Diane Henders

I’m Amused

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

In the vagaries of the English language, I’m “amused”.  I’m also amused by the vagaries of the English language, but that’s not actually what I mean.

No; if “amoral” means “lacking morals”, and “atonal” means “toneless”, and “achromatic” means “without colour”, then I’m “amused”.  As in “lacking muse”.

Which is a fancy way to say I don’t know what to write about today.

So I shall resort to poking fun at the English language.  If the prefix “a-” indicates absence or lack, then why doesn’t “acute” mean “ugly”?  Why doesn’t “along” mean “short” and “alike” mean “hate”?  And if I amend an item, am I actually ripping it apart?

After coming up with a few other examples, I just couldn’t resist messing around with some flash fiction:

Flash Fiction: Afoul Play (On Words)

Setting my torch alight, I stood blinking, blinded by the sudden blackness.  When the vague outlines of the hallway emerged from the dark, I crept forward.  The groan of a loose floorboard underfoot made me flinch, my heart drumming against my ribs.

Glad to be alone, I turned to Jim.  “Man, why did we let Rick talk us into this?  And why are we still doing it when he didn’t even bother to show up?”

Jim replied with his usual unintelligible mumble before pressing his lips tightly agape, but I didn’t let it bother me.  He always spoke aloud.

Behind me, Lucy whispered, “Light the torch.  This is too creepy.  Maybe we heard Rick aright.  After all, it was two weeks ago.  Maybe he meant twelve noon, not midnight.”

“No, I’m sure he meant midnight,” I argued.  “He said we had to sneak in when it was dark, and he teased me that I’d probably arouse at eleven and sleep through the whole thing.”

A few minutes of stealthy tiptoeing later, Lucy hissed, “Oh, gross!  Do you smell that?  There’s something alive here.  It smells like it’s been rotting for weeks!”

“Probably just a dead mouse or something,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

“It can’t be.  It’s too strong.  It smells like something…”  Her voice trembled.  “Something big.”  Her nails dug into my shoulder.  “What’s that aloft?  On the floor under that big table?”

I swallowed hard and peered through the dimness.

“Light it!  Light the torch!”

Jim’s shout startled me so much I nearly dropped the torch.  It bobbled dangerously and Lucy’s shaking hands clamped over mine, pulling the torch atilt to prevent the oil from spilling out.

My lighter clicked.  Flames flared high, revealing the reason why Rick hadn’t joined us tonight.

“Rick!  Ohmigod, Rick!”

Lucy’s screams echoed in my ears as my stomach lurched.  My knees gave way and I arose to the ground, the impact jarring me asleep…

Which means awake… but “awake” actually means asleep.

Which would mean I was awake to start with…

Which means I was sleeping…

So did this really happen, or was it a dream?

Well dang, it looks as though I’ve written a blog post after all.  Maybe I wasn’t as “amused” as I thought.  But I still think English is a very funny language!

* * *

Addendum:  It seems WordPress has been having difficulties lately, and sometimes when you try to leave a comment you get a page that says “This comment could not be posted” or some other error message.  If that happens to you here, I’m sorry, and thanks for trying.  If you want to try again, here’s what has worked for me on other blogs:

  • Type your comment as usual, but before clicking Post Comment, highlight the comment and press Ctrl-C on your keyboard to copy it. 
  • Then click the Post Comment button. 
  • If a page comes up saying “This comment could not be posted”, click the Back button to return to the page
  • Then press the F5 button on your keyboard to refresh the page. 
  • Paste your comment back into the comment box by pressing Ctrl-V.
  • Click Post Comment again. 

Usually the second time’s the trick, but sometimes it wants a couple of tries.  It’s a huge pain in the butt and I hope they have it resolved soon, but in the mean time, thank you for trying.

I’m Not A Cunning Linguist

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

By now you’re probably all familiar with my tendency to misread words.  But if you’re relatively new to my blog, you may not have read about the fact that I also tend to misspeak – often with embarrassing results.

