|Haunted graveyard hill run at the ghost town of Nortonville|
After consulting the Google Oracle for fifteen minutes and not being able to locate the owner of the quote:
-If no one hates it, no one will love it.
I gave the fuck up.
People will hate your writing, and it's something that doesn't get talked about much in Alex J. Cavanaugh's Insecure Writer's Support Group. I. Love. This.
I had my first gallery reading with four other writers. My boyfriend and cousin showed up to the reading for some wine and to show support.
My boyfriend, coming straight from the office, was the only one attending that looked like a banker.
So in the middle of reading my fictional piece, everyone in my co-hort turned to stare at my boyfriend. Here's what I read:
After sleeping in I go for a run. By the time I get back I can hear the television on in the living room.
"Hey, babe," I call out dropping my keys on the hallway table as I walk through the entryway. The T.V. is on some sports channel. The crowd cheers. Matthew doesn't say anything. Matthew doesn't yell across rooms. Unlike me, Matthew is self controlled, contained, and disciplined.
I walk by the kitchen and into the living room. Matthew is sitting on his couch still in his suit and tie, a cocktail in one hand. His Allen Edmund cap toe shoes and crisscrossed ankles resting on his designer coffee table. Did I put my Wonder Woman metal lunchbox back under my shoe rack, or leave it on the bed? No, I remember putting it back. Thing must have at least eight thousand in it by now. I can get money orders to pay down my credit cards and sit on the other four thousand five hundred.
I set down my book bag and my purse.
"Hey, babe," I say again.
"Hi, sweetie," Matthew smiles.
I lean down to give him a kiss, then look back at the television. Basketball.
"How were your last two days?" I ask.
"Fine, and yours?"
"I helped a woman find a book on ridding the world of men and establishing an all woman utopia. What did you do?"
"Well darling, I closed a fifty million dollar loan with a real estate development firm downtown. That whiney millennial senior manager committed suicide and we threw a party. Just kidding. There wasn’t a party."
"That's great." I pick up a glass from the wet bar and fill it with soda.
"Oh, and sweetie..."
"Yes?" I ask. He sure is talkative for a Monday.
I receive a text from the Spaz –Raul says he read your book, and hates it when women talk like men. – winky face
I shoot Raul a text. –Dear Raul, Suck my dick. Love, Ali.
While my boyfriend didn't love being identified as a fictional psycho, and I could feel the silent accusations of it being too hetero-normative (yes, that's a fucking word) for San Francisco, the rest of the artists in attendance laughed at the appropriate places. So there!