Some people are like cheap biscuits. Dry, crumbly disappointments destined to dissolve into chai and ruin a perfectly good cup on a perfectly good day. Unlike biscuits though, they’re not so easily locked away in an old box of tin and tend to leave a hateful long-lasting aftertaste.
What surprises me is that one often strikes these geniuses on either horribly great days or amazingly awful ones. [Well, I do at least. Case in point, today.] Paragons of vice created for the sole purpose of sucking out pleasure with their custom-made fangs of discontentment.
Luckily, I’m a writer and so born with an inbuilt arsenal of silence within a loud, active brain. For those who don’t know, that’s the compartmentalized space [read, basement] we use to record grudges, broken hearts and fictional and real people we really don’t like. [There’s a separate warehouse for sugar, spice and all things nice.]
Sure, it’s better, more adult to take the higher road and kill your villains with kindness. But making them the most loathed character in your book who gets run over by a bull on page thirteen is much, much therapeutic.
Don’t believe me? Think about it:
That sexist colleague, the rude client? Lost his hair in flash fiction.
Bad date from six months ago? Dumped melodramatically in a short story.
Unforgettably rude relative? Immortalized by bad breath in Chapter 12.
As the saying goes: Keep Snark and Write On.