(image via wikimedia)
At the time, I thought that Francine was the right girl to ask to senior prom. I’d known her since elementary school. We’d always been friends. Even when I’d been at my social low point in junior high, she’d hang out with me at lunch sometimes. She’d laugh at my jokes, and she was as vulgar and sexist and bigoted as any junior high boy back in the early 1980s, so anybody could say anything around her and she didn’t care.
Francine became more attractive in high school (she was never ugly, but you know), and had a couple boyfriends (not at the same time) and had just broken up with some guy. Since I was an old friend and had a car, I drove her home after school a few times a week. We had an easygoing friendship. I knew that asking her to prom, however, could mess that up. I didn’t want to risk an almost lifelong friendship by asking her to prom.
On the other hand, it was senior year. The best time to potentially destroy that friendship was the end of senior year. I didn’t want to be a senior guy going dateless to prom, and I didn’t want to go with a sophomore girl who would go only because she’d be able to brag about going to prom as a sophomore.
My mistake was telling Keith and a bunch of friends on a Saturday night at a diner a few weeks before the big event. Keith had announced his intent to ask Karla, and I’d agreed that was a good choice. I didn’t want to reveal my own plans, but I guess peer pressure got to me (you can read more details here), and I messed up.
“I think I’ll ask Francine,” I said.
Keith stared at me, and then glanced around the table. “That’s brilliant,” he said.
At first, I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic, but he continued.
“She’ll go,” he said. “And you two will have a good time.”
I nodded, relieved that he understood.
“You’re not gonna get any, but you’ll have a good time,” he said.
I grimaced. “I know. I’ll have a good time, but not THAT good of a time.”
Keith grinned and then turned to some other guy at the table, peppering him with another round of prom questions. I let out a breath, glad to be done with my social interactions for the night.
The next day (a Sunday), I planned out how I’d ask Francine. My best chance to ask her was when I was driving her home from school, but I’d wait until I pulled my car into her driveway. That way, she wouldn’t feel pressured to say yes just to get out of the car safely. I didn’t want her thinking that I’d plow the car into a tree or steer into opposing traffic if she said no. I was pretty sure she’d know that I wouldn’t do that, but people did crazy stuff for prom.
I wrote out a mini-script with several variations and memorized them. I was ready to ask her on Monday, just in case I drove her home that day. I never knew ahead of time if she’d need a ride, so I wanted to be ready, just in case. But that Monday, she didn’t talk to me, not even in the classes that we shared. That was alright, I though. I’d see her sometime during the week.
But nothing happened on Tuesday either.
Wednesday? Nothing.
Thursday, I started to get anxious. Three days in a row without talking to Francine was really unusual. It could be a coincidence that this drought happened right after I’d told Keith about my prom plans, but I doubted it. Most coincidences are intentional, I thought. There was no way to prove it, but I was pretty sure this was no coincidence.
Anyway, that Thursday I was hurrying down a crowded hallway on my way to class (I don’t remember which one) when I spotted Francine walking side by side with a friend of hers. We didn’t exactly make eye contact because I didn’t have time to, but I was aware of her amidst all the other students moving around me. Her friend (I watched her from the corner of my eye and this happened quickly) looked right at me, said something to Francine while looking right at me, and then Francine… Francine… Francine…
Francine fake cried on her friend’s shoulder.
Her friend fake hugged her in consolation, and I rushed to class, pretending I hadn’t seen anything. Aaaargh! I was socially awkward, yeah, but I knew what that melodramatic hallway act had meant.
Francine knew I was going to ask her to prom.
And Francine was going to say no.
Even worse, the story isn’t over yet.
To be continued in Awkward Moments in Dating: Prom Rejection.
(image via wikimedia)
I’ve been told that my resting face is a blank stare. It’s usually not a bad face to have. When I was in high school, I never lost a staring contest. When I’m challenged to NOT laugh at something, I can set my face on “stone” and I remain expressionless, no matter what else is going on.
To be fair, my “stone” face has limitations. Whenever I hear Taps, I shed tears, no matter what. I always cry at Taps.
