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

"Assholery" is the word of the day

Last night I finished reading Orson Scott Card's latest novel, Earth Unaware, penned in collaboration with Aaron Johnston. The novel is a prequel, taking place before Ender's Game, the first in the Ender series, all of which I've read over the years. I've enjoyed the Ender series, though it did get a bit tedious toward the last couple of books. But Ender's Game was my favourite.

The most recent novel, which is the beginning of a new series, was enjoyable as well. In fact, I would say I liked it a lot. I'm fairly picky about my science fiction/fantasy reads, but these books by Card held my interest and were entertaining and engaging. I went to my Goodreads list, to give it a 4-star rating, and then I noticed that the very first review of the book had given it only one star. I was intrigued, and started to read the review. It was a good review, and I actually agreed with pretty much all of the points raised. Still, I enjoyed the book. And then, reading the closing statement of the review, I saw this: "...my disappointment with this and OSC's raging homophobia make it almost impossible for an impartial thought."

Whoa, I thought, where did that come from?

The reviewer does not expand on this statement. So I decided to Google "Orson Scott Card homophobia." Up popped numerous accounts/thoughts/opinions/articles on the subject. Orson Scott Card is a bona fide homophobe. Damn.

Here are some links to articles I read (the first one uses a very fine word, assholery, which is right up there with asshatery). It's not necessary to read these, of course. I just want to show that I've done my homework.

http://www.giantfreakinrobot.com/scifi/orson-scott-cards-homophobia-affect-enjoyment-enders-game.html

http://www.ornery.org/essays/warwatch/2004-02-15-1.html (this one, written by Card himself, is really long--feel free to skim it--and he uses the term "lesbian women"...as if there are other types of lesbians.)

http://greensboro.rhinotimes.com/hc.e.211703.lasso (Written by Card again, it proves the point one reviewer made, that Card should shut his trap, but doesn't. He undermines his once respected reputation every time he spouts off like this.)

There are countless other articles and opinions out there, but it becomes redundant, when it's obvious what the man's stance is.

However, what has been troubling me, what's been on my mind since I found this out late last night, is that I have enjoyed the stories this man has written. Ender's Game is considered by many to be brilliant (the U.S. Marine Corps Professional Reading List had made the novel recommended reading for several lower ranks up until 2011, after which it no longer appears on the list. I don't know why it was removed, and I don't particularly care). Having enjoyed this man's work, for the most part, and then finding out that he's an outspoken, homophobic asshole, it occurs to me to wonder, does this in any way affect my enjoyment of his work? Technically, realistically, no, it doesn't. I've already read those books, the enjoyment has been had. Does it colour my perception with regard to further work? Yes, it does. (And for the record, I only ever bought used copies of his work, and the latest was a library book, so I haven't lined his pockets with my own money.)

There are numerous people out there, writers, actors, poets, painters, who all have their own opinions, their own thoughts, their own feelings, on certain things, and some of them are racists, homophobes, anti-semites. But they act in movies, write books and poetry and music, they paint masterpieces, whatever they do, and I enjoy a lot of it. If I don't know of their views, of their opinions, then I shouldn't feel bad about enjoying their work. If I do know, and I still pay to see their movie, or buy their book, does that mean I support their viewpoint? Or does it merely mean that sometimes I like to watch a good movie, and the viewpoints/opinions of actors, directors, etc, don't matter? That I just want to enjoy the movie (or book, or whatever).

I can't know the opinions and feelings and views of everyone who ever wrote a book, starred in a movie, or made a record. And you know what? I don't want to know. This age of information, in my opinion, is the problem. People spouting off, as Card has, thinking we all want to know his opinion, or others being quoted spouting anti-semitic, homophobic or racist comments, who should know enough to keep their mouths shut when out in public. I don't want to know these people's opinions. Certainly not if they're hateful. I just want to read the goddamned book and enjoy it. I am aware, however, that such a mindset cannot, and does not, work in this world. But it's very, very disappointing to find out something like this.

And now that I know what I know, I cannot speak highly of either the man or his work...because an artist's work is a reflection of the artist. It would be, and is, difficult to maintain an objective, impartial stance, when I'm gay, and he hates gays. And is very vocal about it. I cannot unknow what I know. And I do believe that knowing is better than not. I believe that knowledge is power, and I would rather know than not. But I don't have to like it. And I don't like it. It bothers the hell out of me.

At the very least, you now know that about me.

