So ... I’m writing this blog post as a kind of ... therapy. To convince myself that what it says in the title is actually true.
If you’re reading it, I was game enough to publish it. And believe me, posting something like this is hard. I feel vulnerable. Misunderstood. Disliked. My heart is an open wound right now. I’m a little depressed. But hopeful—I think—too.
Let me start at the beginning.
I wrote a book. A book about horrible people. Risky, I know. But I believed in it. I believed that exposing the ugly truth about the characters in this book was the right thing to do. I let the story “be.” I couldn’t help but let it “be.” Because what it is, is organic. It’s real. And the ending. The ending—it leaves a lot of questions unanswered. But that, too, had to just “be.” It was the right thing to do.
Ultimately, this book is about not knowing the truth, and how not knowing eats away at a person’s heart and soul. So, how could I possibly reveal all the answers at the end? I wanted my readers to feel what my characters felt. I wanted them to feel the hole, and how frustrating it is to be left with it open and raw.
Clever. I thought. Brilliant, even. Yup, I’m not ashamed to say that I thought it was fucking brilliant.
But it backfired.
So many people hate my book. The amount of 1 and 2 star reviews about this book is growing at a rapid pace.
I’m not ashamed to say that now a hole is growing in my
I’ve been crying. I’ve been feeling like it’s only a matter of time before the cops find out I’ve done something horribly wrong and will arrest me.
Just handcuff me now. I’m guilty of writing a book that, though melodramatic at times, is real. My work will never—EVER—be traditionally written or wrapped up with a pretty pink bow.
I’m sorry. That’s just how I write. Take it. Or leave it.
Okay, I’m rambling. Let me get back to the point I’m trying to make: why people hating my book can be a good thing ...
These people felt so strongly about the book that they had to explain why. They didn’t get half way through, and give up on it out of boredom. They read till the very end. They had to see how it concluded. They hated the language I used because it was offensive. They hated the characters so much that they wanted to slap them. Then they had
to write about it. They had to write about it. They HAD
to write about how they felt about my book.
This is a good thing.
Though they haven’t expressed the way they feel in a nice way, they still ended up feeling how I intended them to feel. And instead of recognizing it as a job well done, they see it as a betrayal of their time and commitment to the book. But I made them feel something as strong as hate. I made them feel frustrated. Which was the point. It was the point of the book. Life never gives us all the answers. And sometimes, it’s better just not to know.
So maybe ... these 1 and 2 star reviews mean success. I should feel proud of these 1 and 2 star reviews. Maybe, every time I see a bad review from now on, I should break out the bubbly and celebrate, because my book did exactly what it was meant to do.
I’m going to admit, that I do not completely believe this yet. But I am trying to. Because if I don’t try and see this as a good thing, I might just keep crying. And it’s not good for me to cry. I get headaches when I cry. And I don’t sleep well.
It’s been a headache and insomnia ridden ride this past week. But I think—I think
—I can turn my mindset around. I have to. For my own health. Because this book is like my flesh. I can’t live without it. And when it gets beaten, it gets bruised. And my limbs ache.
So I’m making a shield.
A shield made of hope and self-belief.
Because it’s the only way I will survive the attack.
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