Anyway, my stone face is causing me problems with my current YouTube experiment. When you upload a video to YouTube, YouTube randomly picks three images from your video to use for the thumbnail, the picture that goes underneath your title to attract potential viewers on the homepage. If you’re lucky, one of the images won’t suck, but they usually do. Most of my thumbnail choices have me expressionless or with closed eyes and drunk facial expressions (even though I’m completely sober).
After a few videos, I decided I’d just make my own thumbnails, and I use basic free software for it, but even so, making your own thumbnails is worth it. The only problem is that I have to fake facial expressions that I didn’t actually use in the video. I mean, I really have to fake facial expressions.
In the video below, I make a bunch of faces for a potential thumbnail, but I’m not sure yet which pose to use. When in doubt, I go with the stone face. Nothing ever goes wrong with the stone face.
For more solutions to your introvert problems, go to Introvert Problems: Public Speaking.
When The Woman in the Window by AJ Finn came out last year, I was immediately suspicious of it. The novel was promoted as “the next Gone Girl.” A bunch of other extra promotion was going into the novel, way too much for a first time author. The final straw was Stephen King calling the book “unputdownable.” I’d been burned by King’s overly positive reviews of mediocre fiction in the past, and I knew something was going on.
Then in an interview, I discovered that AJ Finn’s real name was Dan Mallory and that he’d actually worked as an executive editor for the publishing company that was putting out the book. No wonder The Woman in the Window was getting so much publicity, I thought, nepotism. Journalists didn’t seem to see anything wrong with that. I understood; if journalists voice their concerns, they won’t get future interviews.
Despite all the super-hype for a first time novelist (I’m always suspicious of super-hype), I felt I needed to read at least an excerpt of The Woman in the Window. Maybe the novel really was that unputdownable. It happens, though I can’t think of an example offhand. Usually a novel that is that unputdownable takes a while to get noticed. Still, I decided to read the first few chapters (without spending any money).
The Woman in the Window was okay. I put it down. I didn’t finish it. I didn’t think the main character was that interesting and the focus on film noir felt more like the author was just showing off. It made me suspect that The Woman in the Window was a huge bestseller just because the publishing company wanted it to be, and the book was interesting enough to not ruin the hype. I’ll give the author credit; the book didn’t suck.
The author sucks, but the book doesn’t. Now I’ll get to why the author sucks (in case the title of the blog post didn’t make it clear).
It came out a couple weeks ago that the author Dan Mallory has been outright lying about having cancer (you can get more details here). I mean, he didn’t lie to me personally about having cancer. He supposedly lied on an Oxford application and to the publishing companies where he worked in London and the United States, and he’s lied to audiences in his public appearances. I’m not sure how much his fictional cancer stories helped him in his professional career, but you know he received a lot of attention over it.
Cancer victims always get a lot of attention and sympathy. I don’t begrudge them that attention. Having cancer is rough.
Those fake cancer people don’t have it quite as rough, though. In fact, I can’t stand those fake cancer people. They’re taking away sympathy from others who need it more, like real cancer victims and people who’ve lost their loved ones. Those people deserve the sympathy.
I admit, I’m not exactly truthful all the time, but I know my boundaries. As a somewhat anonymous blogger, I change a few minor details to give myself plausible deniability (if I ever need it). But I won’t lie about cancer or dead relatives. I don’t even lie about dead pets.
Maybe Dan Mallory regrets lying about cancer, but he won’t really get punished for it. His novel was still one of the top selling novels in 2018, and he’ll still make a ton of money off the movie that’s coming out this year, even if it sucks. He’ll still get a lot of money for his next book. As far as I can tell, he has only been rewarded for his bad behavior.
I’m not saying he needs to go to jail or anything. He doesn’t need to go on Oprah and cry, like James Frey did. He doesn’t need to change his pen name and start writing YA fantasy books, like James Frey did.
Actually, that’s a good punishment. He can still write books, but they have to be YA.