A while ago I was getting ready to buy groceries in preparation for houseguests, and I called to ask what type of milk I should buy.  When informed that 1% was the concentration of choice, I blurted out, “Oh, that’s new.  Phill and Michael were always the homo guys.”

For the record, they’re both confirmed heterosexuals.  And I think I’ll say ‘whole homogenized milk’ instead of ‘homo’ from now on.

Some time later, I was enthusing to my friends about the Calgary International Blues Festival.  I go just about every year to soak up the sunshine, beer, and blues music.  It’s a long day outdoors and if one remains properly hydrated (or beer-drated, as the case may be), nature calls frequently.

If you attend by yourself, you have to decide whether to temporarily abandon your stuff while you sneak off to pee, or else haul everything with you into the cramped and increasingly icky porta-potties.  In music-festival euphoria, most people choose to trust their neighbours.

Last year, a photographer sat near me.  When he asked, I cheerfully agreed to watch over his camera gear while he did what needed to be done.  After a long day and multiple trips, he charmingly bought me a CD in thanks for my onerous duties.

Expounding to my audience at the pub later, I summed up the preceding paragraphs as follows:  “He asked me to watch his equipment while he peed”.

After a couple of beats of silence followed by uproarious laughter, one of my smartass friends asked, “Did you hold it for him, too?  No wonder he bought you a CD.”

I’m not the only one in the family with linguistic (or lingual) issues.  A couple of days ago, my sister and I were talking about her upcoming budget presentation at the Christian radio station where she works.  And this came out of her mouth:  “…that may vary depending on what the fucktuations…”

We both burst out laughing.

And I told her, “If you try to discuss income fluctuations in your meeting, you’re either going to say ‘what the fucktuations’ or you’re going to start giggling uncontrollably.  Either way you’re doomed.”

My sister also coined one of my favourite non-words:  ‘depissitate’.  She was describing miserable rainy weather that was starting to clear, and her tongue got tangled between ‘precipitate’ and ‘dissipate’.  And the phrase ‘It’s starting to depissitate’ was born:  The perfect way to describe a sleety rain shower.

It’s nice to know that she and I share the same language difficulties.  Or, as she once accidentally said when describing a different trait that runs in the family (I can’t even remember what the trait was now)…  “It’s a genital thing.”

To this day, the word ‘congenital’ makes me snicker. And I never use it.  ‘Cause I know if I do, it’ll come out as ‘genital’.

I’m just not a cunning linguist.

* * *

Many thanks to my good-natured sister and the radio station where she works for giving me permission to publish this.  As she said herself, ‘what the fucktuations’ was just too good not to share.

Alien Butt Sensors

/ Diane Henders / 40 Comments

They’re invisible, but I know they’re there.

I’m not sure how or when they were installed, but there are hidden pressure sensors under every toilet seat in the house, as well as on my office chair.  It’s the only possible explanation.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve just nicely settled myself on the throne when the phone rings.  In fact, it happens so frequently that it’s a standing (sorry, couldn’t resist) joke with one of my friends.  She calls; I’m in the bathroom.

Every.  Single.  Time.

This makes it sound as though a) I have continence problems and therefore spend a considerable amount of time ensconced in the holy of holies; or b) she phones me far too often.

Neither is true.  I won’t lower myself (sorry again) to discussing my bathroom habits here, other than to say:  normal.  And it’s rare for her to phone me more than once a week.

So I’m convinced that she somehow knows when I’m in the john.

It’s far too creepy to consider that she might actually be the culprit responsible for the butt sensors, so I prefer to believe they were installed by some advanced alien race that is capable of invisibility and possesses both the technology to broadcast telepathic signals of unlimited range, and the malevolence to torture me by broadcasting “Phone Diane” every time I shit… er, sit.

And the bastards didn’t stop with the toilet seats, either.

The sensor on my office chair is an extremely specialized model; probably some advanced prototype they’re developing exclusively for sales to telemarketers, politicians, and meddling relatives.