Opinions are a dime a dozen

Are you familiar with Goodreads? If you're on Facebook, and you read (maybe a lot), it's possible you know of Goodreads, or even use it yourself.

For those not in the know, Goodreads is a site where you can list books you've read, and you are given the option of assigning a star rating to them (1 star = didn't like it, 2 stars = it was ok, 3 stars = liked it, 4 stars = really liked it, and 5 stars = it was amazing). It is very clear, when you hover your cursor over the stars, exactly what the numerological ratings stand for. You can also write a review of the books you've read. I choose not to do this, as I don't consider myself a reviewer, but also because I feel that the star rating system works well enough on it's own. 

Most of the books I've read have received either a 3 or 4 star rating. Some very few have received 5 stars, and a few have received 2 stars. Even fewer have received 1 star. Meaning I (just to clarify) "didn't like it." 

I like Goodreads. I read a lot. A LOT. And it pleases me to have a way to convey how I feel about the books I've read. I understand that it's just my opinion, but I think it's pretty cool to have something available whereby others (who may or may not value my opinion) can see how I, personally, feel about a book I have read. That is the sum of my feelings with regard to Goodreads. I certainly don't profess to know how others view it. I am, after all, only responsible for myself and my own actions and opinions.

So, imagine my surprise, when today I received a message from an author whose book I had assigned a 1 star rating. Keeping in mind that that 1 star rating means I "didn't like it," I was quite taken aback by the fury with which this author addressed me. My rating was viewed as a "personal attack," was considered "unprofessional" and "viscious" [sic], and my morals and ethics were called into question if I did not remove said Goodread's rating, and/or this individual from my Facebook friends list. I was also threatened with "repurcussions" [sic], and made aware that it works both ways, that my book was subject to the same rating by this individual, with a harsh critique to match (this, of course, makes no sense, unless you're 10, but there you go).

Apparently, I'm supposed to be nice to everyone. I'm supposed to play nice, and get along, and support all authors. By posting this rating, by showing my opinion, I was not doing anything of the sort, and was actually involving myself in "personal attacks" on fellow authors.Well, the last time I checked, voicing my opinion about a book I've read is not only allowed, but encouraged, and is not considered a personal attack. Or am I mistaken in that? It would appear, according to this person, that I am very severely mistaken. And that by posting a 1 star rating (which, remember, means I "didn't like it") I obviously "hated" the book, and if I hated it so much, I should have kept my opinion to myself, as it was very unprofessional to state this opinion. (I'm very clear on the difference between "not liking" and "hating" something. Yep, very clear on that difference. And I'm pretty sure Goodreads is too...which is why the 1 star rating specifically says "didn't like it.)

So what did I do? I removed the book and my rating of it, and then I removed the individual from my Facebook "friends" list (for clarification's sake, they had requested my "friendship," not vice versa). I did this not because I lack conviction or integrity, but because people like this, with their bullshit drama, and no life, and lack of their own conviction and integrity, piss me off supremely. I did, however, send a message back, and I did apologize. Because it is not my intent to upset anyone. It actually never occurred to me that someone would get upset over something like a stupid rating on a stupid app where it's understood this is JUST PEOPLE'S OPINIONS. It's not like I went on a diatribe and spouted hate speech all over the internet. And I've received my own 1 star ratings, and negative reviews, and I would never have thought to jump all over anyone who thus posted. Why the hell would I? Everyone is entitled to their opinion. 

However, from this point forward, I will no longer post those books I didn't like. Anything I consider to be a "1 starrer" is no longer getting posted. Because I don't need the aggravation of receiving any more stupid messages from people who have no clear perception of reality. 

And that is all I am going to say on that matter. Other than the fact that threatening me is just not a good idea. Oh yeah, that.

www.rebeccaswartz.com

It's not easy being mean

Today I decided I am officially a bitch.

Backstory: 

I went to Staples this afternoon, to get an inkjet cartridge (colour black) for a new printer which was boxed without one. It came with a colour cartridge, but not black, which, when you think about it, is just plain stupid, but of course, is also probably brilliant marketing. And since I'm a writer, and suck at marketing, they will not starve, while I will. 

Anyway, I went to Staples, and almost immediately saw the wall full of inkjet cartridges. And I do mean "wall full." I've never owned a printer (which my sweetie thinks is appalling, but she's a graphic artist, so I'm not offended), and I can't clearly recall the last time I ever had to buy an ink cartridge, but the sight of an entire wall filled with choices was almost awe-inspiring, but was really more annoying. And if you knew me, you'd know right off that when something is annoying, that's a bad start.