Lying about cancer is pretty bad. I mean, there’s a part of me that’s glad that the author didn’t really have to suffer through it. The other part of me thinks… what a dick! Lying about cancer? At least he didn’t write a memoir about surviving cancer. At least his novel has nothing to do with cancer (I think). At least the publishing company didn’t promote the novel as “written by a cancer survivor” and put out pink book flaps.
But I’m still disgusted by the guy. Now I’m glad that I didn’t spend my own money on The Woman in the Window.
If you wear white, cover it with a jacket or a sweater. Think about the armpits, man! (image via wikimedia)
The fear of public speaking is kind of irrational. After all, nothing really horrible happens because of a bad speech. The audience won’t rush the microphone and murder the presenter if the speech is bad. Nobody throws rotten vegetables anymore. The public speaker usually won’t even get booed (unless politics is involved).
Half the time, people in the audience aren’t paying attention. They’re thinking about their own problems. Even if the speech is bad, it will probably be forgotten within a few minutes, just another bad speech in a succession of bad speeches.
Still, we introverts are proud. We might not enjoy too much social interaction, but we don’t want to suck at it either. I’ve never been comfortable giving speeches or presentations, but I’ve had to do it. Even though I’ve given a bunch of good presentations in my career, I’ve also frozen a couple times too. The times that I froze were my fault because I have a few simple steps that guarantee that my speech won’t suck and I didn’t follow my own steps.
If you’re not an introvert, these simple steps will probably help you too. I try to be inclusive in my blog posts. It’s just that introverts seem to get more nervous before speaking in front of groups. In the video below, I list my simple public speaking steps that work, even for an introvert like me.
What do you think? What strategies do you use when you have to give a speech?
And for more about introvert problems, read Introvert Problems: Faking Enthusiasm.
(image via wikimedia)
Being the new guy in an established writer’s group isn’t easy. Writers who are comfortable with each other can talk about their works of progress but are less likely to be so forthcoming with the new guy. Nobody in the writer’s group knows if the new guy is a true aspiring writer or just another wannabe who’ll drop out after learning how frustrating the writing process can be. Plus, a lot of writers are introverts, and putting introverts together in a social situation can lead to lots of silence.
I was the new guy. I had walked into an established writer’s group on a weeknight in the back of a library (You can get more details here). When I saw the circle of about twenty writers sitting in folding chairs and no table, I noticed that I was the only writer who had brought copies of his/her work in progress (we called them manuscripts back then). At first, nobody paid attention to me, but then somebody said “Look! An enthusiastic new writer!” and then everybody turned in my direction. I was the only person standing up, and I had a bunch of manuscripts.
I didn’t know what to do or say, so I introduced myself.
“My name is Jimmy, and I…”
“This isn’t Alcoholics Anonymous,” some grizzled old guy with a thick grey beard said. He looked like he’d be familiar with AA, but I kept that to myself. Half the group laughed at his comment. I had a feeling they’d laugh even if he hadn’t earned it.
“Umm… I thought it would be helpful if I brought copies,” I said.
“Are they free?” somebody else said. More laughter.
“I had to pay for them,” I said. “But I’m not charging you.”
“We wouldn’t pay anyway.” That was a middle aged woman calling out, and even she got a laugh.
That last line ticked me off because everybody should have known that I’d been joking. Of course, I wasn’t going to charge anybody. It was ridiculous that anybody would take that statement seriously. These were writers, I thought. How could writers take my banter so literally?
“You’ll have to wait your turn,” some other guy with glasses said.
I nodded and sat down, fuming. I had walked in knowing that I’d wait for my turn. The new guy doesn’t just walk in to an established writer’s group and read his stuff right away. Did it really look like I was that eager? Or were they just being old jerks? As I looked around, still ticked, my initial observation had been correct. Nobody else had made copies of their manuscripts, at least not as far as I could tell.
“Alright,” the guy with glasses said. “Who didn’t get a chance to read last week?”
About ten hands went up. I calculated. Between five minutes of reading (at least) and five minutes of critiquing (at least), that was almost two hours gone right there, and that was the whole meeting. I inwardly sighed.
