I’ve been getting a lot of negative comments lately, some on the posts I put up re book thoughts, and some on the posts re navel-gazing and other frou-frou reflections. And I know they’re not spam, because peepees and Russian folk singers are rarely mentioned.
Now. I love the people I’ve met through this blog, love the emails exchanged, love the tweets traded. I like reading your comments, and responding to them. I like conversations. I like having something in common with a girl on the other side of the world, and that commonality doesn’t have to be a similar taste in books—just the loving of them, see? I’ve had mini-debates on this blog, and elsewhere, re the posts, and I enjoy them. It’s daunting, yes, because I hate confrontation [haha], but I like those debates. It means someone is talking to me. It means someone is taking me seriously enough to pose an alternative perspective.
I have no problem with dissent. By all means, tell me why you loved the book I couldn’t finish, or that you laughed at an ending I thought so heartbreaking. Tell me if you have a different point of view on things: That mornings are better, that pandas are not cute, that the it’s only right that Dodos are extinct. Tell me that my post are too long and rambly—this last one hurts a wee bit, haha, but I’m still getting used to a society of a shortened attention span. Anyway.
But do that telling well. That is, do it civilly. Back it up, don’t embarrass yourself with a pithy one-liner about my poor taste and my skinny ass. Otherwise, you’re that guy who scrawls insults on bathroom stalls. . Do you really have to resort to name-calling? Do you get satisfaction in fantasizing about making me slobber all over my keyboard over your rudeness? I’ve taken the liberty of deleting the comments that mention, “You and your erotica, you just need to be fucked,” and the whole slew of, “You pretentious bad-taste snob” and all its glorious variations. Some of the comments have stayed, though—I don’t moderate the system—and I think I need to be examined for that.
If you want an argument, I can give it to you. I’m an intelligent person, prone to the occasional bout of idealism, but god damn it, I know I’m smart. And I try to write well. People have given me shiny things because they thought I wrote well. Also, I’ve found that I read well. There are certain conceits I carry within me, and I know that I can hold my own when you want geedee discourse.
Then again, I do realize how futile this could be. If you’re intent on thinking that I’m a snob of questionable intelligence, one who needs her sex life put under scrutiny, someone who writes “naive, poorly-written garbage,” this all’s a waste of time, no? Damned if I do, and you know the rest.
Bottom line: I don’t want to police anybody—that’s the last thing on my mind—but there’s no need to be nasty. Because, damn it, words hurt.
You got me. Satisfied, trolls?
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go weep.