Feelings, schmeelings.

I sometimes denounce things. Quite capriciously, I might add. Past victims of my disdain include the government (government, schmovernment), the designated hitter--and in fact the entire American League (dee-aitch, schmee-aitch; ay-ell, schmay-ell) and the entire discipline of math (math, schmath).

This is a bit different. I am outright denouncing feelings. Not anyone else's feelings, or the concept of feelings as a whole. It is not my place to do such a thing. I am denouncing only my own feelings. I figure I'd better come right out and disengage before people beyond my immediate circle start reading my book.

It's not a crisis of confidence in my ability as a writer, although I've had plenty of those.

And it's not a concern that people won't like the story. We all have different tastes, and that's a good thing. For example, I don't care for wheat grass. More for the rest of you!

And, I'm interested to learn what people think about the characters, the story, the whole package. I want to spark thought and discussion. If people select What Happened on Smith Street (realized I hadn't mentioned it by name in a couple of days), for their book clubs, I want it to provide good fodder.

I suppose my public denouncement of feelings, then, is simply to let my friends and family know that I'm prepared for criticism, because I know they are worried about me. Don't worry, friends and family! I'll be fine.

We all have to grow up sometime, I suppose. And I always wanted to be a writer when I grew up. Well, what do you know?