Woke up to discover a new review for From Poe to Know on Amazon.
Fantastic way to start the week! And now I’m hyper, although that may be the amount of coffee I’ve ingested since 6:00 this morning.
To all of those you’ve purchased and read From Poe to Know, thank you so much.
If you enjoyed it, I’d love it if you’d leave a review. Word of mouth is what helps authors, and as Oscar Wilde says, “There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.”
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m an Attention Whore. As a treat, here’s a snippet from “Attention Whore,” an essay in Fractured: essays on love, friendship, and the nightmares in between.
Peculiarity, Self-Righteousness, and Hypocrisy
We Americans are peculiar about our celebrities. We alternately revere them for their talents and revile them when they act particularly human. Our love / hate relationship with them totters as precariously as do they upon the pedestals we place them. As a culture, we thrive on gossip. Even those of us who swear we’re above such low-brow behavior have a soft spot for those moments of self-righteousness. We love to build people up and get them comfortable on their perches before taking a sledgehammer and slowly chipping at that which holds them up, so they eventually go tumbling to the ground, head over ass, in the most undignified manner possible. Or we simply sit back, apathetic, and watch them destroy themselves only to utter I told you so after all is said and done.
Questions and No Answers
Train wrecks aside, I wonder how many of us have succumbed to what is seen as a childish reaction to insecurity and the need for validation. Do we throw adult-sized temper tantrums or do we suck it up, internalize the need, and allow ourselves to become bitter and jaded? What is it that transpires from childhood to adulthood that negates the need to know we’re liked or loved even? Do we reach a certain age when we’re not supposed to need a sense of acceptance? Sure many of us are perfectly capable of finding our own way whether anyone supports us or not, but loneliness and feelings of isolation somehow become more apparent as we grow older. Perhaps because we’re supposed to have grown out of it.
Oh, the Irony
The ironic part about loneliness is that we invariably find ourselves drawn to the same damn things that perpetuate our loneliness in the first place. We yearn for that one person’s attention and allow frustration, whether voiced or not, to set in when we don’t receive it. Like a junkie, we find ourselves scrounging around the streets in search of a fix; the fix that will, well, fix the gaping hole in our respective chests. You know, the one we’re convinced that anyone with half a brain could see if they’d only pay attention; the one that makes us feel desperate and needy and defective.
The problem is that no one pays attention to a junkie any more than they pay attention to the person sitting directly in front of their face. We’ve always shunned the Other, but iPods, smart phones, and online friends sites are poor replacements for the warmth of someone’s touch and the timbre of someone’s voice.