The Dirt Field

In a fit of boredom last week, I did what I have done so often recently and posted an ad under the “Strictly Platonic” section of Craigslist.org. This time, however, instead of merely asking bored individuals to help distract me from playing pick-up sticks with the company promotional pens, I decided to ask people to give me advice on my writing. I linked them to this site and invited them to be harshly critical. I’m a big girl, I figured, I can take some constructive criticism.

I received a few responses from well-meaning individuals who said I was amusing and all, but could benefit from a more relaxed or less offhanded tone and a decreased use of big words. These suggestions were definitely valid and I am certain that I could use them to better my writing, but I realized that I write pretty much exactly as I speak, and I really have no desire to change. There are enough other writers out there; if my writing is not to somebody’s taste, they can click the little “Next Blog” button at the top of the page and hope for better luck next time.

But because I saw that a couple of people had taken the time to give lengthy advice, I decided to respond personally, thanking them for their advice, acknowledging the value of their input, and explaining why I write as I do currently. My goal was to admit that they were probably right, but that they helped me to realize that I’d rather just stick to writing for my enjoyment and not to please a greater audience. Everything was good.

Apparently, however, there is a certain man by the name of John who has far too much time on his hands. After receiving the response to his advice, he wrote me a lengthy and unpleasant email which concluded with the following passage:

“As to whether wishing to please others or oneself, that is purely a question of conscience that borders upon the philosophical and which also depends on whether you wish to earn a living as a writer now or in the future. [I’m going to law school, dipshit, what do you think?] The romanticized artist will rather starve than produce a cheap, commercial work designed to please the masses than to betray his muse and settle for less than his idealized perfection and will die happy with his convictions intact. However, as long as you vacillate between the desire for popular accolades and the selfish want to read what is written for the pleasure of your eyes only, you will continue to live within a conundrum of your own making. In closing, good luck in your literary aspirations and may you fortuitously acquire a large enough audience to satisfy your personal requirements. From a readers standpoint though, I must admit that I am not inclined to slog though more than one or two of your efforts to showcase your verbal dexterity. One sounds excruciatingly similar to the other in its drone.”

I was at first offended by his comments, but I realized that anybody who has enough time on his hands to write such a long and obnoxious email only deserves pity, so I let it go. He, however, did not, as he left a comment on my blog last night telling me, “My God why do you even bother?!!! You’re trying way too hard and aren’t even coming close to being a good writer. Give it up.” At that point, (after I put away the whiskey and the shotgun) I wrote back to him, explaining that I did not think I deserved such a nasty email and that I liked the way I write and my immediate audience did not seem to have any complaints. I ended by asking him to not read my blog (which, considering that he HATES it, should not have been a difficult request) and requesting that he not contact me anymore.

John is not good with directions. He immediately wrote back (um, you DON’T like me, you DON’T like my writing – what’s the attraction?) Among other pleasantries, he said:

“It is a good thing indeed that you should forget about a larger audience because irrespective of the obnoxious quotient of that audience it would pale in comparison to the obnoxious tone of the intellectually arrogant chronicles that comprise your mundane, prosaic but nevertheless haughty blogs. [I write about DOG POOP. Which part was ‘haughty’ and ‘intellectually arrogant’?] Of course you are OK with the way you write, you write for your amusement only. Also it is no great feat to play the simpering pretender at writing with your friends and family who play the willing sycophants to your imagined aspirations at literary prowess. Run along child into the arms of benevolent minds whose sympathy shields you from the “brutal” truth that you only wish to flirt with because in reality you cannot handle truth. Your mother and your friends have by your own admission indicted you of producing overblown, snobby drivel that only you in your deluded mind rhapsodize over as “writing”. [Writing is writing, poorly done or not. When I scribble a note on a scrap of paper reminding me to strangle you should we ever meet, even that can be considered “writing”.] Henceforth, think twice before asking for one to “have at it, be brutal”, that is at least until you grow from a snot nosed kid into a woman. I am done with you.”

So I thought, THANK GOD, he’s done with me. But no, he wasn’t. Within the hour, he had written me AGAIN from another email address with more of the same crap. I deleted the email before realizing that it had not been forwarded to my personal email account, but the gist was that I blew goats and included a line about me being a “whore who wanted people to feast on me” or something equally disturbing. I ignored both emails, deciding that I could stab myself in the eye with a fork and achieve a more pleasurable sensation than I would get from responding.

The last straw came when I got back from lunch today, however. I found that he had left another comment on my blog, this time fully waving his Desperately In Need Of Serious Therapy flag:

“Suddenly, a lone jeer amidst the crowd rang out. She froze and gasped inaudibly as she felt the hot flush of embarrassment and anger sweep through her from head to foot and peered blankly out at the smiling clapping faces down below. Her friends and family beamed adoringly at her with the approving look that only love and familiarity can muster. To them she could do no wrong. To them she was invincible. However, that voice out there that mocked her made her feel more than just a twinge of uncertainty about herself. What had she done wrong? What had she said to turn that one against her? Surely he was nothing more than a single aberrant, twisted mind who failed to see her worth and talent. One among thousands. What difference could that make? What difference should it make? Nothing she decided. She had come too far and sacrificed too much to let an empty-headed fool wrest from her the hard won admiration of her fans. She would fight back. She would ignore him. She refused to give him what he wanted. Acknowledgement. She would not give him any power over her nor would she allow him to manipulate her into hatred. She would not let him win. Then after a momentary hesitation she could no longer hear the jeer. She tuned it out. If he was still there it did not matter and she raised her arms again before the roaring crowd, she was triumphant.”

If this guy hates my blog so much, surely he could visit any one of the other three trillion websites available instead of continually reading and insulting my writing. It’s not as if there are NO OTHER BLOGS OUT THERE. He could also step away from the computer entirely and go take his medication – I remember to take mine each day, why can’t he?

To conclude, I’d like to thank my “willing sycophants” for reading. I know I don’t always write about interesting things and I know that I’m not always amusing, but I write when the urge moves me and I appreciate that you take the time to visit my site. I know I sometimes seem overly erudite, but honestly that is just how I speak and therefore write – you might say I wear my dork shirt proudly. Thanks for dealing with it and making me feel TRIUMPHANT. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to sign autographs for my roaring crowd.