Hi, friends.
I’ve been struggling to write much the past month. Mainly because my intrusive thoughts (thanks, OCD) have latched onto my novel, A Court of Books and Coffee, and have had me fighting an invisible angry mob of keyboard warriors in my currently non-existent Goodreads reviews. If you aren’t familiar, OCD is not just being a “neat freak” or having to wash your hands 5 times over every time you touch raw chicken (not that I do that or anything… okay, you got me. Raw chicken freaks me out).
One of the ways OCD latches onto my brain is through the fear of being seen as “immoral”, whether intentionally or not. My therapist thinks that stems from religious trauma. It’s also probably why I feel the need to apologize for EVERYTHING.
But I digress…
After a particularly loaded piece of feedback I received during querying, I’ve been having visions of angry mobs throwing torches at me for daring to write about a bookish woman who escaped an abusive engagement and then realizes she’s falling in love with her best friend—a safe, supportive human who treats her with respect and always gives her free lattes from his coffee shop.
Never mind that the whole plot revolves around Callie and Nate being sucked into an unfinished romantasy together that forces them to face fictional versions of all their past fears and regrets, and that Callie has a beautiful growth arc about seeing herself as the main character in her own story after making herself small for years…But how dare fiction writers use their stories to reflect real-life themes??
Anyway, I wrote a (probably overdramatized) poem addressed to the hypothetical judge and jury in my head (aka, my OCD). So without further ado, please enjoy my feminine rage dressed up in verse.
Well-Behaved Stories
Now I lay me down upon the pyre Parasocial judgments become my final bed My inner critic heats the brand Searing the Scarlett letter upon my forehead Around me stands a clandestine digital jury Self-appointed keyboard warriors and drama lovers Clutching fiery torches in one hand Their costume pearls in the other Lo, the algorithm gods don’t play I have been weighed Measured And found morally grey Oh, how they like their authors canceled Steeped in hot takes and slander Creative visions villainized Character choices criticized Beloved prose weaponized Every slaughtered sentence damning evidence Of how they can't help but read between the lines "Does it make you feel special?" I shout "Claiming the BookTok high ground? To kindle the flames of my career's death With my own pages inked in red?" Could I have been deemed lawful good, If only I'd written a different book? Alas, I've always been misunderstood... Every roll of the dice a critical miss My final strike they came to witness From their moral grandstand The prosecution issues the decree Each opinion formed against me prospers My sentence blasted on gilded screens I'm a literary harlot, the judges jeer A symbol of their own projected fears "Light her up!" The crowd erupts with vitriolic spew "She deserves every one-star review. Did you read page seventeen? She was asking for it Peddling a plot so obscene!" What cruel irony That my heart’s work would become my demise Chapter after chapter ignited for my crime Of portraying something too close to real life I choke down my pride like bitter wine Even crying myself a river wouldn't douse the raging fire Heat nips at my fingers and toes The scent of my singed flesh assaults my nose This--this is the aroma of defeat Death by a thousand pseudo-critiques Messy tropes became the ropes that bind Would that I had not been so precious with what was mine Yet, I can't help but smile The joke's on them I won't wait to burst forth from the ashes Because there'll be none from which to rise You see, I am not the calm before I AM the storm The thunder The lightning And I’m taking back my sky Flip the script with a flick of my wrist I don't need their wings to fly A shining Phoenix, I break out My laughter tickling the clouds As they launch another attack Poison darts disguised as "feedback" "Don't worry, she won't get far, Just you wait and see." But their words can't reach me From up here, it's all just manufactured hate I don’t need to ask permission When I can soar right over the gate Funny how they never stopped to consider I might find my own path to victory I guess it's like I always say: Well-behaved stories rarely make history
*Author’s note: This poem was inspired by an exercise my therapist taught me in which I imagine the “worst case scenario” happening and then imagine myself surviving it and moving on.
Thank you all for reading (or listening). I hope you enjoyed this glimpse of Emo Hallie. Hopefully I’ll be back to my regularly scheduled chaos soon. Make sure you’re subscribed for updates on my novel, too!
<3
Hallie
“Well Behaved stories rarely make history”!!!
Relatable and inspiring. I too often battle a hoard of imagined critics and argue with them. For me it almost feels like protection - if I can guess what people will say, then maybe it will hurt less when they actually say it (thought this is rarely the case, I just get my feelings hurt twice lol).
So many good lines!!!! “I’ve been weighed, measured, and deemed morally gray”
Lovely metaphor. Bring on the power of the storm.