Dear Author,

If there’s a hell and I’m bound for it, surely I’ll find copies of you there… glaring around the brimstone caverns, arms crossed over your barrel chest, just seething for reasons unknown.

Well, there’s one reason why you’re so angry all the time. We learned that at the little get-together we held for all of our local authors. In fact, I learned many things about you that I’d have rather not learned.

Like the fact that you’ve had problems with the local newspaper. Most people do, whether it’s with the content in the feature stories or the fact that they never get their subscriptions. But when one of the writers announced that he has a weekly column, you just had to jump in about how you rarely get your paper delivered. What the hell did that have to do with a political column?

How about when another writer talked about his wife? Why did you have to jump in with, “Well, I’m about to become a single parent”? Just put a damper on an otherwise fun time, why don’t you?

And again with the stories about going with a “good publisher” (printer) who gives you an advance (doubtful) and is the best one you’ve been with (you laughing stock).

You were supposed to be there promoting yourself and your books. Why don’t you steer away from your bull sob stories and try making your “pitch” a little flawless? Every time you describe the premise of your first novel, you sound bored and restless. I doubt you even like your stories. You just want to publish something and make money. And you’re not even good at that.

The other authors were having a good time, promoting their books and making new friends. But you? Guh. Craving attention, that’s what you were doing.

It’s sad when a guy nearing his 50s still hasn’t figured out that people generally don’t like to hear about super depressing things when they’re at a pleasant get-together. It’s even sadder when he’s more interested in talking about himself than his own books.

It’s not supposed to be about you. It’s supposed to be about your books. Yes, you did write them, but unless you’re an engaging personality, people aren’t coming for you. They’re coming for stories. Damn good stories. Which you can’t provide.

What can I say? Miserable people usually write miserable stories.

No love,
Me