Lately someone I knew was leaning on me, stating they were unsafe and in danger, and asking for help. The old me would have tried to take it on all by myself, but the new me.. the survivalist.. recognized my trap of self-sacrifice. Instead, I passed it to authorities and bowed myself out.
Imagine my surprise when the authorities called me back, stating that it was a cry-wolf case. The person didn’t want help and told the authorities I had a wild imagination. Hm… “I’m loading a rifle out of fear for my life, he’s going to kill me.” I read the words very carefully. There was no wild imagination going on there on my end.
That person stopped communicating with me, knowing leaning onto me will get results they don’t want. I’m not one of those types to turn the other cheek. What they were after was rallying sympathizers that would not lift a finger to help but only offer a shoulder to sob on.
One of the biggest reasons I love being a writer is creating something amazingly tangible and so realistic you could almost live, breathe and taste the experience. The con side I’ve experienced is disasters like this. Sometimes people second-guess my word in regular living. Not like a flat-out accusation of lying, but more so a wild embellishment of the truth. It almost felt like I’d only be taken seriously if I wrote strictly documentaries or biographies or manuals.
Situations like that will never shackle me from my freedom of writing what I want, like I want. It did make me more aware though of how writers can be unfairly criticized and judged.