New Novel Garners The Same Exact Amount Of Nobody-careses As Usual.

You know, it's funny. When you invest a lot of research and effort and passion and scrutiny in a given thing, you can easily slip into that special little kind of cognitive bias in which you allow yourself to assume that other people must also be at least kind of interested in said thing. And, of course, the truth is: they rarely are. If you're the only guy who's written a nine hundred page tome about the history of the cultivation of rare fruit trees at high altitudes (prepositions, anyone?), it's likely because you're simply the only guy who cares enough about that particular topic to write a book about it. There's probably a certain marginally larger group of people who care enough about the topic to read your book, but it's not the kind of sizable demographic slice that shows up on pie charts of any kind.

Yep, I've done it. I've written yet another book that precisely nobody gives a **** about. Why does it bother me? I write the kinds of books I like to read, the kinds of books I like to write. I tell myself I would still want to spend my life writing if no one else existed. That it's somehow both a function of my specific style of being and my specific style of being, itself.

Inevitably (if you're me, anyway ) you start telling yourself things like this (and, sometimes, embarrassingly, on social media sites):

Sometimes when you've failed, when all signs point to 'quit' and nobody in the world believes in you, it's hard to keep your head up. I think you should. I don't know if I should, but YOU should, you know. Hypothetically. It's hard to draw a line between rejection you can take seriously--the kind that has some nutrition to it, that can help you improve somehow--and rejection that comes from a place of ignorance and bullshit. We tend to assume all negative opinions about ourselves are accurate. But at the end of the day, nobody can die your death for you. Nobody can live your life. Nobody can do your work. So, when you understand what that is, you have to do it. People are going to reject you and call you stupid. People are sometimes not even going to give enough of a **** about you to do that. And it's being ignored, being negated as a human being--chased out of that laughing, singing, storytelling circle around the fire like a harmless but annoying animal unworthy of serious consideration-- that hurts most of all. That's not always your problem.


There it is, though: the wish embedded in the protest. The desire to be part of that singing, laughing, storytelling circle around the fire. Should I be ashamed that I want to be read? That I want my books to be, for someone else, what many of my favorite books have been for me? Is that really a thing to chastise myself for, to be ashamed of? I don't know, but I can't be dishonest about it anymore. It bums me out that nobody knows I exist.

Please don't kill me on style or structure, by the way. This isn't a piece; just an overblown complaint that resolves in pathetic self-indictment. And, despite what proponents of the memoir trend would have you believe, there's a difference.
dorbel3 dorbel3
26-30, M
Nov 25, 2012