Life is rather odd sometimes.
I was browsing Amazon and came across an author who had at one time written a review of one of my books.
The review was written in March of 2011 by a woman who claimed she was a writer who had never written a book. It was a particularly painful review for me to read. It was nasty enough that I felt almost like the woman had some sort of grudge against me. Like it was her goal to inflict pain.
I remember wiping away the tears so I could reread the review, in the hopes that I would be able to learn something, anything, from the hurtful words.
The second reading left me even more confused, since some of the critiques in the review simply did not make sense.
I spent more brain power than I should have trying to figure out if I was crazy or the reviewer, and then I let it go (pretty much). Hanging on to the hurtful feelings certainly wouldn’t help me write the next book.
So when I came across this reviewer’s name as an author I was curious. I wondered what type of book she would write.
I clicked on the book, and of course scrolled down to the reviews she had received. I was surprised to see that of the four reviews she had received two of them were worse than the one she had given me.
And that is when I discovered the oddness of life.
I fully expected to gloat a bit as I read those negative reviews, or to at least feel a glimmer of vindication that she had received a taste of what she had dished out.
After all, she had only gotten a dose of her own medicine.
But instead, I only felt sorry for her. I knew how those hateful words could hurt.
I shared her pain.
Life is very odd indeed.