Haters gonna hate, y’all
Bad reviews are the worst.
All of mine seem to come out of New York City.
Bless their hearts?
I got a doozy last night. On Mo(u)rning Joy, the book that basically is my heart, soul, and psyche on a silver platter for the world to see.
Had I not been dumb enough to open it right between dinner and bath time, I might have found myself a little ole corner, curled up and sobbed like Rory after she thinks Logan doesn’t like her. (Deep into watching DVR’s Gilmore Girls, friends). But alas, babies needed tending, so I shook it off.
I was going to bury it. I could have hid it. You all would have never seen it. It could have never seen the light of day. Kind of like a body in Brooks.
After having been talked off the ledge by my mom and my husband, I decided to own it. I won’t bore you with it on this post, but the words failure, unpolished, and unbalanced come to mind when you read it. And then they compared me to Jen Hatmaker. Poor Jen? Fist bump to Jen and Patsy Clairmont. I’m in good company, I guess, even if I suck. I don’t think either one of these ladies suck, by the way. I LOVE Jen Hatmaker. #ForTheLove
It took me a hot minute to get some perspective. If you’re one of the privileged few early readers who have read Mo(u)rning Joy, you’ll get this: I hope, truly, that the book screams failure, unpolished, and unbalanced. That means I wrote the truth. That means I showed how I got real wrecked and God pulled me out of the wreckage. That means I was able to accurately portray how freakin’ unpolished and unbalanced someone is after they lose their child. That means I used God’s words.
In the words of Carrie Underwood, “I know it ain’t Christian” to want to flip the bird in the general direction of Manhattan. So I’ll refrain.
Here’s the deal: the book is real. The words are rough. The set-up is chaotic. But if you want some validation on your pain, if you want to know what your friend/sister/wife/daughter is going through, if you want good advice on what not to say. If you want some hope, if you want some joy, if you want some #freakingJesus, you got it.
Pulitzer-worthy, it ain’t. But according to my mother, art is subjective. So maybe the committee will call. I’ll do the Southern thang and send a muffin basket to New York City.