I walked up to the wall of cartridges, and my eyes quickly scanned it, until I found the Lexmark section. I don't know how many cartridges there were, but if I were to assign a number, replaying that image in my mind, I'd say there were at least 40. But probably more. Which is daunting, to say the least. I had no idea how I was to know which plain black ink cartridge I was supposed to choose. I vaguely recall a time when buying an ink cartridge for a printer was not so complicated. But that was a long time ago, like maybe 7 years. I was hopelessly out of touch with what I now faced.

At that point, a salesperson suddenly appeared at my left side, as if out of nowhere. A very large male salesperson. With some sort of breathing problem apparently: he was wheezing softly. 

"Can I help you?" he asked, very solicitously.

"Well," I said, shooting him a glance and then quickly looking away, "I'm trying to find a black ink cartridge for a printer." I held out the slip of paper upon which I'd written the model number of the Lexmark printer. "I have the printer model number, but how do I find the right cartridge for it?"

"Oh, well," he said, a bit breathlessly, "printers are...well, they're complicated and confusing, and kind of touchy, and really, I only like one printer," and he suddenly shot his arm out to point, past and behind me, where I knew the shelf of printers was, "and it's that one, it's so straightforward, and..."

In the space of time it took him to lay this spiel out, I'd spied the plastic booklet attached to a clip before me, at about waist level. It obviously held the information I needed, the various printers names on it's cover, and undoubtedly, the types of cartridges required for them. I reached for it, and began to quickly flip through it. 

While I did this, the fellow next to me was still expounding on the merits of the printer he favoured. When I found the Lexmark name in the booklet, I didn't even look up. It was obvious to me he hadn't a clue about ink cartridges, and I was further annoyed with him.

"You know what," I said flatly, as I looked through the booklet, "go help someone else, because you're not helping me."

I literally felt the guy deflate. He stood there for about two seconds more, and then quickly departed. And I thought briefly, Wow, Rebecca, that was rude. And you know what? I didn't really care. Because why would someone who is supposed to be a salesperson, who supposedly should know the products of the store, offer his help, when he obviously doesn't know how to help with the product I'm looking for? What did he hope to accomplish? I have no idea.

When I went back to my car, I realized I'd been a perfect bitch. And that I no longer have the patience (and haven't for awhile now) to deal with people who have no idea what they're talking about. If you don't know something, if you can't help, then say so. Don't waste my time, and yours, spouting off about something in an effort to impress, to someone who is not easily impressed, and who is present for only one thing. Because I now realize that I won't put up with it. Once I would have. Once I would have been patient, and long-suffering, and then been irritated further once I'd left. But I don't do that anymore.

When I related this story to my sweetie, she laughed. "Oh, no," she said, "you in that situation? That's just a bad scenario all around. You just don't have the patience."

She knows me. Better than I know myself, sometimes. Because I do believe I have good intentions. I don't mean to be mean. I'm not a mean person. But I simply no longer have the patience. And if that makes me a bitch, well, I'm alright with that. Because I found what I needed on my own. And maybe that guy actually did go help someone else. Or will. Someday.

(Oh, and as it turns out, you can't buy just a single black ink cartridge for this printer. You must buy it bundled with a colour cartridge. Which was already supplied. See what I mean? I'm STARVING!)

To review or not to review...

The other day, I read a comment made by an author in regard to marketing and promoting of one's work. The author (who may be fairly successful and fairly popular, though I really don't know as I've never checked, and frankly, wouldn't know how to even if I were interested) provided suggestions for promoting a book, one of those suggestions being that a writer should not be shy about asking readers who have sent good feedback to write a review on Amazon. 

This topic has bothered me greatly, and so I feel the need to talk about it.

I have no problem with how anyone chooses to market and/or promote their work. At least I don't think I do. I'm sure there are myriad ways a writer (any writer) could choose to do so, and I'm certainly not familiar with all of them. On a personal level, however, having received extremely positive feedback from readers, either who are known to me or are complete strangers, it has never once occurred to me to ask them to write a review on Amazon. Somehow, ethically, to me at least, that just doesn't seem proper.

I understand the purpose of these "average person" reviews on Amazon (and on Goodreads). I do. People like to know what the everyday individual thinks of books they, themselves, might be interested in, or how that person's perception of a book they've read compares to their own. I get it, I do. But not everyone considers writing a review of the book they've read and enjoyed (preferring, perhaps, to keep that enjoyment to themselves), and not everyone is comfortable writing a review, thinking that such things are better left to those whose job it is (even those who may have grandiose ideas of being reviewers). I don't even feel comfortable writing a review of a book I've enjoyed (or even one I haven't), though I will share publicly on my Facebook a brief slurry of synopsis and thoughts.

