I’m a writer.
All my friends know this, I talk about it enough. I write it down enough, I mention what I’m working on in conversations enough. They ask me how it’s going enough.
Now, if I was a friend of myself (weird concept, but I’ll deal with it) and I responded to the information that I am a writer with any of the following responses: “Hey, cool. You should show me your stories sometime.” “When you publish something, I’ll buy it” or “Great! What do you write about, I’d love to read it,” then I would think that the me that I am hearing this from would be correct in assuming my support in any writing endeavour that I get into.
So, the me that writes, sure of the support of many, many friends, decides it’s time to get some writing out there. So I create a blog.
Months after the establishment of said blog, I ask my friends “So, I have a new blog post, have you checked it out?” to which I get the response of “You have a blog?” (when I’ve only shouted it from the rooftops at every available opportunity) or “Oh, no. I haven’t, actually read any of it.”
Really. I’ve never been so frustrated with anything in my entire life. Why would you pledge your support for someone, then don’t even help with the first thing that comes up?
How many of my friends have told me they’d buy my book? At least 20. How many would I now be expecting to buy said book if I did publish one? Perhaps 2.
The things I hate more than anything else in the world is empty words and ritual pleasantries.
To see the evidence of empty promises in such a simple task, I have to wonder who the hell I’m writing for, because it’s certainly not the jerks who tell me what I want to hear.
Tags: rant, vent, writing
Current Mood: angry