O.C. Writers

By Barbara Neal Varma // 

After retirement last year, I thought, okay, this is it.

Time to get in “the show” as they say in baseball and land a story in a major league publication. One so well known my parents would’ve proudly displayed it on their coffee table after sending copies to all the relatives, especially those they didn’t like.

But when that glorious day arrived and I got an essay in a big-name pub back East, I barely recognized it for its headline. Seemed my suggested title had been rewritten in a way the editors thought would better draw in readers.

A worthy goal, for sure. Still, it was a little disconcerting to see my story, my baby, sporting a different name, and in a writing style so different from my own, even when drunk.

Thankfully, they hadn’t changed the essay itself, just a few edits to clear up my usual anything-goes punctuation, so I focused on that instead. If only Mom and Dad were still around to fire up the ol’ tabletop Xerox machine.

Then I saw the comments.

The magazine, you see, had posted my story to its website and added a Call for Comments at the end.

Again, fine idea, except imagine my blushing surprise when things took a turn for the bawdy. (To explain, this was the essay where I describe an encounter with a cute stranger on a Disneyland roller coaster where, in my terrified panic, I grab his arm and hide my face in his shoulder. Allegedly.)

First, someone wrote: “Glad to see that the guy put some Zip in your Doodah….”

Then others started down the same slippery slope, adding their own eye-winking commentary as to what fast-ride activities my husband and I had probably engaged in that evening.

Two messages must’ve really pushed the decency envelope because they were blocked by the publication.

To be clear, I wasn’t offended by the sexual innuendoes themselves. (Please. I binge-watched Bridgerton,) No, it was the privacy thing again. It felt like total strangers were trying to peek into our bedroom, eww.
It made me realize that all this time I’ve been writing in The Comfort Zone. A familiar, cozy place filled with friends and family who quickly read my stories and say nice, non-creepy things no matter how personal my personal essays.

Which begs the scary question: how will readers in the real world react to my stories when they don’t know me and therefore have no friendship filter?

And, more to the point, do I have a thick enough skin to find out?

LOL, doubtful. I don’t even have a thick enough toenail to protect me from others’ unpredictable, often negative opinions. Hey, I’m a sensitive soul over the age of 50. Trust me, the delicate die is cast.

But here’s the thing. If you play in the majors, you’re bound to get hecklers in the stands. It doesn’t matter whether you write fiction or nonfiction, long or short stories. Critics of the nonconstructive kind will always appear after any energetic, creative effort to try and knock you down.

So why not keep writing and hopefully hit some home-run stories along the way?

Because I’d rather nurse hurt feelings than live with the regret of not trying at all.

That’s my game plan, anyways.

I think Mom and Dad would be proud.

 

 

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BARBARA NEAL VARMA is a contributing writer to Orange Coast Magazine and has appeared in other notable publications, including The Atlantic. Her easy-humor personal essays have proven popular with readers, one gaining numerous hits on Orange Coast Magazine‘s website. (Hello: Desperately Seeking Donny.) You can learn more at BarbaraNealVarma.com.