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In college, I was so worried about the writing I did, especially in my creative writing classes. The stories we shared in class and handed in later were meant to be analyzed and given proper consideration and constructive criticism. It was a safe, healthy environment to learn and grow, but I was still paranoid about putting my work out there and having it torn apart. One night, I looked at a few different sites that had reviews, and I typed in my favorite authors of all time. I looked up bestselling authors, people who have been writing for decades, people who have written things that I could only dream of being skilled enough to write, books that are my absolute favorites and always will be, and books that have changed my life. And you know what?
They all received their fair share of bad reviews. The trolls even trolled them.
Once I realized it happens to the best of the best, I relaxed, sucked it up, and let go of my fears of rejection. I made a decision to control the level of my hurt feelings moving forward. On a scale of slightly annoyed to extremely butthurt, I vowed to only ever be slightly annoyed and close the book on that and not think about it. Criticism that builds me up, I can stand. But anything else? It’s just easier to read it, fume about it, breathe it back out, then walk away and forget it because it doesn’t define me. For every one person who doesn’t like my work, I’m sure there will be a hundred more who do.
I’m so engrossed in writing that when my phone goes off, I nearly dump my laptop on the floor. It saw me through college, but it was expensive, and I’d like for it to live many, many more years. I’m relieved when I catch it and right it before carefully setting it on the bed. When I see my dad’s number, I answer and put the phone on speaker.
“Victoria?” Dad’s voice is so intense that I’m afraid there’s something wrong.
Did they get in a car accident? Is someone sick? My heart starts beating furiously as I go over a list of terrible possibilities in my head.
“Yes?” I croak, sounding like a frog who lost its voice.
“We wanted to check on that company you told us about. We wanted to stop in and personally thank this guy and the rest of the staff for what they did for you and for our family by extension and—”
“Dad! You didn’t!” Now I’m the one who nearly falls off the bed. Groan times a thousand! How could my parents check up on me like that? I can only imagine the grilling Atlas just got.
My dad completely ignores me, and his next words knock the wind clean out of my lungs. “The place isn’t a home renovation company. It’s a computer repair shop.”
“What?” I gasp. “No. You must have gone to the wrong place.”
“It has the right name,” Mom cuts in, and I realize they’re connected through the car’s speaker, which means they’re driving right now.
“It wasn’t open, which is strange because the weekend is a busy time for everyone. We tried the door, but the closed sign was up, and it was locked.”
I find that I can’t breathe, but then, suddenly, I can. My parents just made a mistake. They went to the wrong place. Thank goodness they didn’t corner Atlas and start asking him all about what his intentions were for me and blah, blah, blah, treat my daughter honorably, or I’ll cut your balls off with a rusty pair of pruning sheers, blah, blah, blah.
My phone dings, and I lift it up to see that my dad has sent me a photo. It’s a picture of a store with the store’s name on it, and, huh. It does have the same name as the one I gave them, which is strange. Bloomington isn’t that big. How on earth could two stores with the same exact name exist?
A funny little shiver creeps up my spine. I’m not stupid, and honestly, I doubt that could be a thing.
I’m in such shock that I drop my phone on the ground. It disconnects the call, and when I snatch it up, I fire off a text to my parents saying I’m sure it’s a mistake and I’ll get everything figured out. I tell them not to worry and thank them for checking it out. I also don’t get snarky and petulant, so I don’t thank them sarcastically for checking up on me because they don’t think I can handle being a grown woman with an actual life of my own.
I know they mean well. They’re my parents. They might push all my buttons, and we might not agree on some things, but they do love me, and I know they mean well.