Currently, I have exactly one review of my book on Amazon. It was posted there at the same time I was made aware of it on my publisher's website. That review was written by a bona fide reviewer, and I was very pleased and surprised to see it posted so soon after my books release. My publisher is in charge of sending copies of my novel to known reviewers. I sent one copy myself to another known reviewer, and that review was posted (not on Amazon) just under a month later, again surprising and pleasing me.

I'm new to this writing life. This world of writers, publishers, marketing, promotion. I'm learning as I go along, and for the most part, it's been a pleasant learning experience. I haven't been shy about talking about my work, or about sharing my work. I hand out business cards, talk my book up with complete strangers (in my usual reserved fashion), and point people to my website. I share the positive, and I share the negative; I'm fully aware that not everyone will enjoy (read: like) my book, and I think that even a bad review has its merits (okay, no, I'm not sure I think that at all, especially after the one - and only -  negative review received thus far. What a silly piece of work that was). 

It would be lovely to see reviews piling up on Amazon, or wherever. But I'm not going to ask my readers, who take the time to contact me privately to let me know how much they've enjoyed my work, to then post a review on Amazon. I can't even imagine doing this, let alone how I would phrase it. It somehow seems so very self-gratifying, and self-serving. Which, you may argue, is exactly the point. And I suppose it is. But I personally just can't imagine doing it. If someone chooses to post a review, of their own volition, hey, I'm all for that. Of course I am, why wouldn't I be? But I am not going to ask my readers to do so. And not because I'm shy. I most certainly am not. 

There is one other topic I'd like to discuss, briefly, while on the subject of posting reviews on Amazon. A while back, I was privy to a discussion, the gist of which I gathered centred around a review posted by the spouse of an author, and how the objectivity of said review could not be guaranteed, because, well, I guess all spouses opinions of their partners work is biased, and whose spouse wouldn't say good things about, or give 5 stars to, said work? Some participants in this discussion went so far as to suggest that it would be prudent of the spouse of any author to state said relationship clearly, upon which (I'm guessing) the posted review could then be discounted as unreliable and wholly biased, as is only right and proper, in their eyes.

Now, I suppose this discussion may have come about for some very good reason, but for the life of me, I simply cannot think of one. Okay, wait, before you lambaste me for being naive, I do know there are people out there who would do and say anything in favour of their spouse. And yes, you’ve got to wonder about those people. But really, if you’re serious about your craft, if you know your stuff, if your work is good, you know it’s good. Simple as that. It’s nice, very nice, to have other people say so. Of course it is. Validation is a lovely thing. But if anyone, ANYONE, ever suggests that my sweetheart, who is the very epitome of intelligence, discretion, and discerning taste, would ever support a piece of work of mine that was not the quality both she and I (and everyone else who knows me well) expected, I will thrash that person. Whatever the shortcomings of some spouses of some writers, those shortcomings do not apply to my sweetheart. Nor do they apply to my friends. I am far, far too particular to associate with anyone who would mislead in this manner, simply in an effort to stroke my ego.

One more thing: Before anyone decides to comment, I’m aware of the apparent contradiction here, that by virtue of my even bringing up this topic, I am thereby asking (0r suggesting) readers (now) post reviews. Such a thought process on anyones part implies that my readers are a) easily manipulated and/or guilt-tripped, b) unable to think for themselves, or c) stupid.

FYI, my readers are d) none of the above.

(Update 08/24/12 - After some understanding and encouraging discussions, I've come to see that there is nothing strange at all in asking readers to post reviews. As I said, I am new to this writing world, and new to this kind of self-promotion. But I'm learning!)

Difficult choices

This is what happened:


I had boarded the plane from Winnipeg to Minneapolis. My seat was near the front of the plane, and when I reached it, my seatmate was already seated. He looked to be in his 40's, roughly good-looking, and he gave me a perfunctory smile as I motioned that mine was the window seat. He stood, I took my seat, and considered asking him to switch with me. I don't like window seats, prefer aisle seats, but when I'd booked the flight I'd forgotten to mention this, and so. He seemed rather stiff, vaguely off-putting, and so I decided not to ask to switch. I took my seat, belted up, and removed the magazine from the sleeve pouch in the seat back before me. (I absolutely need to read immediately when seated. I do not enjoy flying in the least.)


