Crabby Monday

Why is it that some people seem compelled to try to tell me what to do? Or, more specifically, to tell me how I should be doing things?

To borrow a phrase from Rita Mae Brown, one of my favorite authors:

That just tears my ass with boredom.

(OK, so it doesn’t make all that much sense to me, either, but if Rita Mae says it: It must be so!)

: )

A note on Rita Mae:

I wrote her a letter when I was in high school. I’m pretty sure I had read Southern Discomfort and had probably snuck in a copy of Rubyfruit Jungle also. (Auntie Vesta, of course, would be telling me, this minute, that “There’s no such word as ‘snuck’!” Which would mean using the word “sneaked,” which sounds just totally wrong!)

Anyhoo, I wrote Rita Mae a fan letter — and she actually wrote back! Not a long letter or anything, but a neat little note, typed on a white postcard, which she had signed. And, like all mementos and material items that are extremely important to me, I have no idea where that note ever got to ... and God help me if my mom ever put it away for safe keeping ’cause that means it is lost, forever.

I do remember, though, that I had asked Rita Mae if she had any advice for aspiring authors, and she replied by saying something about finding your own voice and being true to your story.

: )

I did not create a post today to praise anyone, however; I logged in to rant, dammit!

(Funny how the irritation vanishes [sometimes!] when I sit down to write about it.)