A bunch of years ago I was informed about the existence of a human being whose name I have forgotten, a wannabe writer who I will call Bitter Bob.

I know next to nothing about Bitter Bob. I understand that he never had success in his writing ambitions. I have no way of knowing whether he actually ever wrote anything or whether he just talked about it, as some do. Both are equally possible. I do know, however, that he eventually decided that the game was rigged and that the only people published by the great New York Publishing Conspiracy are those with connections and those who kiss its ass. I also know that my name came up, in the context of advice.

Eventually, Bitter Bob decided that I was the face of the problem. His rants became easy to start up. All somebody had to do was mention my name. He would fulminate about my completely untalented ass for hours, if you let him. I do not know whether he ever actually read my stuff and thus came to this critical conclusion honestly or if he just decided that I could not possibly be any good if he languished in obscurity. I do know that my name became a rage cue. I also know that if you started him off on how his writing was going, it would inevitably become an extended, profane and embittered rant about me.

I have absolutely no idea how I became the target of this, instead of somebody like George RR Martin or Neil Gaiman who was setting the world on fire. But I was.

I am glad that I did not know about him while this was happening, as I might have worried about the crazy man might have thought to track me down.

Instead, he died suddenly, of a stress-related condition, at age 50.

I was told afterward and have never celebrated it. I still don’t. The man had problems.

Still, there is something to be said about living rent-free in the heads of your enemies, whether you know about them or not.

Tags: Bitter Bob, writing | Category Humor, Life Wisdom, Writing