So I appear to have an Agatha Christie fan dissing my work. I do not write hackneyed mysteries, so I am not sure what I am supposed to take from this, but am thankful not to be involved with whatever codependency he thinks he has achieved. I now rather pity anyone who has to be on the receiving end of this level of disapproval day after day.
I asked his opinion of two titles for the Dylan Mulvaney story the other day, and his response was so disrespectful and rude that I immediately surmised that this was not a person I could rely on for a rational response, and frankly, having been through this for the last ten years with Twisty, I am just not interested in people who don’t create anything passing comment on work that I do not even charge for.
Some people like it, some don’t. The point is that, having been bullied extensively, the people that feature in my stories are not the ones who end up sitting in judgement.
I am however, a bit bothered by this tendency towards discourtesy and disrespect, mostly because this person was someone I formerly trusted enough to ask for a legal favour. This is perfectly customary in this country, but of course I had not considered that this person is not from this country. Silly me.
Anyway, in my usual Pollyanna way, I have to be pleased that I did not know this person well enough to know that he seems to be a bit psychotic when he thinks he has a way in to needle you, so not for the first time, lucky escape. I do try to think positively of people, but apparently I am not to get the option of doing so this time. That shop was an emotional lifeline for almost three entirely fake years.
Bad luck, old chap. The last in a long line of men who think they can take the fucking piss. Book on the way. Stories for an Even More Ignorant Man.
Ina
