A writer sits in a coffee shop. Then a sweet, well-meaning young woman comes up to them, introduces herself as a fellow writer, and wants to chat publishing, story ideas, even offers to meet again to write side by side.
The writer, with a film of courtesy, is clearly irritated with her, smiles through their teeth, and waits for her to go away. The writer talks about agents and publishing with a prickle of pride, the I’m-better-than-you tone, the why-are-you-wasting-my-time twitch.
I never wanted to meet a writer like that. In a coffee shop, no less.
Haha. The arrogant snotball was me.
Alas, I admit it.
I’ve been twitchy lately. The anger goes off in my head and I growl and I think, “If I hear those four words… Are you published yet?… come out of another blasted mouth, I will clobber them.”
It’s an innocent question. It means, Are you on amazon? Online? Can I read something?
It doesn’t mean what it sounds like: So, since getting published is as easy as going to grocery store and anyone can do it, what about you?
Really, it has nothing to do with the question. My anger is all for the answer.
Are you published yet?
It continues to be frustrating. I never wanted to be arrogant, but arrogance stems from insecurity, and the longer I pour my life into something that doesn’t yet exist, the more meaningless I feel. I have an imaginary career. Sometimes I feel as crazy as someone with a Harvey.
So, world, I’m sorry. If I snap and growl like a grinch, if I throw potted plants and bang on the piano and curl up in a corner and wail, it’s not something you deserve. Dear poor girl at the coffee shop, sorry about that. Try me again on a better day.
Fall 3,821 times, stand 3,822.