It doesn’t just register pressure and react the way the toilet-seat model does.  No, this one is far more diabolical.

It also taps into my brainwaves.

It doesn’t react when I’m doing something boring and tedious and I’d love to be interrupted.  Oh, hell no.  I can spend all bloody day writing computer training workbooks with nary a peep, but within ten seconds of achieving the zen-like bliss of uninterrupted writing … I’ll be interrupted.

It’s obviously programmed with a complicated algorithm that constantly sifts through the detritus of my mind, measuring my exact degree of concentration and commitment to the task at hand.  When I achieve some critical pre-determined level, the butt sensor psychically broadcasts “Interrupt Diane using any method necessary, immediately”.

Phone calls are easiest, but in a pinch they’ll induce Hubby to choose that exact moment to ask a not-very-important but time-consuming question.  Or the courier will show up with delivery that needs a signature.  A sudden loud noise and/or cry of distress from somewhere in the house is always a winner.  Or there’s the tried-and-true method of having somebody crash into my parked
half-ton and ring the doorbell to report the accident.

That may sound far-fetched, but don’t laugh – it’s happened five times.  I don’t know how anyone can fail to see a big red truck in their rear-view mirror, so the aliens must make my truck momentarily invisible, too.

I guess it could be worse.  In the big picture, interruptions are only an annoyance.  At least the aliens don’t seem interested in my body cavities.

Unless there’s something about those butt sensors that I really don’t want to know about…

Calgary Flood 2013

/ Diane Henders / 43 Comments

Well, it’s been an interesting week.

In case you haven’t heard, Calgary and most of southern Alberta suffered a major flood.  For those who got in touch to check up on us, thank you for your concern.

Fortunately, Hubby and I are high and dry, and the whole experience has been surreal.  If not for the TV and internet coverage, we’d never know there was anything wrong if we didn’t leave our neighbourhood.  It rained, yes, a little more than usual, but we’ve had times when the storm drains on our street couldn’t keep up with the rainfall, and that didn’t happen this time.

Then the sun came out, our streets dried, and there was no hint of the devastation happening all around us.  Our power stayed on, and although the water tastes like mud, the City assures us it’s safe to drink.

But entire towns have been destroyed.  The town of High River (population 13,000) is about an hour south of Calgary.  It was evacuated on a moment’s notice and parts are still completely submerged.  It happened unbelievably fast.  Here’s a timeline of the flooding: http://www.edmontonjournal.com/news/Timeline+Alberta+flooding/8556187/story.html

Here in Calgary, about 25 neighbourhoods were evacuated, including the main downtown business district.  They’re saying approximately 200,000 people have been displaced across southern Alberta.  This video gives an idea of the flooding in Calgary: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10152915137815526.  To put it in perspective, the flow rate of Niagara Falls is about 1834 cubic metres per second.  The Bow River (one of two rivers that run through the downtown area) peaked at about 1700 cubic metres per second this past weekend.

So far, about 75,000 Calgarians have been allowed to return to their homes.  The cleanup is beginning, but the damage to homes and businesses and infrastructure is staggering.  Downtown, our major business district was completely shut down, and it may take months to restore service to some areas.  Streets have been swept away, and our light rail transit tracks look like an accordion in places.

But the good news about all this is the way our city has pulled together.  Within hours, Kijiji.ca (an online buy/sell forum) was crowded with ads from people offering food, clothes, lodging, child care, pet care, volunteer labour, heavy equipment; you name it, people were offering it to total strangers for free.

Home builders are offering their show homes for habitation.  Management companies are offering temporary office space.  Despite one highly-publicized instance of price-gouging ($20 for a bag of ice), most businesses are behaving themselves, and many are offering free supplies to those who need them.  And there have only been a few isolated instances of looting.

I was impressed with the way the City and emergency response teams dealt with the crisis.  Of course, in a time of extreme emergency not everything will go perfectly, but in general people were well-informed and given as much notice as possible.  Emergency centres were set up quickly and efficiently, and communication was clear.

