Venting: Knocking Grandma Over

angry-eyes

Where I work, hundreds of people circulate every other hour.  It’s a sociologists dream; varying personalities, degrees of intellect, perspectives, all congregate, interact.  For me, it’s exhausting.

The other day, a woman approached me with a ragged paperback novel tucked under her arm.  I smiled, asking the title, author.  As it turns out, she was reading a book I enjoy.  At some point during the subsequent conversation I let slip I write.  In fact, I called myself a writer.  “Oh,” and what have you written?”  She asked.

Warm salty blood pooled under my tongue.  Really?

After swallowing the clot in my throat, I responded simply “fiction”.    

She scoffed, wrinkled her nose as if smelling a warm fart.  “So, you’re not really a writer than, are you?”

I envisioned her unconscious beneath my feet.

So, here is my opinion.  Yes, indeed, I am a writer.  I tell stories; my medium is the written word.  It is that simple.  This is not the first time someone has given me a derisive look or made an unkind comment.  I’d imagine most artists (another controversial label) encounter these, let’s call them, obstacles.  Most, if not all, probably stem from people who lack an iota of creativity.  For this boring demographic, putting down others who are imaginative, not afraid to share, receive criticism, make themselves feel better through condemnation.  Solution: take 2.5 gram of psilocybin, find a secluded, safe place in nature, and experience what follows – repeat as needed.

“I write therefore I am.” –   René Descartes  (Not exactly what he meant, but it fits)

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