Last week something that happened left me feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of me.
Others who’d witnessed the exchange told me not to worry about it, but I couldn’t let it go. It lingered in the back of my brain and gnawed at me, and at first, I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why.
Then I had an epiphany.
I realized this person thought I was an idiot. Because someone with only two working brain cells wouldn't have done what this person thought I did. The automatic gut reaction I had at the time was, “You can’t be serious. Do you think I’m stupid?”
I never said that, though. Instead, I’ve just been stewing about it.
It’s culminated to the point where it’s contributed to depression. Because I realized that, while I might not be stupid, I am foolish. I exert a lot of energy trying to help others with their careers. And have never thought to regret that. Until now.
It’s all brought me to this lovely moment, where I find myself wondering why I’m even in this crazy business. There are definitely people out there who will use you to the fullest extent possible and then spit you out and shit all over you.
That's why I'll always talk up people who are generous and sincere and wonderful. When good guys succeed, the world's a better place for all of us.
There are a lot of other reasons why it feels pretty pointless today. Let me put it to you this way. When I agree to take books for Spinetingler, I don’t care if it’s the first book or the fifteenth by the author. I don’t care if it’s been blurbed by every shining star in the genre or by nobody. If the book sounds interesting and one of our reviewers wants it, we take it.
It’s that simple.
But that’s definitely not a universal truth you can apply across the board.
I’m going to be off the blog for a couple of days and hope to see you all when I’m in a better mood.