still is close-mouthed by the people we could learn from...and learning about life pretty much on your own is not a bad thing.

Not a bad thing at all.

The Next Big Thing

The very talented Jill Malone (see link below) tagged me to be a part of The Next Big Thing, where writers talk up their work in progress. That makes me #33. It sounds like a great idea, so here goes:


What is the working title of your book?

The title of my current work is Falling. I don't usually have "working titles." Once I'm well into the work and comfortable with it, the title will usually present itself. I find it easier that way, to sort of let a story name itself. So far, my titles have stuck. 

Where did the idea come from for your book?

I've always been fascinated by the concept of vigilantism, people who take the law into their own hands to deal out justice; also, by heros, both ordinary and super. I didn't consciously think of Falling in those precise terms at it's conception, it was kind of murky to begin with, but as the idea grew, it definitely encompassed those concepts.

What genre does your book fall under?

Intrigue/romance, as I see it. Someone else may label it something else. Genres are funny (and not so funny) that way.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

This is an interesting question, because my stories are all very much like movies as they occur to me, as they play out in my head, how I write them, and how they read. However, I've never had any one actor in mind for any of my characters. I know how I picture them, but choosing a name actor to play a character has never worked for me. So I guess I'd have to say someone(s) unknown. Those kinds of movies, with unknown or just emerging talent, are often my favourites anyway.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Former cop turned security consultant picks up a hitch hiker and discovers she is a vigilante wanted by the FBI.

What is the longer synopsis of your book?

Falling is the story of a former cop whose career comes to a screeching halt after she intentionally shoots-to-kill a fleeing rapist. Dismissed from the police force, she opens a private security consulting business, catering specifically to women who have been, or fear they may be, sexually assaulted in their homes. While enroute to a client in a different part of the country, she picks up a female hitch hiker, and after a night spent together, discovers the young woman is a vigilante, wanted by the FBI. When the two part company, the former cop begins to seriously doubt and question her own morals and ethics for not turning the other woman in.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

This book, like my first, Everything Pales in Comparison, and my novella, Forever, will be published by Bella Books.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Approximately two and a half years.

Who or what inspired you to write this book? 

This book was inspired by two different songs. I'm often moved and inspired by songs and compositions; in this case, a song called Ghosts by Kerri Anderson, and (not ironically at all) Falling by Alison Moyet. The latter provided the soundtrack to the scene where the two women first meet. The former is the underlying theme of pain and darkness, and, ultimately, the hope of redemption.

What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

All of my work has a thread of hope running through it. This story is no different. There is pain, and confusion, but there is also humour, and beauty. The characters really are, in the end, trying to do the right thing. But hope is not always easily perceived.

(Please check out Jill Malone's The Next Big Thing here: www.jillmalone.com

www.rebeccaswartz.com

Imagine this...

I was recently a part of an author's panel discussion that took place in Asheville, North Carolina, at a lovely independent bookstore called Malaprop's Bookstore & Cafe.

This was an event that I had put together, after a failed singular attempt earlier in the year, when I was informed by the Events Coordinator that Malaprop's was choosing to do more group events, as opposed to single author events, in order to draw larger crowds. I was also informed that my topic of discussion, "The Evolution of Lesbian Fiction" was definitely acceptable, and so, I set about making contacts with that topic in mind, and the event came together. Ann McMan, Vk Powell, and D. Jackson Leigh agreed to join me, with Salem West moderating.

The event was a wonderful success; we drew a large crowd of mainly women, but with some males also present (okay, to be truthful, the venue was crowded). I had never been a part of a panel discussion and so the evening was an education for me, and a fine experience. The audience was visibly interested and engaged; this came through most clearly when our moderator, Salem West, asked pertinent questions of the authors, and those questions (and our responses) raised questions from certain members of the audience. I could see people nodding, smiling, frowning in thought, and itching to raise their hands to ask a question before the Q&A (which we did allow them).

The overall feeling was that the evening could well (and happily) have gone on much longer than the time allowed. Once the ball got rolling, and people's questions were being answered, it seemed that more questions came to mind, and we had a hard time addressing each individual's queries. Indeed, by the end of our allotted time, we were unable to do so. Yet one specific query, directed toward me post-event, comes clear.

Which is actually the point of this post.

It wasn't actually a question that was posed to me. Rather, it was an observation. And it was only by one person. But it was an observation that had three times been previously brought to my attention, though not quite so personally.

PLEASE NOTE: If you haven't read my novel, what will follow may be considered a spoiler. I don't consider it such, but you may, and so, you are thus advised.

The reader came to me and stated that she had thoroughly enjoyed my book, but that she'd had trouble with one part of it. Specifically, when Emma Kirby, the cop, chooses to wear a dress to a funeral. This reader (and a couple of others, so far as I know) had difficulty envisioning Emma wearing a dress, had difficulty even believing Emma would wear a dress (and I have been told flat out, once, that she simply would not), based on their notion of the character. Even my editor had trouble with this. What I have explained (even though I probably shouldn't have) is this:

Just because Emma Kirby is a cop, it should not automatically be assumed that she is butch. For some reason, within the (supposed) strictures of lesbian lifestyle, any lesbian in any kind of uniform is often thought to be butch. 

This is, of course, a stereotype. 

Personally, as a writer, and, more importantly, as an individual, I refuse to adhere to stereotypes. Not because I don't believe they exist (I do, and they do), but because in my work, those stereotypes are irrelevant. My characters are individuals, women who do what they do, are who they are, love who they love...in other words, they are just...women. I am not interested in portraying them as other than who they are. I have specific ideas of who my characters are; stereotypes do not enter into it.