Some other old guy started reading dramatically from his manuscript, and I can’t even tell you what it was about. My mind wandered. It wouldn’t be so bad sitting through so many readings on my first night, I thought. It would give me a chance to meet people before they read my stuff. I had sensed a little hostility from the group, so I’d have a chance to mend that. Most people liked me alright after they got to know me.
After a couple minutes, I slowly shifted my stack of copies underneath my chair. I settled in and relaxed. Whatever the guy was reading, it seemed to be interesting to everybody. People nodded and grunted a bit at his dramatic pauses. If there was any fidgeting, I didn’t see it, and I’m the type to notice fidgeting. I missed having a copy, though. It was a lot easier to follow a passage if I could see the words in front of me. Plus, I can go back and reread something (or read ahead) if I wanted to. Instead, I was at the mercy of the reader’s pace.
The guy took his five minutes, and then six and seven. Yeah, I thought, I’m not reading anything tonight. That was okay. There’d be no pressure. Since I hadn’t made the best first impression, I could use that extra week for them to get to know me. The chairs were pretty hard, though, and I knew my butt was going to hurt. Crap, even back then, I hated sitting for long periods of time. This was going to suck even worse than I thought.
The guy finished, and nobody applauded or anything. It was silent. That was good. If we applauded his reading, then we’d have to applaud even for the writers who sucked. And every writer’s group has somebody whose excerpt sucks. That’s no insult. Even great writers can put together a draft that sucks.
“Okay,” the guy with glasses said. “Nice job. Who wants to start off?”
I looked around to see who’d raise a hand, but the guy with glasses kept talking.
“Jimmy,” he said. “What do you think?”
“What?” I said, startled. I felt my face turn red instantly. I hadn’t been expecting the attention.
“We like everybody to be involved in the discussion,” he said. “What do you think?”
Usually, when I read something, I form an instant opinion, just like everybody else, but not this time. This time, I had no opinion. After all, I hadn’t listened to a single word the writer had read.
To be continued!
*****
In the meantime you can start another Writer’s Group Horror Story at the beginning with Writer’s Group Horror Story: The Vulgar Guy.
(image via wikimedia)
I didn’t mean to become a conspiracy theorist. I’ve been a normal guy all my life. I went to college, found a decent profession, got married, and started a family. That’s supposedly what normal people do.
Then one day while driving with my daughter, I was talking about something in the news (I won’t say what) and tying it back to something that that had happened months earlier that nobody else connected, and my daughter laughed.
“It’s not funny,” I said. “This is serious stuff.”
“But you look crazy,” my daughter said. “You have that look in your eye, the crazy conspiracy theorist look.”
“I’m not a conspiracy theorist,” I said. “There’s just some weird stuff going on.”
“That weird stuff is the conspiracy,” she said.
I drove silently for a while, listening to the radio. Some current pop schlock song was on with a simple hypnotizing beat and vulgar lyrics, and I knew it was no accident that this was marketed to kids. It was on purpose. Some very rich people who run the music industry want kids to listen to music about sex, violence, and habits that would make them unproductive to society.
Ugh, I thought. My daughter was right. And my wife would kill me if she found out I was a conspiracy theorist.
“Does your mom know?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“Good,” I said. “Don’t tell her.”
I haven’t been like this for long. I didn’t always think like this, but I know exactly when it started, and I explain it below:
I didn’t create this cartoon, and I probably haven’t cited it correctly. (image via wikimedia
Jills Abramson, author of the recently published Merchant of Truth, might not be considered a famous journalist. I had heard of her (because I read a lot from various news outlets), but I don’t know what she looks like.
I think facial recognition is a part of fame. You’re not really famous if people don’t know what you look like. That’s why I wouldn’t mind being a famous writer because I could still go anywhere and no strangers would want to talk to me (or try to fight me).
Anyway, Jill Abramson’s book Merchant of Truth was about how has journalism changed over the decades because of the internet and social media. Because of the internet (this is me talking, not Jill Abramson), it’s easier to do research and plagiarize. The down side is that it’s also easier to catch the plagiarism.
