Self-evaluation

Penny Arcade


Let's face it: with the wonders of the web have come the inevitable downsides, because mankind will always find a way to fuck up a really good thing.

But I have to admit that, given the forum of internet communication, I say things I would never likely in a million years say in person. Well, okay, not until I've had a few drinks, at least. I'm painfully shy in person and have to 'turn it on' to deal with public speaking. I mean, I can do it. I can even kick ass doing it, apparently, because people have told me I'm a natural. Comes with being part-Irish and having kissed the Blarney Stone, I guess. Which might also explain a few diseases...

Anyway, I recently wondered if I'd crossed the line and offended someone with a post I'd made. And I worked myself up into a state where I couldn't sleep over it. Sounds truly pathetic, I know, but I don't like hurting people. Well, usually.

But it made me wonder: am I a fuckwad?

I mean, I say all kinds of things on blogs that I'd be red-faced to even think in public. When I did a manuscript reading a few months ago I was kicking myself. "Sandra, don't write words or scenes in your books you' be embarassed to read in public." Damn. Guess I'd better start writing books for toddlers. Since then I've made a point of practicing all variations of the f word in casual conversation. Absofuckingly, infuckingfallible... All the ones that have managed to creep into internal thought or dialogue. Evil kev says I sound like a trucker. But I no longer get mistaken for a heat source.

No doubt after a few hours of sleep I'll have forgotten this moment of reflection and will carry on as per usual. And if this guy keeps posting stuff like that, I may eventually say things a lot worse than usual. Damn, if it had been a week ago, I would have done a Christmas Eve threesome with David in my poem.

But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to say that I only blog-hop to places where I actually like people, and I mean no offense. If I ever cross the line, put me in my place.

Tomorrow is the day from hell: two sets of in-laws for me. And we have to pay to have the puppies babysat. Not to mention Evil kev won't let me read while we make the journey north - he thinks that after all these years I should still want to talk to him or something. Which means I'll likely spend Thursday either drinking heavily, or reading Winter's End, which is turning out to be a real page-turner. I'm rather monogamous with my authors - I like to work my way through their stuff all at once and then I get depressed because I have to wait for the next book and trudge off to find someone else. It's always nice when you find someone who has a few books out and you like their stuff. I don't know what it is about British men, but they consistently take the top shelf in this house. Because if Chinook gets into my office he tries to bury bones on the bookshelf, so everything near the bottom is subject to being removed and drooled on, and then replaced haphazardly over a sticky bone he's been slobbering over for an age. And there's no way I want my good books becoming chew toys.

But at least he doesn't try to eat the books. That would be Nootka, who claimed half the front cover of Every Secret Thing. Fortunately, I salvaged the rest. Skittles has tried to get in on the action, but he's more interested in chasing his tail in the bathtub. The elevator doesn't go to the top with that cat!

Okay, I'm going to bed now. See you guys in a few days.