No, this post is not about my marriage, which marks its 12th happy anniversary this year. This post is actually about writers and sensitivity.

Imagine yourself at the wedding of a close friend. You're there alone, having failed again to find a date to yet another big occasion. And it's not as if you didn't try hard. The frustrating thing is that things were looking really good with ol' what's-his-name for a while there. He seemed really interested, he did. You thought there was a good chance he might even be the one. But that was before he started acting all weird and distant, and stopped calling, or even returning your emails and texts.

So here you are alone at the wedding, again.

Oh, you're not alone alone. Most all your friends are here, and they're all happy to see you, but the thing is, they're mostly all married themselves. Everyone's nice enough to you, but you can sense a certain distance developing. It's nothing personal, you know that. It's just that for married people it seems somehow easier to relate to other married people. There are new concerns, new problems, new joys that come along with marriage, and that sets you apart from their world.

Oh, you know enough about those concerns and problems and joys, because, really, even though you're strong and proud and self-sufficient, there's nothing you want more in the world than to be swept off your feet and up the aisle, and you've been preparing for it. You're ready. And it's not even that your knowledge is entirely academic. You've done plenty of dating, and you've been in your share of long-term relationships. But in the end, they were all either too casual, or they just didn't end up heading where it looked early on like they were going to head. And you're still here alone, with no prospects.

You still remember the clutch of conflicting emotions that clogged your throat when your dear, close friend, all beaming and radiant, rushed up to show you that giant, sparkling ring she'd waited for and prayed for and worked for for so long. It was maybe the biggest ring you'd ever seen, and though you were so happy for her, so very, very happy, you couldn't help but feel that poisonous sting of jealousy deep inside. You swallowed it down and hugged her hard and told her all the things you needed to tell her, that you were thrilled for her, so thrillied, and that you wished her all the happiness in the world, and that no one deserved this more than she did,

Except, deep down, you know you don't really believe that. Oh, your friend deserves her happy day, no doubt about it. She is good and kind, and she worked so hard for so long and did everything right, and you can't believe this didn't happen to her sooner. But deep down, you know, you know.

You know that you deserve it more.

She worked hard, yes, but you were right there beside her, working just as hard, maybe even harder. You punished yourself at the gym all those years. You crawled through broken glass to get to where you are at the office. You went to all the right clubs and bars, put yourself in situations where you were most likely to meet the right people. And you were never less than entirely supportive to all your friends going through the same thing, there with them in the good times, and there to pick up the pieces in the bad.

In fact, when you look at it through your coldest analytical lens, the fact that you still haven't had your turn at the altar seems proof of one thing and one thing only—that it's as much luck as hard work that makes the magic happen. And that's the most discouraging notion of all.

But things can always get worse, and now they're about to, because you've just spotted your dear friend's busybody aunt making a beeline for you from the reception line. You look around in desperation, but there's nowhere to hide, and your friends have all vanished and left you defenseless. You've known this woman for almost as long as you've been friends with her niece, and you know what she's like, and you know what's coming, but that doesn't make it any easier.

After a minute's pleasantries, as you try not to wrinkle your nose at her boozy breath, she drops the bomb. "Now, really," she says with a conspiratorial frown, patting your arm in a way that makes your flesh crawl, "why aren't you married yet, dear? We all expected you to be snapped up years ago."

You hem and you haw, because no matter how many times you hear this, it doesn't get any easier. You try to make a case for how busy and successful you've been at the office, and how you've had all those close calls, how you were sure ol' what's-his-name was going to pop the question but he took a powder instead and you still don't understand why, his excuses were so lame, but the words get all jumbled up in your mouth because you don't owe this awful woman any explanations, she wasn't there with you through all the trials and heartbreaks.

But while you're still pushing out your feeble stream of justifications, while you finally admit in a hoarse voice that you just don't know why not, your friend's aunt only shakes her head, her eyes filled with superior judgment. "What it all comes down to," she says, patting your arm again, "you just aren't trying hard enough."

And as she begins to point out all the eligible bachelors in the room, offering capsule bios and suggestions of how to win them over, you have to just turn and walk away—rush away, really, because who is she to tell you you haven't tried hard enough?

Except the sting you still feel—the one that makes hot tears try to spray though you won't let them, you won't—is because, deep down, and I mean really deep down, deep down where you live, you're afraid that she's right. You really haven't tried hard enough, because if you had then wouldn't it have been your turn up there already? Wouldn't it?

You tell yourself you should just give up, that you'd be so much happier if you just didn't care about getting married, that you should just stop torturing yourself and make yourself content with everything you do have.

But though you can fantasize about giving up, when it comes right down to it you just can't go through with it. And though you know your friend's aunt is a hateful witch and that she's wrong wrong wrong, it doesn't matter. All you can do the next day is to hit the gym even harder, to keep on trying, and to keep on hoping.

"Why aren't you married yet?" It's a horrible, horrible question—and it's the equivalent of asking a struggling writer: "Why isn't that book of yours out yet?"

The answer is, I don't know. So just, you know, be a little sensitive, okay?




Now, there are plenty of ways this already strained analogy could be extended, to describe other questions to our hypothetical wedding guest that map well to our hypothetical struggling writer, and that would be either equally insensitive or far kinder. Please suggest some in the comments.

I have a few in mind myself, and may do another post in a few days to talk about them.