A couple of minutes later, the flight attendant came by, and my seatmate motioned to her. She bent down, and he spoke quietly in her ear. She nodded, placed a hand on his shoulder briefly, spoke quietly in return, and then moved on. In my periphery vision, I could see the fellow next to me seemed tense. And as the plane prepared for take-off, he stiffened even more in his seat, closed his eyes, and began breathing deeply.


At about this time, I buried myself in the airline magazine, trying not to pay attention to our take-off. I steadied my own breathing, and continually reminded myself to relax, while trying to focus on the words on the page in my lap.


When I fly, I'm not usually aware of the person next to me. I'm too busy trying to convince myself that what I'm doing is not completely foolhardy, and that I will survive to reach my destination. But because I was in a window seat, where I did not wish to be, and because the person next to me seemed so very tense, I was very aware of him. He kept readjusting himself, took deep breaths, reached to flip quickly through the safety manuals in the seat back, and then he started rubbing his left arm, actually massaging it, albeit almost subtly (there's no subtle way to massage your arm, really).


As the flight approached cruising altitude, I finished with the magazine (those things are all fluff, after all) and glanced over at him. His eyes were still closed, he was still massaging his arm, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. I felt bad for grabbing the only reading material provided, since I had a novel in my knapsack I could have read, but couldn't be bothered to dig for at the time.


"Here you go," I said, offering the magazine.


He opened his eyes, looked sharply at me, and then the magazine. He smiled, a tense smile, but still a smile. "Thanks," he said, taking it from me. He opened it, flipped through it quickly, and I knew he wasn't reading it, because less than a minute later, he replaced it in the seat back pouch, readjusting himself yet again. He leaned back, dropped his chin, breathed deeply, and began massaging his arm again.


It was then that I noticed the MedicAlert bracelet on his right wrist. And I thought back to his quiet exchange with the flight attendant, wondered briefly at the need for the bracelet, and then thought, What the hell.


I leaned toward him, spoke in a low pitched voice toward his ear. "Are you okay?"


He shot me a quick look, glanced away, and then took a deep breath. "No," he said. He looked at me again. "No, I'm not."


I felt a certain amount of alarm at his admission, but figured I'd started the conversation, might as well continue it. I mean, I couldn't very well say, Well, hey, that sucks, but shut up, and let's get through this. We had 45 minutes to go. 


"You want to talk about it?" I asked.


He took another deep breath. The conversation that followed I don't recall verbatim. He said something about having a heart defect since birth. Said he hadn't been able to have surgery because it hadn't been advised, was too risky, but had finally opted for the surgery because really, what did he have to lose? And had been told afterward he had six months left to live. 


I am an extremely sensitive person. I can also be brash and blunt at times. I looked up at the ceiling of the plane, and then back at him. "You have six months left to live?"


He nodded. "So I've been told."


"Why are you rubbing your arm?"


He grimaced. "It hurts. That's supposed to be a bad sign."


I looked at the seat back before me briefly. "You're not supposed to fly, are you?"


"No," he said quickly. "I was advised against it."


"So why are you? Where are you going?"


He grinned, sort of. "To Philadelphia. My uncle is dying. I want to see him one last time. We're very close. I knew I wouldn't get another chance." He paused, sort of grinned again, then kind of laughed without really doing so. "Stupid, huh?"


"I...don't know." I thought carefully before saying, "If it's what you want to do, it's your life. You should do what you want. Are you okay, though?" I was really concerned about this, but I didn't know what I could do, other than ask. 


He confessed he didn't know if he was or not. He was obviously discomfited, quite possibly scared, and all I could think was that he was dying, and I...wasn't. If you get my meaning.


So what I did, what I didn't even really think about was...I talked to him. I engaged him. I don't know why. He just looked so scared. 


I asked him questions. He was from Winnipeg. He was a denturist, formally a dentist, but he despised the field. I told him I used to be a dental assistant. Why aren't you now, he asked. Because I despised it, I told him. Because dentists are assholes, I said. He laughed, which I appreciated.


What do you do now, he asked. And I told him I write. And I pulled out the copy of my novel from my knapsack, and he was impressed. And we talked about writing, and pursuing goals, and dreams, and we laughed, and talked, and talked, and talked. For 45 minutes.


I enjoyed his company immensely. He was honest, with his words and his emotions. And as the plane began it's final descent, and we'd shared a silence of a few minutes, I looked over at him and asked, "How's your arm?"