I don’t have enough good things to say about the dedication and professionalism of our police, fire, and other emergency personnel.  Our mayor, Naheed Nenshi, has distinguished himself.  He’s been tireless in keeping us up to date, and his plain-spoken style has been very popular.

Just to give you an idea of his personality, here’s what he had to say when he found people had been canoeing on the incredibly dangerous Bow River:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=md_GrKpdEgM.

You’ve gotta love a guy that puts it out there like that.  Now it’s a Calgary meme:  “Don’t be a Nenshi noun”.  (And in happier times, here’s a little video of Mayor Nenshi reading “Pete the Cat” for the Calgary Children’s Festival before all this blew up: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJTZ719my3g.)

The best part is, out of all this damage and destruction, the death toll so far is still in the single digits.  That may change as crews get access to areas that are still submerged, but so far it’s hopeful.

It has been a difficult time, and it’s not going to get better fast.  I feel lucky that we’ve been unaffected personally, but I’m heartsick for those who have lost loved ones, homes, and belongings.

But we’re a bunch of tough, big-hearted people here in Calgary, and we’ll get through it together.  Here’s the proof: https://www.facebook.com/#!/photo.php?fbid=607082619316759&set=a.580614995296855.1073741828.580215498670138&type=1&theater.

CEMA put out a request for 1,000 volunteers; the only requirement was that they be 18 or older and able to meet at McMahon Stadium at 10 AM.  They hoped for five or six hundred.  Instead, the stadium was thronged with over 2,500 eager volunteers.  Our food banks are overflowing with donations and our volunteer sites are inundated with people wanting to help.  Bands of volunteers are roving the communities, helping total strangers.  One man even drove his hydro-vac truck all the way down from Prince Albert and is going door to door pumping out people’s basements for free.

The flood was and is a disaster, but it has made me proud to be a Calgarian.

we are calgary

* * *

For anyone who’s interested in more background information, here’s link to a Wikipedia site: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2013_Alberta_floods and a map of the affected areas:

I’ll Tell You What’s Normal…

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

I spend my days skating on the edge of normalcy.  So far I’ve been able to avoid unwelcome attention, but that’s due more to good luck than good management.  I can get away with my quirks as long as I live in a nice neighbourhood and shower frequently, but put me on a park bench after a hard workout, and somebody’s gonna call the loony-catchers.

This was brought home to me the other day when Hubby was driving and I was sitting in the passenger seat writing dialogue in my head as usual.  He glanced over and said, “Writing again, aren’t you?”

I shook myself back to reality and asked, “How did you know?”

“Easy.  You had that thousand-yard stare.”

I have what I prefer to call an “expressive” face.  What this really means is that there’s a near-one-hundred-percent probability that if someone snaps a picture, I’ll look moronic.  Sometimes when I’m absorbed in planning or writing a particularly intense scene, I can feel my face twisting into expressions of fear, anger, or whatever.

Add that to the fact that I almost never know the date and often take two tries to correctly identify the day of the week, and I’m concerned that if I ever get hospitalized and asked orientation questions, they’ll lock me up permanently.

So in the interests of retaining my freedom, I decided it might be smart to write a short primer on what constitutes normal behaviour for me.  At least it’ll provide a basis for the authorities to shrug and say, “Yeah, she’s always been like that.  We probably don’t need to lock her up yet.”

So here goes:

  • It is normal for me not to know the day/date.  If I’m travelling, I may not always get the city/province right on the first try, either.
  • It is normal for me to lapse into an apparently catatonic state during which my eye movements mimic REM sleep and my face assumes various inappropriate expressions.  It’s also normal for me to be irritated when summarily roused from this state.
  • It is normal for me to suddenly and inexplicably groan, slap my forehead, and rush to my office to type madly for minutes or hours. This may happen at any time of the day or night, and includes bolting upright out of an apparently sound sleep and scurrying away to type in the wee hours.