Crossposted from Inhuman Swill
A couple of weeks ago, Laura and I bought tickets online for an evening showing of The King's Speech. We went out to dinner first but failed to leave ourselves enough time to get to the movie theater early. By the time we arrived, our theater was nearly full. We could have sat together in the front row or sat apart. Neither prospect appealed to us so we went to the box office and got a refund. We had to eat the $2.00 online ticketing fee, but it was our own fault for not getting there early enough for decent seats.

Last night we tried seeing The King's Speech again. This time we got to the theater a full hour early. This was probably overkill, but we did end up scoring ourselves the perfect spots, dead center two rows up in the stadium seating section.

Well before the previews started, we couldn't help but overhear an elderly couple bickering in the seats directly behind us. I rolled my eyes, hoping this wouldn't continue once the movie started.

The theater was filling up fast. Shortly after the old man excused himself to go buy popcorn or use the restroom or whatever, we heard a young woman asking the old woman if she would move over so she and her husband could sit together.

"I'm sorry," said the old woman, "but we arrived early so we could have these seats. My husband likes to sit in the center."

"But you could just move over one seat, and we could sit together."

"I'm sorry, but my husband likes to sit in the center."

"All you'd have to do is move over one seat."

"I don't want to move without asking my husband. He's not here right now. When he gets back, you can ask."

"Why won't you just move over one seat?"

The old woman was starting to sound peevish. "My husband likes to sit in the center. He's not here. When he gets back, I'll will ask him."

The young woman eventually went away. Laura and I heard another woman in the row behind us reassuring the old woman that she hadn't done anything wrong.

The movie started, and it was a wonderful film. We laughed, we cried, it became a part of us. The couple behind us didn't make a peep, at least not that I noticed. We were transported.

The lights came up and people started filing out. Laura and I always sit through the end credits when we can, so we stayed put in our seats. When the theater was nearly empty but the credits were still rolling, I heard a young man's voice in the row behind us.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said, "but do you mind if I ask you question?"

"What is it?" asked the old woman, mildly.

"I want to ask you why you wouldn't move over one seat so my wife and I could sit together," the young man said. "I want to ask why you would be that rude."

"What do you mean? We got here early so we could get the seats we wanted. My husband was out."

"I wasn't here," chimed in her husband. They both sounded so old.

"Why would a person be that rude?" the young man said, with some hostility. "Not to move over one seat. My pregnant wife had to sit by herself."

From his tone, you would have thought the old woman had personally slugged his pregnant wife in the belly. Laura and I both turned around in our seats at the same time, and at the same time we both said, more or less, "She's not the rude one. You're the one being rude."

This was the first I had even seen what the old woman looked like. She had to have been at least eighty, sitting hunched in her seat like a frail, lumpy frog. Her hair looked purple in the half-light.

The young man, on the other hand, was small and slender but very tough-looking. He wore a skin-tight white T-shirt under his jacket, and his hair was shaved down to uniform stubble. He was no older than thirty.

"This is none of your business," he said to us. "How can you defend that kind of rudeness?"

"She didn't do anything wrong," Laura and I both insisted.

"I wasn't even here," the old man said.

My hands were shaking at this point. I am rather confrontation-averse, but who can sit by while some angry thug bullies an old woman?

The "conversation" went back and forth like that for a few more exchanges while I tried to mentally prepare for it to turn violent. Thankfully it never did, but it did end with the seething young man standing up and pointing a finger at the old woman as he retreated down the aisle.

"Shame on you, shame," he said. "And shame on you too, for your rudeness."

"I wasn't even here!" complained the old man.

"I'm not talking to you," said the young man, who was now nearly at the theater exit. "I talking to you and you. Shame on you two for encouraging this kind of rude behavior. Shame! Shame!"

Then he was gone.

The elderly couple thanked us profusely for taking their side, and we reassured them that we didn't think they'd done anything wrong. I kept an eye out for the guy as Laura and I exited the building, but we didn't see him.

We talked the incident over on the way home. We were both glad we had said something, and we were proud of having helped run off a builly. But there were other things we wished we'd had the presence of mind to say to him. One was, "What kind of person needs to bully an old woman just because he didn't get his way?" Another was, "Are you going to stop harassing this woman, or do I need to go talk to a manager?"

I don't know what you think about situations like this, but here's my take. I think there's a culture of entitlement at work here. I'm used to getting my way, I expect to get my way, and if I don't get my way then you are doing me injury. If there's something you could give me that I want and deserve and you don't give it to me, then you are a terrible person. You are rude.

It's a two-year-old's mentality, but you see it in adults all the time. I frequently act that way, I know. But the bottom line is, just because someone could give me something does not mean they are obligated to give it to me. I don't have a right to the theater seat of my choice any more than I have the right to punch you in the nose. Even though I might want to.

Yes, the old woman could have moved over a seat. (Or maybe she couldn't. I don't know what her mobility is like. Maybe she and her husband were waiting to leave until the theater was empty because it takes her five minutes just to stand up.) But when she doesn't, for whatever reason, the adult response is to nod your head and accept the consequences of not arriving at the theater half an hour early. The adult response is not to sit and stew so thoroughly through a two-hour movie that you have to start harassing an old woman afterward.

I don't know, maybe all bullying stems from a sense of entitlement. You have something I don't that I think I deserve to have, so I'm going to take it from you, you rude, selfish person. Even if that something is self-respect.

So that's my take on an incident I'm obviously still stewing over myself. What's your take? Who was right and who was wrong? Or was everyone wrong? I'd like to hear.

April 2014

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