THE DAY TINKERBELL DIED: the quiet heartbreak of being too kind in a careless world
There are times when I’m blown away by people’s kindness – by how some will go out of their way to be supportive, to help, or to show appreciation.
I’ve been touched by the grace of strangers – both complete and relative: shopkeepers, friends of friends, brief encounters in medical waiting rooms – people who have shown interest, offered support, wondered how they might help. I’ve had boutique owners offer to carry my books in their shops without adding a markup, which would have made them ludicrously expensive. Yes, I support them, I’ve spent far more in their shops than I could ever make on any book sold there.
I’ve had people who don’t even speak English well enough to fully understand the word-magic in my books not only buy my work but also take the time to leave me a kind review on Amazon!
This isn’t just about book sales. It’s about recognition – the kind that tells you that your work, your effort, yourself matters.
And then there are those who just don’t get it. Or are too wrapped up in themselves to even bother to think about my feelings. Even when I’ve gone out of my way to be my kindest, most supportive-self, year after year, time after time.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not thinking in a transactional way. I even lay awake for a while last night, trying to analyse my feelings while the welt from the sharp dinner-table slap still smarted. I fumed at not having had a quick comeback to the affront, but, as usual, hurt and – yes, shock – had instantly sunk all retorts into the pit of my stomach. One more book sale isn’t going to change my life, it always brightens my day. Always. When someone I appreciate is enthusiastic about supporting me, and delighted to buy a copy of my poetry book, I’m engulfed in warm fuzzies. When they say, “Oh, you sent those poems to me on WhatsApp so I don’t need to buy a copy. But you could give me one,” like Tinkerbell, I die a little inside.
Am I weird, oversensitive, possibly even thick, in not understanding this type of reasoning? You see, if the shoe had been on the other foot, not only would I have been excited to buy a copy the instant my friend’s book came out, but I’ d have bought five – maybe even ten! – to give to my friends. To spread the joy and the love. Because isn’t that what friends do, if we can afford to? Even if you think the book is a pile of horseshit?
This isn’t the first time it’s happened to me, and I know it won’t be the last. The sad thing is that cuts like this alter relationships over time. Tiny niggles migrate towards the heart, leaving traces that can never be fully erased, sometimes festering to become deep gashes. I’m not talking about the offhand nicks I’ve endured from mere acquaintances; I mean those made by people I consider close friends.
I’m learning that grace doesn’t always come from where we invest our love. Sometimes it sidles up quietly, taking us by surprise when a stranger sees us – briefly maybe – but clearly. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s how it should be. I’m bruised, and the niggles will remain, but I’m intact.
I’ll keep on writing, and loving, and giving, even when it isn’t reciprocated. I’d rather be the person who buys ten copies than the grinch who asks for one for free.
The world, I think, needs more of the former.