With hallmarks like these, it may be difficult to determine what is abnormal behaviour for me, so here’s a handy list of danger signs.

I need professional help if:

  • I turn down the opportunity to go to a nice restaurant or a blues jam or a drag race.
  • I fail to fondle fabric when walking through a fabric store.
  • There’s a garden available and I don’t plant something.
  • I take my car in for an oil change instead of doing it myself.
  • I don’t bake when it’s cloudy/raining/snowing… unless I’m reading or writing (those activities trump baking).
  • I pass up an opportunity to shoot a handgun, rifle, shotgun, bow, slingshot, or any other projectile weapon.
  • I walk past an unassembled jigsaw puzzle.
  • I don’t dissolve into a revolting pile of sappy mush at the sight of kittens.
  • I spill beer.  That’s a danger sign in itself, but if I don’t show extreme remorse afterward, it’s already too late – I’m beyond help.

What are your danger signs?

The Happy Hoer

/ Diane Henders / 40 Comments

As I mentioned a couple of years ago, I’m a hoer.  Very few people are willing to discuss this lifestyle openly and fewer still can comprehend enjoying it, but as you probably know by now, I’m a freak.  I love being a hoer.

Last week found me sweating in the hot sun at the side of the road, waving at passing cars as usual.  And I’m not ashamed to admit I’ll be doing it all summer long, as often as I can.  It’s a way of life for me.

But simply waving at cars seemed a little too passive, so I added pole-dancing to my repertoire just to attract a little more attention.

It was not a pretty sight.

If you’ve been following my Facebook page, you’ll know we spread approximately 10,000 pounds of compost and peat on our big vegetable garden about a month ago.  Hoeing in that beautiful, fluffy soil is pure joy.  Thanks to some perfectly-timed rain, almost everything has germinated, and last week it was time to put up the trellises for my snap peas and scarlet runner beans.

Since snow is unlikely (though not unheard-of) for the next couple of months, we use our snow-fence stakes to support the trellises.

(For those in warmer climates, snow fences are flexible fencing made of slats or perforated plastic and supported by six- to eight-foot-tall iron stakes pounded into the ground.  During the winter the fences control drifting snow by breaking the wind slightly, which causes snow to swirl and collect on the lee side of the fence.)

If you’ve ever tried to swing a 2½ pound hand sledge over your head hard enough to drive in a tall and heavy iron stake, you’ll see the difficulty here.  So, thanks to my nice soft soil, I push the stakes in first so I can reach them more comfortably with the sledge hammer.

It takes a lot of pressure to push those stakes in.  Fortunately, I’m no lightweight.  Put 155 pounds behind an iron stake, and it’s going somewhere… though not necessarily where you want it.

So there I am, hanging off the top of the stake with my legs drawn up to make sure I’ve got all my weight on it.

A car drives by, catching me in the act, and I start to giggle.  This does not improve my balance or coordination.

No, I didn’t fall on my ass.  That would have been decorous.

Instead I flailed my legs madly to maintain my balance without letting the stake topple.  And I laughed harder.

Then I realized how I must look, and I lost it completely.

Since I’m apparently quite allergic to dignity, I decided this was too funny not to share.  So, I give you:  The Happy Hoer.  (Yes, snow-fence posts are ribbed with iron protrusions every couple of inches.  I’m not sure why, but I can only surmise it’s “for greater sensation”.)

happy hoer

We’re All Free! And Naked!

/ Diane Henders / 34 Comments

Peer pressure is a terrible thing.  I’ve been successfully resisting it for months, but my resolve has slowly eroded under the relentless burden of my readers’ expectations.  So here it is; the post you’ve (apparently) all been waiting for:  “We’re All Free!  And Naked!”

Don’t look at me like that.  Hell, I don’t know what I’m talking about, either.

