Don’t you cringe while waiting for feedback? Whether you’re making a stew or writing a book, somebody is waiting to give you an opinion. The thing I’ve learned about opinions (aside from the asshole analogy) is that there’s no arguing an opinion. If she likes it, she likes it. If she hates it, I can’t make it better. Perhaps a little salt would help.
As I finish book number 14, and begin the tedious process of gathering, re-reading, and tidying up my words, I ask the obvious question:
“So, what do you think?”
“You seem angry.”
“What? Now or in print?”
“In print. I mean, it’s funny and all, but you’re definitely jaded. Some woman tore your heart into a million little pieces.”
“Nuh uh. I’m just trying to translate my thoughts into an escape for readers who may or may not share similar experiences.”
“Look, if I write all mushy, love-y nonsense, readers are going to gag. I’m simply the nice guy who has had a string of bad luck in his relationships.”
“Not so, nice guy. You’re the one who brags about avoiding superstition. If you’re having relationship disasters, you should seek the common denominator.”
“Are you telling me I’m the only one who finds this mating partner thing as hard to master as chess?”
“I’m not saying you’re alone. Most people either don’t admit it or have enough sense to go see a therapist.”
“I wouldn’t pay a penny to a therapist. That’s a fucking racket, almost as bad as organized religion. Maybe my therapy is writing this shit out. Who knows? Maybe, just maybe, someone in a similar situation will find comfort in the shared predicaments documented within this book, or someone in the most wonderful of relationships (fucking gag) will find humor in my misery, and pride in his or her blissful marriage.”
“See? You’re jaded. Who would want to date you anyway?”
“Seriously. You write about everything from premature ejaculation to pussy farts.”
“Oh, how I love a good queef. Haha. ‘Good queef, Charlie Brown.’ Uck-uck-uck. I crack me up.”
“Nobody is going to fall in love with an author recording the relationship for the entire world to see.”
“That’s sad. Now, I want to cry in my martini.”
“Aw, poor baby. How about in your next book, you soften yourself a bit, avoid saying ‘fuck’ every three sentences, and tell women all the things you love about them?”
“Hmm. Two things come to mind. Care to guess?”
“You really are the not so nice guy.”
My next book, Not So Nice Guy should be out sometime in February 2014, unless someone in Russia orders an American Groom.
Happy New Year, my friends!
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