Don’t Be That Guy: A Thousand Attaboys and One Oh Sh*t

You know that saying: “It takes a thousand attaboys to make up for one ‘oh sht.’”* Whoever said that? Genius. Pure, unfiltered genius. Because it is painfully, annoyingly, exasperatingly true.

Let me take you behind the scenes of my other life. Yes, because while my writing career is still building (more chapters to come, friends), in the daylight hours I organize a huge outdoor art show in my hometown. And not to brag, but let’s just say, if there’s a job connected to this event, I do it. I’m like Mary Poppins with an endless bag—except instead of pulling out umbrellas and sugar cubes, I pull out spreadsheets, contracts, and more emails than any sane human should have to read.

Part of my annual heroic efforts includes creating alllll the social media content. I’m talking images, videos, stories, text—you name it, I design it. Last year, I uploaded the whole glorious lot to a shared folder and told my nearly 200 artists: “Hey, it’s all there for you! Use it however you’d like. The more the merrier. Promote the show, promote yourselves.”

Most of them were thrilled. They dove in, downloaded their favorites, posted away, and even sent me sweet notes of thanks. It was working exactly as I’d hoped. But then—oh, dear reader—came that guy.

He didn’t want to download the images. No, that was “too much work.” He asked me to pick some out and send them to him directly. Fine, I thought. Deep breath. I grabbed a handful of files, attached them, hit send, and patted myself on the back for being extra helpful.

But do you know what he did next? Complained. Loudly. At length. About the ones I sent.

Now, here’s the part that gets me: hundreds of artists—yes, you read that right—hundreds—either posted about how much they loved the show, sent me messages of gratitude, or cheerfully used the promo materials. But which interaction kept me awake at 3 AM replaying itself on a loop? Yep. That guy.

And here’s the ridiculous truth: I know it shouldn’t bother me. I know that his grumbling doesn’t outweigh the chorus of positivity from everyone else. But still. Human nature is pesky like that. We latch onto the one sour grape in a vineyard of good wine.

So here’s my plea: if you get a chance today, don’t be that guy. Be the person who says, “Thanks for your efforts. I appreciate it.” Be the person who, when they need help, asks kindly, with just a little grace. We all have our own heavy packages to carry through life. You’ll be remembered for your kindness far longer than for your complaints.

Because trust me—nobody wants to be remembered as “that miserable dude” ten years later.

Comments

The Absolute Madness of Naming Characters

Let’s talk about one of the most ridiculous struggles of writing a book. No, I’m not talking about the part where you stare at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your ancestors. I’m talking about naming characters. It should be easy, right? Just slap a name on them and move on? Oh, my sweet summer child. If only. See, naming a character is like naming your kid—except worse, because nobody is going to complain if your kid and their cousin both end up being named Liam. But if your main villain is named Liam and you accidentally give the quirky coffee shop owner in book three the same name? Cue the existential crisis. Let’s walk through the madness. The Overthinking Spiral of Doom You start writing, and there’s that moment: your brand-new character walks onto the page, full of potential. All they need is a name. A simple name. Something strong, something fitting, something— Oh no. Nothing sounds right. This one is too complicated. That one is too simple. ...

A Labour-Free Labour Day? Yes, Please!

Hello and Happy Labour Day to all my lovely North American readers! Now, isn’t it just a little bit ironic that a holiday with the word labour baked right into the name is universally observed by doing absolutely none of it? Zero. Zilch. Unless, of course, you count the rigorous work of flipping burgers, casting fishing lines, and chasing wasps away from the potato salad. Then yes—we are a nation of highly skilled, recreational labourers. Olympic-level loungers, really. This year, I’m wholeheartedly leaning into the contradiction. After an exceptionally busy summer filled with writing deadlines, creative misadventures, and one unfortunate incident involving a Papillon, a pie, and a squirrel (don’t ask—Pixie is still refusing to discuss it), I’m embracing the art of not doing much at all. My Labour Day weekend plans include: Reclining in my favourite chair like a dramatic Victorian heroine recovering from a fainting spell. Watching the endless activity in the harbour just outs...

Am I Perfect? Are You Kidding Me?!

Well, folks, let’s talk about something we all love to pretend we’re not – imperfection . If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this wild ride of being an author, it’s that I am definitely not perfect . And you know what? That’s perfectly fine! (And if anyone tells you they’re perfect, just remind them that we’re all human—unless they’re a robot, in which case, we need to talk about your AI skills.) You see, every time I look back at my earlier works, I cringe just a little. Okay, maybe a lot . Plotholes that I patched over with the kind of flimsy excuses I’d never accept from my kids on homework. There are commas that should be in the witness protection program, hiding far away from the sentence they’re supposed to be part of. And some of the phrases? Oh boy. If I could go back in time, I’d sit myself down and say, “Honey, that line? It’s not even funny, it’s just… confusing.” But here’s the thing – I wrote this . It’s my work, my journey, my creation. And that’s something t...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog