Moving Trucks: A Rebuttal
My partner is a cowgirl.
And by partner, I mean “girlfriend,” and by cowgirl I mean - no seriously - a cowgirl. Cowboy boots, tight jeans, bandana dangling from her back hip pocket, an oversized western belt buckle, and a ball cap are just the look. She trains horses, professionally, and works cattle from horseback. There are people who actually pay her to ride their horses.
Put us side by side in our respective work apparel, she in her cowgirl gear and me in my digital camouflage uniform, and we are an Indian chief and a construction worker short of being the Village People.
I, on the other hand, am not a cowgirl. I have been on her horse a few times, and the last time, I was blessed with the charming experience of what it is like to come off a horse at high speeds. But, being the good girlfriend that I am, I have studiously dedicated myself to understanding her world.
Through my attempts at learning all things horse related, we have coined a phrase that I find particularly applicable to current circumstances.
“Do horses scare easy?” I asked her one night.
“They are a twelve hundred pound prey animal, what do you think?” She rolled over and examined my expression, as if she was deciding whether the question was posed seriously.
“So…” I drew out the word, chewing on my lower lip thoughtfully. The way she said it implied that I should know the answer, and I didn’t. “That’s a yes?”
Morgan was slow to nod once she realized that I was genuinely asking the question because I did not know, not because I am by nature a smartass. “They can be. If you park a truck in the same place every day, and the horse sees it in the same place every single day, and suddenly one day you move the truck, it can upset him.”
I took the example for what it was until one afternoon, a week or so later, Morgan came home upset. I don’t remember what in particular it was that had upset her, but it was something along the lines of a deviation from her normal routine.
Following good-girlfriend protocol, I wrapped my arms around her, tuned the television onto COPS, and told her, “Someone moved your truck, huh?”
The phrase has become a force of habit, and we both find ourselves using it in everyday conversation, even with people who don’t have the faintest hint as to what we are talking about.
“Moving someone’s truck” has become a metaphor for scaring someone, upsetting them by presenting them with an idea, event, or action that is unlike what they are accustomed to. Everyone at her barn has taken to using the phrase, as has my entire family.
Today, I moved a whole lot of people’s trucks.
I committed the unspeakable blasphemy of publicly criticizing another author’s work, and I wasn’t all that polite about it. I broke from the norm of only posting positive feedback and gushing praise and was brutally honest.
Apparently, it made the natives restless.
Despite the litany of angry e-mails, inappropriate comments about my lineage, and obscenities lobbed in my direction, I don’t feel bad about it at all.
In fact, I feel even more convinced in my position that something needs to be done.
This isn’t kindergarten; this isn’t the junior league T-ball team, where everyone is awarded a gold star or a trophy regardless of performance or lack thereof. We are adults, supposedly living in the “real” world. You don’t get an ‘A’ for effort. Trying isn’t good enough, and I’m convinced that most of the bad!fic writers out there aren’t even trying to improve.
If I did the bare minimum at work with no effort to increase my productivity, I would be fired. One does not become a professional baseball player by half-assing it and shrugging off mistakes. One isn’t awarded the Nobel Prize in Mathematics for getting an equation wrong. If I do a bad job, or even a mediocre job, as a soldier, people, including myself, could die. In the real world, you don’t get positive reinforcement for doing a bad job. You don’t get lauded for doing what you’re supposed to.
When I fell off that damn horse, Morgan didn’t say to me, “Oh, it’s okay, bug. You did a great job!” (And, yes, she does call me “bug.”)
No, what she said to me was: “When you finish peeling what’s left of your face off the arena floor, you can get back on and I’ll show you what you did wrong.”
If we repeat the same mistakes over and over again without any effort to improve, we don’t deserve the promotion, the raise, the bonus, the cash and prizes. We don’t deserve positive reinforcement or a pat on the head.
By constantly telling authors who are writing bad!fics that it’s “Awesome!” and “I can’t wait to read more, this is great!” we are, in fact, causing them more harm than good. Instead of being told the truth, instead of having their mistakes pointed out so they might learn from them, they parade through the communities with the delusion of competency.
However, if someone were to be honest with them, they might actually improve. They might spot their mistakes. They might transition from a shitty writer to an okay writer to a good author. Like the professional baseball player, who trains daily to improve pitch and swing and speed, the writer strives constantly to improve herself.
Even I have written bad!fic, but I have a crack team of friends who care enough about me and my writing to be honest with me. Through their constructive criticism, I have learned and honed my skills. To be completely honest, I am constantly learning more and more about my craft and always try to do better than the last time.
So, contrary to popular belief, I am not trying to discourage anyone from writing. What I am attempting to do is encourage people to write better. Sometimes, it seems I am one of the few people doing so.
Somehow, the femslash writing communities have become a place where not being proficient in your craft is rewarded with equal, if not more, praise than someone who is. It has become a place where it is acceptable not to try, where ribbons are arbitrarily handed out for last place, and everyone goes home with a trophy.
I refuse to join the trend that celebrates mediocrity.
If you love writing, if writing is your passion, do not stop. But do not expect praise when you consistently churn out the literary equivalent of genital herpes. If you let a single person’s opinion, even my opinion, stop you from doing what you love, then that is your loss, not mine.
I tried subtlety. I can be nice and tactful, ask any of the people I beta for. I tried to make suggestions without moving anyone’s truck and nearly overdosed on fail.
So, you can call me “elitist” or a “snob” or (and this is my favorite) “bitch tits,” because it is all true. I am elitist, and I am a snob. Writing is my craft, my passion, and I have dedicated myself to learning it, studying it, and excelling at it. I am not quite sure about the “bitch tits” though because I am not exactly sure what it means precisely.
I will not pretend it is acceptable to blow hardcore at writing. I am placing myself on the sacrificial altar for all the good writers out there. If people dislike me for being honest, I am more than content with that. I give my solemn oath to stand up and shout so every femslash enthusiast can hear, “You should not be rewarded for doing a shitty job!” I want to encourage better writing; I want to help struggling authors succeed. I want the budding author’s dream of being published to become feasible. None of those things can be accomplished by lying and praising substandard work.
If you want someone to give you a pat on the head and hand you a cookie, go to your entourage of blubbering sycophants.
Because I am not going to stop moving trucks.
And by partner, I mean “girlfriend,” and by cowgirl I mean - no seriously - a cowgirl. Cowboy boots, tight jeans, bandana dangling from her back hip pocket, an oversized western belt buckle, and a ball cap are just the look. She trains horses, professionally, and works cattle from horseback. There are people who actually pay her to ride their horses.
Put us side by side in our respective work apparel, she in her cowgirl gear and me in my digital camouflage uniform, and we are an Indian chief and a construction worker short of being the Village People.
I, on the other hand, am not a cowgirl. I have been on her horse a few times, and the last time, I was blessed with the charming experience of what it is like to come off a horse at high speeds. But, being the good girlfriend that I am, I have studiously dedicated myself to understanding her world.
Through my attempts at learning all things horse related, we have coined a phrase that I find particularly applicable to current circumstances.
“Do horses scare easy?” I asked her one night.
“They are a twelve hundred pound prey animal, what do you think?” She rolled over and examined my expression, as if she was deciding whether the question was posed seriously.
“So…” I drew out the word, chewing on my lower lip thoughtfully. The way she said it implied that I should know the answer, and I didn’t. “That’s a yes?”
Morgan was slow to nod once she realized that I was genuinely asking the question because I did not know, not because I am by nature a smartass. “They can be. If you park a truck in the same place every day, and the horse sees it in the same place every single day, and suddenly one day you move the truck, it can upset him.”
I took the example for what it was until one afternoon, a week or so later, Morgan came home upset. I don’t remember what in particular it was that had upset her, but it was something along the lines of a deviation from her normal routine.
Following good-girlfriend protocol, I wrapped my arms around her, tuned the television onto COPS, and told her, “Someone moved your truck, huh?”
The phrase has become a force of habit, and we both find ourselves using it in everyday conversation, even with people who don’t have the faintest hint as to what we are talking about.
“Moving someone’s truck” has become a metaphor for scaring someone, upsetting them by presenting them with an idea, event, or action that is unlike what they are accustomed to. Everyone at her barn has taken to using the phrase, as has my entire family.
