Signing Off | Parts 1 and 2
by Shari Lopatin, ©Shari Lopatin, 2022. All Rights Reserved.
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My sister always said I was born with ink in my blood.
My kindergarten teachers wrote how I used quotation marks correctly during class assignments. I chose dreaming up stories over playing outside with the neighborhood kids, and my sister would listen eagerly as I read her the next chapter in my book.
Yet today, I work as a grocery store clerk.
You probably don’t care. You’re here because you want to judge me, or feel connected somehow, or be entertained. Permission granted.
I’m working on another novel. I’ll tell you about it later because the characters aren’t right yet. I don’t mean right in the head; I mean right for the story. They don’t make sense, but they will. My characters always make sense. I’m guessing that’s one of the reasons you’re here, because you relate to my characters. Or maybe you relate to me, which is really a metaphor for reflecting back at yourself.
Did I tell you I got another rejection yesterday? One of those three-liner templates that thanks you for your submission, gratuitously alludes the book is not for them, then wishes you luck. As if you need luck. What you need is someone to say yes for once in your fucking life.
Sorry for the rant. Obviously, I’m having a down day. You don’t need to endure my low moods. I know you want to read writing that’s real, so I’m choosing to be real. I figured you could appreciate that. I’m sure you have your down days, too. We’re all human, after all.
Since this sounded more like a journal entry than a post, I suppose I should stop now. No need to soothe me, but feel free to leave a comment and waft in the misery, if you want.
Signing off,
-H
*** *** ***
I’m better now. Thanks for your patience.
One of you asked why I always sign off with “H.” Why not use my full name? It’s a good question, so let me answer it for you.
Why does my name matter? Think about everything you know of me: I’m male, in my early fifties, living somewhere in the southwestern U.S. I live alone with my dog. I get angry sometimes, but I’m also hopeful. I love camping, and nature, and hiking, and writing, even though I’ve never been published. In fact, I think that’s why you’re here. Every time my name pops into your email, you’re hoping I got a yes.
You’re rooting for me, even if you don’t like things about me, because I’m your damn personification of disillusionment. If you sign into your email tomorrow and open my post and read that I finally got a yes, then perhaps one day, you can get a yes, too.
“H” is the first letter of my first name. The moment you learn my true identity, you’ll stop relating to me, because my writing will no longer be about you. You’ll then lose interest in reading my posts because I become someone else. And maybe I get off on having a sizable following. Call it narcissistic supply, fetishization, or just belonging.
At least here, my writing matters. If you know my name, then I’ll lose that, too.
Signing off,
-H