Mean People

There's been a thread on a group I'm a member of about cruelty, specifically editors who tell an author that they don't like her work in the unkindest terms. Some think it's for the best: it discourages those of little talent, keeping them from wasting their time. It toughens those who are determined, as in the old saying, "Criticism is like wind to a fire: it extinguishes the small and enkindles the great."
True as all that might be, I believe that some--indeed, most--cruel people are not "cruel to be kind." They are simply cruel. They love being in a position where they can control someone else's future and maybe even ruin their hopes. I saw it all too often in teaching, those (thankfully) few teachers whose desire was to prove how much smarter they were than the students and that only their tutelage and advice could lead to success in life. The rest of us spent much of our time trying to nullify the damage their meanness had on kids.
I recently experienced one of those mean strokes from out of the blue. I had done something I thought was going to help a lot of other people. What I got in return was a mean response from one person, accusing me of self-interest and, in effect, fraud. Wow.
It bothered me for many days. I withdrew from areas where this person might be, feeling bruised and falsely accused. Then I got an appeal from the person: he needed help. Turns out his life is in the toilet, and he wondered if his friends could help him out. I can only hope that his friends did.
As to the discussion of editors, someone wrote a post about how badly they are treated, how they receive very little pay and no recognition. It is this, the writer contended, that makes them seem so mean.
Okay. So maybe mean people are suffering. They lash out because their lives are so awful that they must.
It's an explanation, but not a justification.

Two Reasons Why People Write Novels

#1-To show the world as they view it
#2-To show the world as they wish it

Yeah, I know, there is money and fame and the dream of winning some massive prize for the Great American Novel. But mostly, it is a desire to do one of the above.
I'm reading (as usual) several books at a time, and they brought me to this conclusion. I see in one author a desire to show the reader what life is like for a person with a certain problem: how he comes to face it, how he feels about himself, how he fares in his journey to wellness. It's obvious from the story that the author either went through this journey or is close to someone who did. The scenario is real-world. Down-to-earth.
My second current is the fun kind of mystery, a "what if" scenario that takes the reader along with ever-so-clever detectives from an earlier era who work perfectly in tandem. As I read, I slip into believing what the author wants me to believe, that treads and threads and clever heads will solve the crime. Don't we all wish for a partner who combines love for us with genius and the ability to read our minds?
The third book presents a tough-guy private eye who inhabits a world I cannot imagine, a world where knives flick into view and slice someone's throat before the victim knows what's happening. While I can read such books from time to time and enjoy them, it's not the way I see the world, even if in some cases, it's true. Readers of this sort of book get a peek at a world they can only imagine, and the writer's job is tough, because even the protagonist is pretty scary, the sort most readers would not invite to tea.
My point is that an author writes to show his world view, either wishful or truthful, according to his own experiences. Some become famous, usually because they do it so well. And how does one do it well? I suppose by making their own world view available to us and making us believe, at least for the duration of the book, that that is how it was at a certain place and at some point in time.

The Deciding Factor

Who decided it was a great idea for restaurant managers to wander the tables, asking if the meal is good?
I'm always either in the middle of a bite or my companion is in the middle of a story. It's an interruption. It's unnecessary. And then the waiter comes by and asks the same thing in about twenty seconds. (And after all, that's the person you've bonded with, having been told their name and their intentions: "Hi, I'm Derek, and I'll be taking care of you today." Good, Derek. I need help with some plot knots, someone to carry this bag of books around, and possibly some pyschiatric counseling.)
And who decided that stores need my phone number? They aren't going to call me up, at least they'd better not. But try saying, ever so politely, "I'd rather not share that." Sales clerks act as if you'd slapped them with an iron gauntlet.
 I recall a relative who worked for a furniture store being disgusted with "experts" who came in to tell them what customers did and did not want in a sales clerk. Some of it was so ridiculous as to be offensive, yet the bosses made the employees act in accordance with it. After all, someone studied something to come to that conclusion (and they had paid for the advice), so people were bound to be impressed.
I suppose it's none of my business what business chooses to do. Those who can see through the silliness either smile or grimace in disgust. We encounter "expert decisions" that are asinine every single day, to the point where we have to decide which ones we will fight and which we'll just accept. In the restaurant, for example, I smile and tell the manager things are fine. I've even given up arguing with Fashion Bug about the phone number.
I'm glad, however, that I make the decisions in my books. No expert tells me what the reader will like. I find what I like, and then I publish it, hoping someone else will, too. You won't find me stopping by as a reader is engrossed in my book, asking, "So how is everything today?"

When They Like You, Critics Matter

I've certainly done my share of carping over authors' failings, both live and online. I am impatient with characters who act in ways real people never would, with plots that don't make complete sense at the end, and especially with killers who come out of nowhere in the last chapter. However, I don't pretend to be a critic. Like so many other people, I only know--and only want to talk about--what I like.
I've heard writers and readers say that critics don't matter. "I never choose a book based on what the
critics say", or, "If people buy my book, who cares if the critics pan it?"
That all might be true, but when a critic says a book is wonderful, any author HAS to be thrilled. I'm a terrible chicken about my own reviews, but my publisher sent me one on Friday with the note, "Tell everyone."
Okay, that sounded pretty good. Still, I'd only read one sentence of the review she used as a teaser on the website, and I was reluctant to read more. I'm the type that finds that one even slightly critical part of the whole review and focuses on it. I'd promised myself I wasn't going to read any reviews, simply to protect myself from shifting my writing to what someone else said I should do rather than what I do.
A friend read the whole thing and said, "Go read it, Peg", so I did. It was wonderful. It was enough to convince me for all of five minutes that I really can write.
And then I started thinking about Book #2: How am I ever going to live up to that critic's expectations a second time?
It's a great feeling, getting a good review. But then you have to remind yourself, what matters in the next book is what you write, not what someone might say about it.
Read the review of THE DEAD DETECTIVE AGENCY at http://www.nyjournalofbooks.com/review/dead-detective-agency