Today, I moved a whole lot of people’s trucks.
I committed the unspeakable blasphemy of publicly criticizing another author’s work, and I wasn’t all that polite about it. I broke from the norm of only posting positive feedback and gushing praise and was brutally honest.
Apparently, it made the natives restless.
Despite the litany of angry e-mails, inappropriate comments about my lineage, and obscenities lobbed in my direction, I don’t feel bad about it at all.
In fact, I feel even more convinced in my position that something needs to be done.
This isn’t kindergarten; this isn’t the junior league T-ball team, where everyone is awarded a gold star or a trophy regardless of performance or lack thereof. We are adults, supposedly living in the “real” world. You don’t get an ‘A’ for effort. Trying isn’t good enough, and I’m convinced that most of the bad!fic writers out there aren’t even trying to improve.
If I did the bare minimum at work with no effort to increase my productivity, I would be fired. One does not become a professional baseball player by half-assing it and shrugging off mistakes. One isn’t awarded the Nobel Prize in Mathematics for getting an equation wrong. If I do a bad job, or even a mediocre job, as a soldier, people, including myself, could die. In the real world, you don’t get positive reinforcement for doing a bad job. You don’t get lauded for doing what you’re supposed to.
When I fell off that damn horse, Morgan didn’t say to me, “Oh, it’s okay, bug. You did a great job!” (And, yes, she does call me “bug.”)
No, what she said to me was: “When you finish peeling what’s left of your face off the arena floor, you can get back on and I’ll show you what you did wrong.”
If we repeat the same mistakes over and over again without any effort to improve, we don’t deserve the promotion, the raise, the bonus, the cash and prizes. We don’t deserve positive reinforcement or a pat on the head.
By constantly telling authors who are writing bad!fics that it’s “Awesome!” and “I can’t wait to read more, this is great!” we are, in fact, causing them more harm than good. Instead of being told the truth, instead of having their mistakes pointed out so they might learn from them, they parade through the communities with the delusion of competency.
However, if someone were to be honest with them, they might actually improve. They might spot their mistakes. They might transition from a shitty writer to an okay writer to a good author. Like the professional baseball player, who trains daily to improve pitch and swing and speed, the writer strives constantly to improve herself.
Even I have written bad!fic, but I have a crack team of friends who care enough about me and my writing to be honest with me. Through their constructive criticism, I have learned and honed my skills. To be completely honest, I am constantly learning more and more about my craft and always try to do better than the last time.
So, contrary to popular belief, I am not trying to discourage anyone from writing. What I am attempting to do is encourage people to write better. Sometimes, it seems I am one of the few people doing so.
Somehow, the femslash writing communities have become a place where not being proficient in your craft is rewarded with equal, if not more, praise than someone who is. It has become a place where it is acceptable not to try, where ribbons are arbitrarily handed out for last place, and everyone goes home with a trophy.
I refuse to join the trend that celebrates mediocrity.
If you love writing, if writing is your passion, do not stop. But do not expect praise when you consistently churn out the literary equivalent of genital herpes. If you let a single person’s opinion, even my opinion, stop you from doing what you love, then that is your loss, not mine.
I tried subtlety. I can be nice and tactful, ask any of the people I beta for. I tried to make suggestions without moving anyone’s truck and nearly overdosed on fail.
So, you can call me “elitist” or a “snob” or (and this is my favorite) “bitch tits,” because it is all true. I am elitist, and I am a snob. Writing is my craft, my passion, and I have dedicated myself to learning it, studying it, and excelling at it. I am not quite sure about the “bitch tits” though because I am not exactly sure what it means precisely.
I will not pretend it is acceptable to blow hardcore at writing. I am placing myself on the sacrificial altar for all the good writers out there. If people dislike me for being honest, I am more than content with that. I give my solemn oath to stand up and shout so every femslash enthusiast can hear, “You should not be rewarded for doing a shitty job!” I want to encourage better writing; I want to help struggling authors succeed. I want the budding author’s dream of being published to become feasible. None of those things can be accomplished by lying and praising substandard work.
If you want someone to give you a pat on the head and hand you a cookie, go to your entourage of blubbering sycophants.
Because I am not going to stop moving trucks.