Deryck Anderson was an author. He was also a recluse through choice. His work was published on Amazon but he didn’t advertise it. He didn’t have to. His latest work, “Crime Report,” performed rather well an he was swamped by local authors to attend their meetings. He would come up with lame excuses such as ‘prior commitments’ and the likes. These excuses worked well.
One day after persistent badgering from one local poet he reluctantly agreed to attend a meeting.
He had a fair idea of what the meeting entail but had no idea to the extent of it. On entering the function Deryck was immediately hit by the overwhelming odour of perfume. He was also confronted by lots of scarves, fancy hats, overdone hand movements and fake back-slapping.
After standing for a few minutes nursing his glass of water and taking in the overall sense of the scene Deryck was approached by a lady, slightly older than he who began to praise him on his latest work. “You must be Deryck,” she said. Deryck couldn’t hold his sarcasm back and said “I guess I must be.” His humour was lost on her. It soon became obvious that she knew little of his book.
The lady soon beckoned a few of her friends over and introduced them to Deryck. They too quite obviously knew little of his work. Just his name and his short cigarette holder became more of a talking point. It was definitely time for him to leave. He excused himself early through boredom but lied and said that he had an early start in the morning.
When he arrived home he made himself a coffee, lit a cigarette and put on a mindless reality TV show with actors that he didn’t even know, let alone know anything about them….nor was he interested. In a way they reminded him of the people at the poets meeting. Fake strangers.
Deryck then set about removing all of his contact from his social media sites. He stopped answering inbox letters on his profile page on Facebook, only his authors page. He even went as far as to call his telephone provider to have his name removed from the following years phone book.
He was more than happy writing and receiving feedback through his writing sites.
Writing was his life. He sought no ‘rock star’ accolades, no fake pats on the back and certainly no poetry meetings where people talk about your work without actually ‘knowing’ it.