As a writer, I feel like I need to get a sign saying “No Assholes Allowed,” and keep it with me for times like this… We’ll consider this post to be Dear Asshole…

I never set out to intentionally write a memoir–not exactly anyway. It was something that happened because of the events in the world around me and how I was feeling at the time. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—it was the fastest I’ve ever written in my life. The words poured out of me and wouldn’t stop.

People had been telling me for ages that I should write about my time as a teacher, mostly because they couldn’t believe some of the stories I told about teaching in Texas. They couldn’t believe some of the horrors that happened to me and my students. Of course, that was in the early 00’s and 10’s. Now we’ve had not one but a second Trump dictatorship and the atrocities occurring in the United States make some of my stories look tame in comparison. 

It doesn’t mean that I didn’t survive some horrific shit while teaching. It doesn’t diminish the hell of my childhood as a nonbinary, autistic queer with undiagnosed learning disabilities either. I wish I could say that all ended once I became a writer but if you’ve read Voices Carry, you know it hasn’t. Case in point…

When a book is soon to be published, presses/publishing houses send out marketing and PR stuff in hopes of tempting various reviewers, magazines, newspapers, etc. into reading, reviewing, and perhaps promoting the title. Often, the author will reach out to places as well, especially if the press is a small or micro press. (More and more authors are doing their own promotion these days, even with large presses.) 

I contacted this guy who’s reviewed several of my works before. It came from a different email address so I suspect he didn’t realize he was talking to the author… aka the person he’s insulting in this email below. Or maybe he did and he’s an even bigger asshole than I thought. Either way, this is some of the shit authors get to deal with… (I’ve removed identifying info.) Be aware, this is an editorial reviewer. A pro. Not a blogger.

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It wasn’t that he didn’t want to review my book that bothered me. Not every book is for everyone, and I get that. It’s the “What have you done in half a life to make it worth writing about?”

Perhaps if you’d been willing to read the book, you’d have your answer, asshole. I’m sorry that it takes old white men twice as long to live a life worth writing about. 

I mean, I’m a nonbinary, autistic, disabled queer. That alone has stories worth telling. 

Then there’s the fact that I taught in a very conservative, super-religious state while being…me. Not to mention advocating for folks like me, which often included my students. That doesn’t get into all the medical discrimination I’ve suffered or what it’s like writing science fiction as someone who’s AFAB (assigned female at birth) and presents fem. 

And, and, and, and… I could go one but we’d be here for hours.

Recently, I had an appointment with a new psychiatrist as I’m needing some help with my anxiety meds these days and during that intake appointment, I shocked her. Just hearing all of the shit I’ve survived in my 47 years, it’s a lot. I live with chronic PTSD from it, something that will never go away, and yeah, besides genetics, there’s a reason I’m an anxious person.

The asshole above got my age wrong (I was 46 at the time of that email, not 40), but that’s not the point. Anne Frank was 13 when she began writing her diary, a book that has been published in over 70 languages worldwide. Helen Keller began writing her autobiography when she was still in college. I am not comparing myself to these two amazing people, but I do want to point out that some people do a ton of living in a few years. Many people accomplish and survive great and horrible events before they reach middle age.

Age should not be a factor in determining whether or not someone has anything important to say.

This isn’t the first time I’ve run into this form of prejudice either. At age 8, I knew I never wanted kids, yet from puberty until present day, I am constantly told by friends, family members, colleagues, and coworkers (especially teachers) that I will “change my mind” when I get older. When I was younger, they claimed that I couldn’t possibly know what I wanted yet. That I still had “so much life to live” and that during these years I would somehow magically change my mind.

In your opinion, when will I finally be old enough to know who I am?

Until I quit teaching, it seemed that any decision I made was met with the same idea—I couldn’t possibly know what I wanted. I couldn’t possibly know my own mind. I was too young to know what I was doing. I was making a mistake. They even said this shit about Molli and I. On and on it went and you know what? 

They were wrong about all of it. 

I’m not saying that child me didn’t have some wild ideas and that I’ve never changed my mind, but when it comes to the important bits—like marrying Molli, whether or not to have kids, whether or not to quit teaching, moving to Washington State, etc.—I was right every time.

Surviving so much means that I was an adult long before I was legally considered one. It also means that I had a lot to write about in that memoir. It means I gained a galactic fuck-ton of wisdom to share with the world on a great many topics. 

Too bad this asshole couldn’t see the worth in what I released into the world. 

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