“We’re all free! and naked!” has been the top search phrase that has brought people to my blog ever since I posted “We’re All Naked” back in January.  (If you’ve just arrived here because you searched “We’re all free! and naked!”, I’ll apologize in advance – “We’re All Naked” does include a link to some mostly-obscured YouTube nudity, but unless you’re turned on by drunk hairy naked guys singing scatological lyrics, it’s probably not what you’re looking for.)

Back to the topic at hand:  Since January, “We’re all free! and naked!” has brought people here four times more often than my next most popular search term (my name).  And every week, the numbers keep going up.

I ignored the phenomenon for several months, afraid of what I might find if I delved into it too deeply.  I assumed it was just a temporary aberration, but it’s still there.  Still far and away the top search phrase that brings people to my blog.

When I finally gathered sufficient courage to search it myself, the search engines only returned a link to my own post, “We’re All Naked”.  So what the hell is everybody looking for?  I know I hold the dubious distinction of being the top search engine result for “Polar Bear Sex Club”, but at least I did actually use those words.

‘Free and naked’, not so much.  But it’s gotta be something pretty specific.  Even the punctuation is the same, over and over and over.

So if you got here by searching “We’re All Free!  And Naked!”, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.  If you’re looking for nudie pictures, you’ll be sorely disappointed.  (Though probably not as disappointed as if I’d actually posted some.  Trust me, you don’t want to see that.)

My books have some hot scenes in them, but somehow I suspect that’s not what you’re looking for, either.

If you’re looking for support for a cause, I’m all for freedom and I have no particular objection to nudity, unless it’s my own nudity.  In that case, I have to apply all sorts of caveats involving protection from sunshine, rain, snow, wind, bug bites, allergy-producing plants, prickly foliage, splintery wood, hot/cold/sharp objects, overly interested observers, and a plethora of other conditions that essentially limit my nudity to “indoors in privacy”.

Anyway, if you’re one of the folks who came looking for something else, and if you’re still reading, I’m sorry you didn’t find what you’re looking for.  But welcome anyway.  Who knows, if you look around here a bit, you might get a chuckle or two for your trouble.

And please tell me what you were really looking for.  If that many people are searching for it, it must be good.

Hope you find it…

This Poop Requires Cultured Decoding

/ Diane Henders / 25 Comments

Yes, it’s that time again!  I’ve mined the rich vein of entertainment that is my blog spam.

Earlier I noted that my spam seemed to be getting more hostile, but fortunately that trend has flatlined.  Maybe they read my blog post and took my jibes to heart?

Nah, I know.  Spammers never actually read anything, as this one admits:  “I like to party, not look artilecs up online. You made it happen.”  – Glad I could be of service, though it’s unclear whether I influenced his/her propensity for partying or looking up artilecs.  But at least I’m good for something.

This spammer agrees:  “Thank you for the auspicious writeup. It in fact was a amusement account it. Look advanced to far added agreeable from you! However, how could we communicate?”  – All I can say is ‘How indeed?’

But it’s nice that they want to keep in touch.  This spammer did, too:  “Would you be fascinated by exchanging hyperlinks?”  – Well, “fascinated” wouldn’t be my exact word…

But they’re encouraging:  “If you keep up the great work I’ll visit your weblog again.”  – Am I the only one who spots the logic problem here?  How will they know if I’m keeping up the great work unless they visit again?  What if they visit and I’m just spewing useless crap?  (Well, more useless crap than usual.)  Have they found a way to retroactively un-visit my blog?  If they have, I hope they share, ‘cause there are a few experiences and visuals I’d love to be able to un-visit.

Like this one:  “When you change the timing belt, dressed in pink with a pink Hermes leather on the playground…”  – Wait, you guys have been spying on me, haven’t you?  I knew I should have worn my black leather the last time I changed my timing belt.  Pink shows the grease so badly.

And here’s more proof that I’m under surveillance:  “You look absolutely stunning with your natural hair!”  – Remind me to save my unnatural hair for Halloween and full moons.

Sometimes my spammers wax informative:  “Not we are all born with a backbone but you can turn just one in”.  – Good news for the spineless wimps of the world.

