For those who don't already know, writers are a notoriously needy lot.
Which (of course) brings me to me. So great is my need for constant validation that I have been known to sit here before my glowing screen at an hour when everyone I know is sleeping peacefully and clicking the "get mail" button again and again and again. And, although this blog is a constant and idiotic distraction, you people have no idea how snoopy-dance happy I get when you comment and let me know that someone out there is receiving my transmission.
Fact: the only thing lower than my beleaguered self-esteem is W's approval ratings. Hence, I am putting forth one self-centered reminder and a flat-out solicitation for compliments:
(and now for an irritating note*)
(In my regular life, my writing [I do a great deal of local political reporting] and editorial efforts are public--just like this blog--and I have been advised by readers from every walk that I am a hack** and that my subject content is unsuitable and that I would be better off abandoning my silly efforts at this keyboard and spending more time looking after my husband. So as you pour over the following requests, know that I can also take the criticisms and flat out insults*** with a brave smile on my face.)
Solicitation: I invite all of you to hop over here and tell the people what you think of this blog. (No, I did not rate myself.) For those with a BlogExplosion account, go on over here and leave your rants about the Owner's Manual.
Reminder: anyone wanting to review my book has until Dec. 20 to persuade me that they are The One Who Should Receive A Free Signed Copy along with a delightful surprise or two (I have been collecting said surprises and, believe me, they are delighful).
Humor me people. Dear sweet Jesus, humor me.
* Thank you, faithful readers, for tolerating my parenthetical notes as well as these equally annoying and poorly mapped footnotes.
**I also have a few people that tell me they like my writing and political reporting, but the few that scathe are always the most indelible.
*** A smattering of the real life insults Erin O'Brien, girl writer, has fielded: "Too bad you can't report as well as you can walk." Comment yelled at me by a gentleman in passenger seat of 89 Cadillac Seville as he and the driver and other two passengers waited for a red light. I was on one of my endless walks. Judging by the coolers and golf clubs peaking from the bungy-corded trunk, they were on their way to a golf outing. I stopped, smiled and said, "Thank you for your comment," before continuing down the sidewalk.
"I really don't like the cover of your book one bit. It's just awful." Comment from sniffing browser as I sat with a stack of said books in front of me at a book signing event. "Covers are very subjective," was my vapid response, in which I made no reference to the cookie crumb clinging to her lip. She was not, incidentally, the one person to whom I sold a book that day. (What did that miserable broad want me to do? Take out a box of crayons and draft another cover on the spot?)
(This insult is only peripherally related to writing) From a local official upon whom I occasionally report, "My word, Erin, you look just terrific. You really do. Just terrific. And I don't even like you."