One thing I've liked about growing older is that I've become less of a jerk. People's attitudes, comments, and perceptions don't matter as much. I don't need to correct. I don't need to respond. I don't need to be right.
I've learned that people strike out because there's a bit of hell in their lives. Illness. Divorce. Financial troubles. It's easy to cobra-bite anger when an innocent passerby strays into strike range. I've done it.
Yesterday an editor accused me to "character assassination" in a book review, and I thought about it all night.
He may be right.
He may be wrong.
Whatever the case, I don't want to be a character assassin. I still want to be able to say a book stinks, which this one did, but I don't want to make someone feel damaged because their writing skills are not at the level to accomplish a readable novel.
I try to live by Abraham Lincoln's aphorism, "Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be."
I think I should add one more. Jewel's " ... only kindness matters."