One thing us authors have to learn how to deal
with is crappy reviews, or someone shit-posting on your Facebook ad, or any number of things that can send your confidence into a nose-dive.
It’s par for the course.
A rite of passage.
I mean, I’ll bet Stephen King doesn’t get hung up on a one star review, does he?
So how do you handle
it?
Well, you could do it like my Uncle Walter…
Uncle Walter was a farmer. Not the podgy, well-fed type, he was the gangly type
with creased skin - weathered like a well-worn leather jacket. Always wore a checked flannel shirt, and a knitted green fairisle tank top with holes in.
He looked like a farmer. He smelled like a farmer too, fresh manure mixed with dirt and old oil. It was the kind of smell that seeps into your skin and stays there long after you’ve
left.
When I was a kid, we used to visit his farm every Sunday.
To get there—there being the middle of fecking nowhere,
down a single track road, then down a dirt track road so bumpy it made your brain rattle—was a real English country safari.
Now, Uncle Walter bred cows, not for the meat or the milk, but for bulls. Prize winning bulls.
If we were lucky, my
cousin would take us for a spin on his quad bike. For a seven-year-old, tearing down the lane and ripping up the fields on the back of the quad was a massive thrill… until you got stuck in the mud and lost your wellies walking back to the farm to get help.
Anyway, one particular day in late spring when the daffodils were nodding, and Penny, the farm Rottweiler, barked at the
birds. Uncle Walter was keen to show us his latest bull.
‘Wait till yer see ‘im, just wait.’ He said excitedly (well, as excited as farmers get) as he led us past the piles of rusty machinery and abandoned tractor tyres to the cowshed.
‘Meet Major.’ There in the stable was his latest prize winning bull.
He was
massive.
An absolute block of an animal.
A golden brown beast.
If this bull were a bloke, he’d be the roided up sort pumping iron in the gym, eating whole chickens for breakfast, and taking up two seats on an aeroplane.
This ‘thing’ snorted and stamped his hoof as we got closer. Snot dribbled off his glistening nose. I hid behind mum a little bit.
‘Ain’t he a beaut?’ Walt said, as he climbed over the metal railings. He shoved Major around like he was shifting a sofa to hoover the bits underneath.
Given his size, Major obliged. Perhaps because he knew what was coming…
Sufficiently happy that we all had
a clear view of Major’s rear end, Uncle Walter hoicked up Major’s tail and cupped big dangly balls.
‘Have you ever seen anything like these?’ Uncle Walter beamed. He was looking at my dad, who was a calculator man and only ever got his hands dirty to clean a stapler.
We all did our best to look suitably impressed as we watched a man fondle a bull’s big balls. (Looking back I wonder if Uncle Walter had a bit of a problem.)
They were the size of two grapefruits slung in a pink plastic bag.
‘They’re 36 centimetres!’ His eyes were like saucers as he cupped these gargantuan goolies.
I honestly don’t think
I’ve seen anyone look as proud as my Uncle Walter did as he fondled the balls of the beast.
Now, you might think this is where I tell you, you should feel proud of the words you’ve written. And I will, but that’s not where the story ends…
Because here’s the thing, if you know cows, you’ll know that when they need a poo, they lift their tails… but since Uncle Walter had hoicked Major’s tail in the air, and he was too busy admiring the fruits of Major’s loin, he had no
warning…
Major did an enormous poo.
It splattered all over Uncle Walter’s arm, covered his hand and dripped between his
fingers.
‘Arghh, yer bleddy animal,’ Uncle Walter swore and tutted as we all howled with laughter. Tears streamed down our cheeks. Our faces ached from laughing so much.
I’m pretty sure Major turned and gave me a cheeky wink too.
Red faced and huffy, Uncle Walter grabbed a bunch of
straw and wiped the slurry off as best he could. But it stained his hand a greeny brown hew.
Then, despite what later became known as ‘the incident’, Uncle Walter lifted Major’s tail and said, ‘Aye, they're a magnificent pair alright.’
As if nothing
happened.
It’s a moment I’ll never forget.
It reminds me of writing in a way.
You work hard to create something special.
Something unique.
Something with balls.
Something you’re proud of…
Then someone shits all over your hand when you show it to them.
It could be a crappy review. Or a troll. Or someone
telling you that you won’t make good money from writing.
There will always be someone ready to shit on you.
Sure it might leave a stain.
But don’t let it stop you.
Don’t let a shitty review or a shitty comment stop you.
Be as proud as my Uncle Walter was of his prize winning bullock’s bollocks.
And carry on
regardless.
Angie