And speaking of good news, “The good news is, bonobos”.  – Well, thank heaven!  Without that knowledge, I just don’t know if I could have gone on.

But there’s more good news:  “I have read so many articles or reviews on the topic of the blogger lovers…”  – Wait, blogger lovers?!?  We get groupies?  Why haven’t I heard about this before?  And where are mine?  Please don’t tell me I’ve been missing out on major groupie action.  I mean, seriously, we all know bloggers are the rock stars of the internet… um, the sex symbols of cyberspace… um… eh, never mind.

Some spammers look up to me as a valuable source of advice:  “What Happens To A Boy If She Takes Viagra?” –  Erm… I think we may have to start with the basics here.  You see, there’s this thing called “gender”.  Boys are “he”…

Which leads nicely into a discussion of the birds and the bees:  “Your individual stuffs nice. All the time deal with it up!”  – At least I think they’re referring to the birds and the bees.  It certainly sounds suggestive.

But it’s hard to be sure.  After all, as my latest visitor sagely observed, “This poop requires cultured decoding.”

And ain’t that the truth?

Play Nicely, Kids… Please.

/ Diane Henders / 30 Comments

I’m climbing up on my soapbox today, so if you’re looking for funnies you’ll probably want to skip back to Sometimes Words Fail Me.  I’ll return to my regularly scheduled silliness on the 29th.

 

I just finished reading a blogger’s vitriolic review of Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight. I don’t know Ms. Meyer and I’m not a Twilight fan, but…

The blogger eviscerated Twilight with razor-like precision. And then she got out her chainsaw and her hobnailed boots and waded into the remains, leaving a bloodbath in her wake. It was brutal and ugly.

It made me sad.

I believe negative reviews are valuable. They help create realistic expectations for our potential readers while steering away the people who aren’t likely to enjoy our work. We learn from criticism and become better writers because of it.

That said, even an objectively-stated negative review rips out little pieces of an author’s guts and cauterizes the wounds with a small, fierce flame. We accept that as the price of admission. We put on our big-kid underwear in the morning, and we go out knowing that getting knocked down is part of the game.

But a blistering, hate-filled attack drains the lifeblood from our hearts and the joy from our souls. And it’s pointless, except maybe to provide some twisted satisfaction for the attacker. Abusive screaming isn’t an effective teaching method.  It doesn’t make us better; it just makes us bleed.

I wonder if this blogger stopped to consider Stephanie Meyer while she was writing her rant. Not ‘Stephanie-Meyer-The-Bestselling-Author’; just Stephanie Meyer, a human being with same desire for respect and acceptance as everyone else.

Imagine what it’s like to be told that the product of your heart and soul; the result of your weeks/months/years of effort and sacrifice and self-doubt and triumph… is worse than garbage. Should never have been allowed to exist. Deserves to be ridiculed and held up as a shameful example.

Ms. Meyer has thousands of glowing reviews to soften the sting, but I can’t help thinking about a debut author receiving that venomous review on the day she lost her ‘real’ job and the car died and her teenager screamed “I hate you!”

Maybe that blogger is a reasonably nice person who got carried away and simply didn’t stop to think about the author (and fans) who might be hurt by her words.

Or maybe she’s a bully making a pathetic and cowardly attempt to elevate herself by trampling another human being beneath her feet.

I hope it’s the former.

I don’t expect to like everything I read, and I don’t expect everyone to like what I write. Poisonous reviews have been a reality since the first caveman daubed some mud on a rock wall and his neighbour yelled, “What the hell is that crap?” (Or maybe it sounded more like ‘Ug poo-poo!’.  I’m guessing here.)

I’m certainly not suggesting we should suppress negative reviews to protect authors’ poor, fragile egos. That would harm both readers and writers.

But it makes me sad when I read such deliberate cruelty.

Why inject more ugliness into the world? Isn’t there enough already?

*Sigh*  😦