The Authentic Eclectic

Are all writers jealous, self-loathing neurotics…

Photo by Yaopey Yong on Unsplash

Sometimes I hate myself. More accurately, I exhaust myself. Medium is a great place to do that. I’ve only been here for a month or so, but I’m at my laptop every morning almost before my eyes open, looking at my stats. What I see there dictates how the day will go.

“What’s wrong with you this morning?” my partner asks after I snap at him for sweetly asking whether I’d like a croissant or toast for breakfast. “Let me guess. No new followers?”

Or I’ll throw my arms around him, kiss him passionately, profess my love for him and the entire world, maybe even Donald Trump . . .ok, I’d never go that far . . . and he’ll guess there’s been a jump in my numbers.

But it’s not just Medium. I used to write for Harlequin. Authors were, probably still are, incredibly supportive of each other. Compliments — like heaving bosoms and throbbing members — generously bestowed. Read a romance if the terms are unfamiliar.

I wanted to be that way too. I’d put on a good front, all fulsome praise and admiration while doing battle with the green-eyed monster that lurked — where else but in my heaving bosom?

I hated authors who sold more books than I did, which was almost everyone. Hated them with a hateful hate.