Be Nice

I deleted the last post I wrote.

It was a book review; and although I don't do book reviews very often, I was moved to explain at length just how stupid the book was, how valueless the characters, how insulting the supporting cast were to my experience of life, how shoddy the editing, and how I had to presume the author had had good connections that enabled her to get this piece of garbage into print publication.

Before hitting the "Publish Post" button, however, I decided to wait a day and re-read the post before making it public. I'm glad I did, and that review has been deleted.

There are TONS of really crappy books in print nowadays, just as there are TONS of really well-written stories that do not make it into print due to various reasons -- Barry Kirwan's story "Writerholics Anonymous" explains this perfectly, and with good humor.

My good humor had evaporated because I had spent too many hours reading what was billed as a "fun read" but what wasn't, not really. (I am truly trying not to go off on another rant here.) My time is limited; I read a lot of submissions for the Piker Press. Some are good, some are mediocre, some are god-awful, some are brilliant. That's my "job," to read them. And so reading something that was supposed to have been vetted and pronounced worthwhile -- and clearly wasn't -- aggravated me.

Eh. An acquaintance of mine has recently become very critical of people, and Bernie explained to me that the man simply was getting "Crotchety Old Man Syndrome."

As far as reading "popular" fiction goes, maybe "Crotchety Old Woman Syndrome" is catching up with me, too.

My mother used to say, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."

At least in this situation I'll follow her advice.

Surprise!

It was a dark and stormy day.

With a coat and umbrella, I walked to the mailbox to retrieve the last three days' mail, which had been jammed nearly solid by the mailman.

Let me aside that I have little sympathy for crowded mailboxes. We could reduce the carbon footprint of this country by 20% if we just stopped sending newsprint junk mail. I've talked to the P. O. about this stuff, and they say there's nothing they can do about it, which is horseshit. So if not checking my mail for three days causes a problem with the Postal Service, too damn bad.

Nevertheless, when I arrived back at the house and dumped the grocery-bag's worth of stuff that had decompressed from the little mailbox, and sorted through it, lo and behold, there was an unexpected treat: a royalty check from Lulu.

Now that can brighten up a day like this in one second flat.