I tweeted earlier asking writers if they felt it was okay to write out of revenge. I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is yes, I’m on Twitter. But on to more important matters.
It occurred to me at work today that I wanted to write a story about my colleagues. Well, not colleagues, per se, but the people who treat me lesser than they think they are. That word alone – colleague – is a joke in the context of which I’m referring. I’m no more a colleague to them than Miley Cyrus is a pillar of moral fortitude. Sure, a job is only as professional as you make it, but I can only take being talked to like a five-year old so many times before I either snap or, more fittingly, write about it.
So what better way to stick it to ’em than by writing a story about them?
Of course there are concerns. What if, in a world where Miracles Happen, the story got published? First off, you can bet your sweet booty I would brag to whoever crossed my path that I had a story available to read (too presumptuous to think The New Yorker?). It would not be a secret. There’s a chance I’d have the news tattooed to my forehead. But many of the people I work with I actually like (it’s only a select few who make my skin boil like lava); I would, of course, want to share the news with them.
This means, of course, Those In Question would eventually hear about my published masterpiece. What’s a boy to do?
I can see it now – confrontations, accusations, fingers pointed. “So this is how you really think of me?” I can imagine the bitchy one saying, in that bitchy way she says things, basically just being a bitch. What really would it matter? She gives me the cold shoulder as it is? What harm could a few literary daggers do?
So it gets me thinking: what harm could a few literary daggers do??? I don’t actually want to hurt anyone…I think.
Of course names would be changed to protect the insolent. I mean impudent. Dammit! I mean innocent, really, I do. Settings would be changed up. Maybe I can give the story a jaunty time shift to 1986 and throw in references to Madonna and Prince? Dynasty? Chernobyl?
But what, then, would be the point of writing the story? Doesn’t inspiration come in endless forms? Shouldn’t I be content with the fact that something propelled me to actually get some work done? Should I ever – EVER – have to apologize for something I’ve written? Do you think Augusten Burroughs felt rotten after writing all those hilariously horrible things about his family in “Running With Scissors,” running his story up the bestseller lists and seeing his words made into a movie?? No, he didn’t!! Granted, this is probably a bad example since those people wound up suing him for defamation, but I digress.
I’m not entirely sure the reason I wrote this post. Maybe I’m looking for validation. Maybe I wanted to vent. Maybe I’m hopped up on sugar from eating too many Reese’s peanut butter eggs (50% off after Easter!). What I do know is that the story will be written because if I can’t just flip everyone off at work and storm out the door, why not do it figuratively in writing?