(Sidenote: It interests me that no one has ever asked for my own visual idea of my characters. Where Emma Kirby is concerned, I've always envisioned a cross between Neve Campbell and Sigourney Weaver. A strong woman who possesses depth and sensitivity. This visual has always been very clear in my mind. I don't recall ever thinking how someone else might perceive that visual, considering how I wrote it...and apparently some didn't.)

More pointedly, within my novel, the topic is specifically addressed: When Emma is in the bar with her best friend Nikki, and she first sees Cathy Marks. Nikki replies to Emma's statement, ''She looks straight," with, "Yeah, well, so do you." At which point, it is clearly pointed out that Nikki believed "...it was Emma's lack of stereotypical attributes that attracted women to her." Here I clearly address the notion of stereotype, yet immediately pass by it. I don't recall making that observation deliberately, yet I must have, because I knew how Emma Kirby presented.

Further, when the topic of wearing the dress comes up, it is clearly stated why Emma would choose to wear a dress: "But for certain events, she felt that a dress was a more appropriate choice of outfit, that it denoted a measure of respect in specific instances: civic functions, weddings, funerals." 

So even though I spell it out blatantly, some readers skip right over it, or, in one case, decide to challenge me on it. And I know why this is; I asked this reader after the event, "It's because she's a cop, isn't it? You see her as butch." The answer was affirmative. And I knew that it would be.

As a writer, though, I've always known that what is in my mind may not be in the reader's mind. I too am a reader, after all. I always have been. I know what I see. And sometimes, when I read what an author has said of their story, their characters, it has most certainly not been what I have envisioned. And that's okay. It hasn't taken anything away from the story I have read, and it shouldn't.

My hope is that, where my story is concerned, what I strive to describe, my vision, does not take away from what my readers read and/or imagine. But if it does, such was never my intention. Yet, because I'm also a reader, I understand how it can happen. 

Which may be why a book should be read more than once. Or maybe that's just me being hopeful...

www.rebeccaswartz.com

Own up, baby. Own up.

I hate to sound like a broken record. But every day, literally every day, new developments come to my attention, and I feel the need to comment on these developments.

I am referring, of course, to being a newly published author. A newly published author in the age of the Internet.

I feel I must make a statement here and now, with regard to the Internet and some reviewers (of books, music, art, etc): The age of Internet is the age of cowards.

I may be new to being a published author, but I have seen in the past how people (let's call them reviewers, for lack of a better term) cloak themselves in the anonymity afforded them by websites like Amazon, or Goodreads, or other such sites, and feel free to then post reviews of artists works, scathing reviews at times,  without any concern for taking responsibility for their words. 

These are everyday people. People like you and me. People who read books, watch movies, listen to music. People who are suddenly afforded the opportunity to speak their minds about something they have read, listened to, partaken of. But these people do not share their actual names when posting their reviews. No. These people choose a nickname, a pseudonym, and THEN, these people feel absolute freedom to post vitriol, scathing vitriol in reference to a piece of work they have chosen to purchase, and decided they didn't like. Their courage to thus post comes from the anonymity afforded them by the very vehicle that allows them to post said review. 

It would never occur to me to do what these people do. 

First of all, I'm not one for writing reviews. Second, if I were to write a review, I'd use my own name. That just goes without saying. I wouldn't resort to anonymity (I'm not a coward). If you and your review are going to be taken seriously, it stands to reason you'd post your own name. That's the professional (and grown-up) thing to do. And third, if you don't like something, just say you didn't like it, and then point out what you didn't like in concise, well-structured, well-articulated sentences. That's what professional reviewers do, after all (ever heard of Pauline Kael?). They compile what they did or didn't like, and then they present that shit in a well-articulated, well-presented article that comes across as balanced, intelligent, and mature, regardless of their opinion.

As I said, it would never occur to me to do what these people do. And, quite frankly, I can only imagine how unhappy these people must be in their everyday lives, so unhappy that they have nothing better to do than to rip apart the work of an artist who has toiled far more toward the completion of a piece of work than the individual reviewing it has possibly  toiled in their whole lifetime. 

Now, don't get me wrong, I realize that the above statement is contentious. But you know what? To be reviewed by some lame-ass individual who just happened to buy my book because it looked interesting, and they then found out it wasn't, and THEN they decided, Oh, I have an Amazon account, and this nifty nickname that doesn't identify me, and so I can now spout off about my displeasure ad nauseum...

I'm sorry, but I simply cannot take such an individual seriously. 

For the record, because I do believe in honesty, I am posting this review of my own book (click on the link below if interested). I am also stating blankly that I am not unduly troubled by said review. I have checked out the other books reviewed by this individual (and you can too), and those thus flamed, and my opinion of said reviewer is no higher than it was. 

Let me state unequivocally: I do not write porn. I have no intention of writing porn. I am happy to disappoint this individual in this regard, since they seem to place much emphasis on the "sex scenes" and do not seem to have an actual grasp of, or appreciation for, the art of writing. 

Finally, in closing, I am, as stated, new to this publishing world. I have a lot to learn. I know this. But I will not allow a review such as this to brow beat me into submission, passivity, or apology. I write what I write. If you don't like it, say so. But if you're going to say so, don't be a fucking coward about it.

Fear has its use but cowardice has none ~ Mahatma Gandhi

http://www.amazon.com/review/R31EU5BMWMBCSO/ref=cm_cr_pr_viewpnt#R31EU5BMWMBCSO

www.rebeccaswartz.com