An extended “oh dear” moment.

I have been waiting for a dear new friend to read Spiritkeeper. Or, should I say, hoping for it. This person was not the original audience, rather is within the close-in orbit of the originally intended reader.

The moment isn’t coming. This person hasn’t read it, except bits of it. I am assured that the reason is not necessarily for the dislike of the bits that were read, but for the genre (a love story, albeit one with a twist.)

I have experienced the moment of “meh.”

I get it. But. This is the moment that chafes at me; the burr in the underwear. It chafes a way that doesn’t dismiss an atom of the love that I feel for the friend who has not read. But it chafes, all the same.

This is the moment in which the insecure creative asks herself “Wasn’t the fact that a good friend wrote it enough to make you read it? Isn’t there a sense of obligation—gift of love—tied up in there somewhere?” Nope. Doesn’t have to be. But that brings us, again, back to the “but.”

A favorite quote from my favorite musical artist says that it is akin to an act of love to listen to someone with whom you have nothing in common and still find it fascinating. The nature of the ego is one that wants to drag even the most unwilling audience toward the work saying, “trust me,  trust me; it’ll work for you. You’ll find plenty there to love. I promise.”

And here’s the thing: I’m not sure whether my own prejudices are such that I could overcome them in favor of a genre that wasn’t my glass of tea.

So, as you see, I am not without perspective about this. Or a sense of humor. I knew, and know, that this being a love story has the potential to impact the book’s readership…some people won’t look to find the bigger thing that’s so unexpectedly present behind the expected one. I am also foolish enough to hope that a reader will go along for the ride with me–because there is reason enough in the pages to capture even those who might throw this particular genre-baby out with the bath water.

“Meh” is indifference—that thing that stings writers almost more than anything else. “Meh” is the too-short pants that spoil a beautiful suit. “Meh” is the I-need-ketchup moment of haute cuisine. “Meh” is funny. And not.

So yes, read the damned thing. Or not. I still love you desperately either way.

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