And he smiled, a genuine smile this time, and as he touched it, he said, "It's better. Much better." And then his smile broadened. "Thank you."


When the plane touched down in Minneapolis and we taxied in, I looked at him and offered him my hand. "Thank you," I said, "you have been excellent company. I've enjoyed our time together."


"Thank you," he said, shaking my hand. "Thank you very much. I have too."


I wished him good luck. He did the same in return.


I do not know if I will ever see him again. But I know that I am richer for having met him. For having met such a brave person, who made choices, difficult choices, when too few people can or do, when so many people make only the simplest of choices, and deem those difficult.


I cannot imagine being told you only have six months to live. 


But, really, even if you weren't told, sometimes, maybe, that's all you may have. You just don't know it. But he was brave, and honest, and I thanked him for that, as well. 


Because so few people are.

Ask me questions

Today (and since it's 11:31 pm as I write this, it is still today) I gave the first interview of my life.

There may have been a time when I considered myself a nobody. That time is past. I am certainly somebody. And I am certainly someone to be considered. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me explain.

I was subjected to the kind of abuse that basically debases. The kind that makes a person feel less like a person, the kind that makes someone question their worth, the kind that makes someone (a child) feel as if they are worth nothing, and can never be anything but nothing.

Today, I granted an interview with a gentleman who has a fairly distinguished career in journalism. This interview came about out of my own need for self-promotion. I've written a book, a novel, my first. The world of publication, at least in my specific genre, lesbian fiction, means I am basically responsible for my own marketing, promotion, what have you. The reason for this decided need for self-promotion is that funding is limited, and my publisher cannot foot the bill for all that is involved for promoting my book as perhaps it should (or could) be. 

I was never very good at self-promotion. Certainly not when I was younger. Never then. I knew only when I was younger that the less attention I drew to myself, the better. I was very good at blending in, at not drawing attention to myself. Yet, if memory serves, the more I tried to not draw attention to myself, the more I stood out. I cannot comment on this. I knew nothing about it. I was only trying to get by, because it was safer to stay quiet, to stay within the small world I knew was safe, and not step outside the lines, if you will.

Today, a part of my world collapsed.

Today, I was interviewed for the first time in my life. Today, for the first time in my life, I could have, had I chosen, spoken freely of many things. But today, I was only being interviewed because of my book. I wrote a book. A novel. I sought out the interviewer, and the questions that were asked, I chose to either answer, or not.

There is an astonishing amount of power in having the choice to answer questions as you choose.

I was asked questions today that I could have answered. Instead I chose not to, or deflected them. 

I realized I owned the skill of deflection. That is rather heady.

I was asked questions that I had considered being asked prior to. I'm a thoughtful person, and I thought carefully before answering some of those questions. Some I answered, some I did not.

I was complimented with, "I wouldn't think this is your first interview. You're very thoughtful, and confident." Ah, yes, that.

I don't talk about myself easily. It's taken a long time to get to know myself. Most of what most people know of me is not precisely what I am. I am very good at giving what I think you need to know, without giving you what you think you know. Most people think they know more of me than they do. Frankly, I'm proud of that.

Yet today, I felt I wanted to just...spill the beans. Just let it all out. Things I've kept to myself, that I should tell, and never have.

I didn't. Obviously. You still don't get to know what I refuse to let you know.

And I have no idea how the interview will read. What will be included. This drives me absolutely nuts. I am, admittedly, a bit of a control freak. Much less than I used to be. But still, I am what I am. 

I loved today's interview. I loved answering the questions. I've never refused to answer questions. If you ask me, I will answer. The thing is, most people don't ask. And so, I don't answer. But the not asking drives me nuts. People are such cowards, in their refusal to ask.

My sweetie has advised me, in this new world I find myself in, being a writer, promoting my work, that I must not knock myself down, that there will be enough people wanting to do that, I must not do it first. I get that, I do. But since I know myself, and I was knocked down from the time I was a child, I've got the hang of it, and you know what? Go ahead. Try it. See if you can knock me down any further than I already have been. 

You know what? You can't even come close. 

So what I give you, you're going to have to be happy with. If someone tells you something about me, you can believe them, or you can believe me. But I will give you what I can, and you can believe it, or not. And if I give you something of myself, you can bet I struggled with it, and so it's precious. 

It's up to you how to deal with that. It's certainly not up to me. 

I'm still in the process of giving you something of myself.

And that could take years.