I’m not going to examine the questionable passages in Merchant of Truth because others have already done that (here and here ). People seem to disagree about what reaches the standards of plagiarism. Some say it’s the exact usage of the same words. Some say it’s a paraphrase of the same information without giving credit. And there’s even disagreement about what makes common knowledge so that an author doesn’t even need to give credit.
I’m always surprised when famous authors get caught plagiarizing. Publishing companies have a bunch of editors who (I think) have access to the internet. It would be easier to check a book before publication than it is to apologize later and fix mistakes later. Or maybe I’m wrong. There’s a lot about publishing that I don’t know.
Supposedly, publishing companies trust the author. Ha ha! If publishing companies haven’t learned from authors who have lied and plagiarized in the past, then that’s on the publishing company. I’ve heard the phrase “Trust, but verify.” I don’t care if there’s trust or not. If there’s a ton of money involved, then I’d verify.
Despite her initial denial, Abramson now agrees that she got sloppy with citations in her book. That’s the problem with journalists today. If they’re not rushing out inaccurate (or false) stories, they’re still sloppy too often. Competing with so many other news sources makes journalists sloppy. Trying to be funny or snarky on social media makes journalists even more careless.
A couple decades ago, Abramson’s plagiarism (or whatever it is) would have been more difficult to catch. And when it was noticed, there would have been no way to tell everybody. News was controlled by a few newspapers and television stations, and if they didn’t want you to know a story, they squashed it and called the alternative news sources crazy.
Abramson has been writing/editing for a long time (I’m not making fun of her age) and was a journalist before social media and so many competing news sources existed; she should have known that any mistake she made would be met with glee from bloggers and other online sources who are competing with her. When you’re a journalist writing a book about journalism, you need to do your citations correctly.
This book Merchants of Truth leads me to trust journalists even less than I did before. Readers might not trust me either, but I don’t self-righteously proclaim how important I am. I’m just a blogger who reads a lot and posts links. Like Abramson, I’m probably sloppy with my citations (if I make any).
Journalism has gotten so sloppy (It’s not all Jill Abramson’s fault) that I don’t even trust the history books anymore. If journalists can’t get the story right (sometimes when the video of the whole thing is right there), how can historians get it right? I don’t want to go full Illuminati, but the implications are huge.
As an aspiring indie author, I see a little spiteful humor in this (I’m sorry!). Some traditional publishing companies look down on independent authors (and I can understand why). Indie authors can be careless and make a bunch of inexcusable mistakes. Just like Jill Abramson.
So the next time I make a bunch of grammar mistakes on my blog, or I publish an ebook with a word missing on the cover, I can say, “Eh, at least I’m not Jill Abramson.”
(image via wikimedia)
If you’re a high school senior, you can’t just ask anybody to prom. The wrong date can lead to an awkward prom night, and formal events like that are already difficult to navigate, even when you’re with the right person. When I was a senior in the early 1980s, I had friends, an after school job, and a social life, but I was undateable. I was skinny with acne, and I collected comic books.
Despite all that, I had a scheme to get a prom date.
I was with a group of my friends at a local restaurant on a Saturday night (you can get more details here), and listening to Keith, our group’s cool guy, discuss his prom date plans. His parents were renting a limo for him, and he would take his date to a nice restaurant (nicer than the diner we were in).
We believed him because Keith was as close to cool as anybody in our social group could get. He was in a band, he wore cool clothes, he would have the occasional girlfriend, and he handled himself smoothly. He was also a nerd at heart. He liked comic books, Star Wars movies, and had read The Lord of the Rings three times.
Keith was still talking when some guy named Robert at our table announced, “I think I’ll ask Elaine to prom.” He stuffed his mouth full of hamburger when he said it.
There was a moment of silence, and then every guy (except Robert… and me) laughed. It was loud enough that adults at other tables glanced at us. When the waitress passed by, Keith said:
“Don’t worry, we’ll keep it down from now on. And we’ll tip.”
The waitress smiled and refilled his soda.
Once the waitress moved on (I received a refill too), Keith turned to Robert.
“I don’t mean to crush your dreams, but you might be setting your sights too high,” he said.
