It was the twenty-first of October 2018, and the weather was alright. I had strategically placed the garden chair alongside the shed, so I’d be sitting out of the wind, while getting what little sunshine that was left. With some imagination (and my jacket on), I could pretend it was still summer. Sitting there, probably reading some detective novel, I felt my Nokia 7 Plus vibrate in my left pocket.
I reached for my phone, unlocking it by drawing a little pattern. Someone had sent me a message. The woman looked to be somewhere in her thirties or forties, but neither the name nor the picture rang any bells. “Did you write ‘Laser’?” she asked. She was referring to the early manuscript of a little sci-fi adventure which I’d recently written.
A surge of adrenaline went through my chest. “Yes, I am,” I replied, feeling both proud and curious at how she’d gotten a hold of my book. I mean, its contents were pretty much a state secret. I’d only sent it to a select few friends, asking them to review it months ago, saying I wanted to find out how I could improve the story. What I really wanted to know, of course, was whether I was any good at this writing game, or that I had better hang up my hat, and go find some other hobby.
So far, the responses might best be described as lukewarm. It only clocked in at a measly 35.000 words, meaning it might reach 140 pages when published and printed as a genuine paperback. Still, they took ages to read it, and when they did, most came back with a handful of spelling and grammar mistakes they’d found, and not much else. Another friend gave a three word answer: “It is good.” Asked to elaborate, she couldn’t be bothered. “Nah, it’s good.”
So, I was surprised when someone else reached out to me on the subject. Someone must’ve passed it along to her, I reasoned. I expected perhaps a compliment or a few words of encouragement. What I got instead was, “Found your book in the trash at work. Want it back?”
Well, I didn’t see that one coming. If this was a Hollywood movie, there’d be sad violin music playing in the background, followed by a mental breakdown, and a companion close by to cheer me back up. That wasn’t the case: I didn’t feel much of anything, really. I was numb to it, because of the disappointment I’d felt upon noticing how little my friends cared. Not saying it was the greatest novel of all time – I cringe looking back at some parts, but I’d put my heart and soul into that thing, and it had meant something to me.
I politely declined her request to send back the pile of paper, not even wanting to ask where she worked to find out which ‘friend’. Right there, right then, I decided this wouldn’t get me down. I’d use it as fuel. After taking a break, I set my mind to it, finished that book, and brought it out myself. In the following years, I somehow fell out of touch with that little friend group. Can’t imagine why.
I’m writing another one, and while it might take a little while, I’m not going to send it to any of my (new) friends this time for review. If they want it, they can go buy it, like anyone else. The point, if there is one, might be: don’t wait around for someone else’s approval.
Kind regards
Vincent J. Dancet