“I’m a senior,” Robert said, continuing with his hamburger. “I’m going out in a blaze of glory.”
“Not with Elaine, you won’t,” Keith said. “She’s too stuck up for you. Choose a sophomore. I know who’ll go to prom with you.”
While Keith and Robert discussed a sophomore girl, my mind wandered. I had my own issues.
There was a girl I was thinking about, a fairly attractive senior whom I drove home from school a few times a week. We had a couple classes together, so we always had something to talk about. She didn’t have a boyfriend (she’d broken up with a guy a few months earlier which was why she needed a ride home), but I knew she wasn’t interested in me that way.
Anyway, things between me and this girl were relaxed, and I wanted to keep things like that. If I asked her to prom and she said no, things would get tense. If we went to prom and had a crappy time, things would be tense. I liked having this girl as a friend.
“I’m taking Karla to prom,” Keith declared. I started paying attention again.
Every guy had fond thoughts of Karla. I’d been infatuated with her since early tenth grade. At least, that’s what everybody thought. I got caught staring at her cleavage in a 10th grade science class, and some other boy who was also staring at her cleavage accused me of staring. I didn’t argue. I wasn’t the only one guilty, but I was still guilty. Somebody had to be the scapegoat.
Karla wasn’t even offended. She was always polite to me after that, but I could never really talk to her. There was no way I could ask her to prom, even if she were available. It would have been an awkward prom. I wanted to ask a girl who was available, okay looking, and somebody I could talk to. And there weren’t that many girls like that.
“Karla is a good choice for you,” I said, nodding.
“You approve,” Keith said.
“Of course,” I replied.
“You weren’t going to ask her,” he said.
“No,” I said. “I have a tough time maintaining eye contact with her. How could we go to prom together?”
I didn’t mean it in a bad way, but it still got a laugh.
“What about you, Jimmy?” Keith said. “Who are you asking then?”
Looking back (I didn’t realize this at the time), Keith was showing me some respect. He didn’t ask if I was going to prom. He didn’t ask if I was going by myself or with friends or with a date. He was assuming (or pretending to assume) that I’d have a date. And he didn’t ask in a mocking tone. He was asking out of curiosity (or putting on a good act).
“I really don’t want to say.”
“We’re not going to tell,” Keith said. He probably meant it, but there were at least six other guys I was worried about at the table.
“I’d still feel stupid if I told you and then got turned down.”
“So?” Keith said. “Everybody here has been turned down sometime.”
“I don’t want to jinx myself.”
Keith grinned. “There’s no jinx. Look, if you’re asking the right girl, it won’t matter if you tell us. If you’re asking the wrong girl, we’ll let you know and keep you from wasting your time.”
That actually made sense to me. Keith knew everybody at our school. He’d have a pretty good idea of which girls would go to prom with me and who’d run for the hills. And that’s when I made my mistake.
The mistake was telling. You never reveal who you will ask to prom (or on any date) before you do it. Never! And in the next episode, I’ll explain why.
To be continued in Awkward Moments in Dating: Asking A Girl To Prom !
Or you can start at the beginning of another installment of Awkward Moments in Dating .
(image via wikimedia)
When I started blogging a few years ago, I did almost everything wrong. I didn’t use any pictures in my posts. I referred to myself in the third person and first person plural. Some of my posts were over 2,000 words long. I wrote a bunch of jokes that weren’t funny. I’m sure anybody who noticed my blog back then thought it wouldn’t last.
Now the blog is doing okay, but I’m not doing much on other platforms like I’m supposed to for building an audience. I do a little bit on Twitter, but that seems to be for famous people or people who can spend all day on it, and I’m neither. Plus, most tweets are either meaningless (like mine) or horrible.
I was on Facebook for about a week and thought it was useless because I can just call or email my friends; I don’t have that many of them. I’m not even trying Instagram or some other platforms I’ve never heard of.
I’m dabbling with videos now, just because I can. I used to hate to hate being on video, but that attitude just doesn’t work nowadays, so I’m forcing myself. As I put more videos on YouTube (and getting criticized for it too), I’m getting more comfortable and developing a thicker skin. Aspiring writers need that thick skin.
Just like my blog years ago, my YouTube channel is starting off kind of slow. In the video below, I talk about all the stuff I’m doing wrong (according to the experts) on YouTube. When I’m wrong, I’m usually willing to admit it.
What social media platforms do you use? Which one (besides blogs) are you most comfortable with? What are you doing wrong on social media?
She looks ticked off. I’d be ticked off too if an outrage mob attacked my book.
To be honest, I wouldn’t have been interested in this book without the outrage mob. First of all, I don’t like YA fiction because there are always too many kids in the books. I don’t usually like reading books from the kid’s point-of-view. It’s okay occasionally, but I’m in my early 50s, and it would probably be kind of weird if I liked YA fiction too much.
Plus, this book is fantasy. Man, I have read way too much fantasy in my life. I’m so bored by fantasy that when I watch Game of Thrones, I enjoy the political intrigue but I yawn when I see dragons and ice zombies.
As much as I don’t like YA fantasy, I truly despise outrage mobs. They react too quickly and too forcefully to stuff and don’t give people time to process information. Even if the outrage mob is right about a specific point (they usually aren’t), they act so obnoxious that they ruin any point they had.
Just so you know, I’m referring to an unpublished book called Blood Heir by Amelie Wen-Zhao. The author has decided not to publish her book after an outrage mob attacked her for a variety of reasons. I’m not going into those reasons, but you can find them here and here . These two articles (especially the second one) explain the situation better than I could. You can also go to Twitter and look up Blood Heir, but I don’t recommend that. Twitter, ugh.
When I was in my 20s (like the author is now), I probably would have been influenced by outrage mobs too. Back then, I cared a lot more about what people thought of me. Now I’m grouchy and would be more likely to tell them to buzz off. I mean, I’d consider what the outrage was about first, but then I’d tell them to buzz off out of spite, even if the mob had a point.
Outrage mobs attack YA authors for a reason. YA is different from regular fiction because publishers go out of their way to make sure nothing is racially offensive. When I was reading YA books a few years ago (because my daughter was reading them, but she’s out of that phase now), I noticed some sexual references that I thought shouldn’t be in books marketed to middle school kids, but I didn’t make a big deal about it. YA book publishers might not care about sexual references, but they are very sensitive about multiculturalism and diversity. I guess YA authors are so sensitive, they self-ban their own books for their unintended slights.
I think Stephen King self-banned a short story (it wasn’t YA fiction) that he wrote in the 1970s because he thinks it helped inspire school shootings. If he feels guilty about that, I can understand why he wants to self-ban the story. I don’t think he should feel guilty about that, but I understand it. He can logically (kind of) see the harm that his story might have caused. If I thought my story was going to cause that kind of violence, I’d probably self-ban it. But I don’t think it did. I think Stephen King has written stuff that’s way worse than the school shooting story. But that’s what you do when you write horror genre stuff.
A few months ago, The American Library Association celebrated Banned Books Week to fight against the banning of books. Maybe I’m wrong, but most Americans are against banning books, even if the books have ideas we don’t like. What would the ALA do with a book that the author has self-banned? Will the ALA take the sides of authors who are attacked by outrage mobs? I’m sure a bunch of libraries were going to purchase Blood Heir; will they stand aside and allow outrage mobs to influence what gets published? Is a self-ban inspired by an outrage mob the same thing as an actual ban? Will this start a trend of authors banning their own books?
Maybe the self-ban is good. Maybe the world doesn’t need another YA fantasy series. Book stores are filled with YA fantasy novels. Then again, there are too many outrage mobs too. If I had to choose sides, I’d pick the YA fantasy novel over the outrage mob. The YA fantasy novel would have to be truly horrible to be worse than an outrage mob. Outrage mobs are inherently horrible. Ugh. Outrage mobs.
*****
What do you think? Is an outrage mob inherently worse than a (possibly) racially insensitive moment in a book? Would you self-ban something you wrote if it offended a reader? Have you ever seen a productive exchange of ideas on Twitter?
