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Late last night, around 11 p.m., I found myself staring at a glowing screen, red-eyed, warring with hot tears fogging up the corners of my vision, dulling the feeling of razor blades collecting in my throat, as I thumbed through a sixty-comment Reddit thread where a sea of strangers had meticulously and rather violently tore me apart.
Here's how I ended up in this hell...
At 10:59, I was as happy as a lark, curled up in bed, nipping away at a glass of red wine whilst reading through a collection of transcribed interviews with the late writer, Hunter S. Thompson.
About an hour or so into this leisurely bliss, I felt my brain beg for a hit of dopamine. So, I sat my book down. I opened up Instagram. And, shortly after this opening, I stumbled upon a comment on my most recent post, warning of a Reddit thread that would soon break my heart.
For context, this is the Instagram piece I'm referring to. It's a poem of sorts inspired by a song written by John Prine called, "Summer's End".
It feels wrong to write about the writing. I don't think writers should ever be expected to write about their writing. I think it's the reader's job to make sense of it, to figure out their own meaning, to come to their own conclusions, to decide whether it's good for them or bad for them or somewhere in-between these two extremes... for them.
Unfortunately, I must go against this belief that writers should not be expected to describe their work, so you can gain some context about this whole affair.
The piece, not unlike all of my pieces, is equal parts autobiographical and fictitious. In it, I'm wrestling with an internal struggle I've been having...
Striking the balance between a stunning relationship with someone that means the world to me and not leaving anything on the table where my vocation as a writer is concerned (nor pulling punches on my pursuit of being the very best writer I can be).
The piece was meant to open up a broader question to the reader, "Will the achievements we so desperately desire matter if they cost us love, happiness and, perhaps, ourselves?"
Someone, somewhere, read the piece, took the piece completely and entirely out of context and fired up a Reddit thread that turned into a public stoning.
To tell you the truth, I've gone back and forth on whether or not I should share the Reddit thread with you. It paints me in a terrible light.
Ultimately, I've decided not to share it here for the following reasons:
1. You can find it with a bit of Googling.
2. It doesn't deserve the eyes of my readers.
3. My parents & brothers subscribe to my newsletter.
All that to say, below you will find a long, meandering write-up of me making sense of it all...
At first, I felt defensive.
I wanted to argue that the piece was taken completely out of context, that it wasn’t about my girl coming home but rather letting go of my work-obsessive nature to be a better lover, friend and person; it was about me coming home to her.
I wanted to argue that while I pull a lot of stylistic inspiration from Bukowski, Hemingway and Thompson, I've written about and read writers of all genders and colors and that I, myself, am a writer that is just as much Japanese and Syrian as I am white, that I grew up in a school system that was just as much white as it was black and that I existed somewhere in between these two contrasting shades.
I wanted to argue that "baby" was intended to be used as a stylistic metronome throughout the piece and not a crutch and that I reach for simpler language not because I lack ability but because I want people of all educational backgrounds to be able to read and understand.
I wanted to argue that despite the very hurtful rumors and comments about my girl being pregnant, that it's very natural and healthy for both men and women to fluctuate in weight and that women shouldn't be assumed pregnant if they can't fit into a size 2 at every waking moment of their life.
I wanted to argue that it's far easier to throw jabs in a Reddit thread in sweatpants than it is to climb on stage in front of tens of thousands of people and sing your heart out in front of dozens of cameras that blow up every square inch of your body onto a 50-foot wide big screen.
I wanted to argue that she looks like a goddess, even on her worst days, and that if I ever catch someone on the street commenting about my girl's physique, my Red Wings will be the last thing they see before they wake up in the hospital with their jaw wired shut.
I wanted to argue that while I appreciate the recommendation that I should go to therapy to better handle my emotions, I have been in and out of therapy for the past decade dealing with sexual abuse I sustained as a child; and that if they'd like to foot the bill for the next decade, to feel free to send me their Venmo.
I wanted to argue that while from the outside my dark aesthetic and visceral language might come across as creepy or suspicious or cringe, my intentions are to bring light to demons and insecurities that a lot of people are feeling but are too scared to talk about.
I wanted to argue that I have known what it feels like to want to jam a 9mm in my mouth and that my writing is intentionally dark so that people can feel less alone in their own darkness.
I wanted to argue that I'm not opportunistic, that I didn't choose to be in the public eye, that I try to stay away from the spotlight as much as I can when I'm with her, that I've worked my ass off for the past six years, tearing out carpet, working construction, working odd jobs, writing by night, finally getting to a place where the writing can support itself, eventually finding a bit of traction with my writing and then suddenly, overnight, the world knows me more as someone's lover than my own man.
I wanted to argue that while my public image has been amplified, my career in a lot of ways has been swallowed up by the vastness of hers. And, while I wouldn't change a single thing, before her I never had to worry about Reddit threads slicing me to pieces. I was known by a tiny piece of land on the internet where my readers and I got to know each other and respect each other one piece at a time.
I wanted to argue all of these things but instead, I just let the defensiveness subside and give way to hurt.
And, it hurt. Reading that thread hurt me more than anything has hurt me in a very long time. It left me feeling alone, questioning myself as a writer, questioning myself as a person, questioning everything.
I give off this image that I'm edgy, that I'm tough, that I'm a mean sonofabitch that can take criticism like a tank can take machinegun fire.
And, I can. I can most of the time. But, this one left me bleeding like some dying alley cat that ventured too close to the road.
A couple of weeks back, I wrote that "You don't become a writer to be well-liked. You become a writer to tell the truth; your truth."
It's brutally hilarious how ridiculous rereading this sounds in my mind, as I'm actually living and experiencing not being well-liked, in real-time.
Eventually, after sitting with this hurt for a long while, the hurt eventually gave way to a sense of pride in who I am and what I do and how I choose to do it.
I was born into a pre-social media world, where when you had something to say, you raised your hand so the room knew whose mouth it was coming from.
I was born into a pre-social media world, where if you talked shit to someone on the basketball court, your game had better back that shit-talking up or when you lost, your ass was kissing the bench for a game or two until you had the chance to regain your glory.
I was born into a pre-social media less world, where when you taunted or berated or tormented a fellow human being, you had to suffer the repercussions: a smack across your mouth from your momma, a tongue lashing from your teacher, a series of gut-wrenching, lung-collapsing sprints at the hands of your basketball coach, a fist to the mouth from one your classmates, etc.
Today, I live in a world where “UnicornBurger67” can tell me I need to go to therapy, without ever having to suffer the consequences of his criticism as he sits safely, behind a glowing screen with his identity fully and totally protected, somewhere across the world.
Today, I live in a world where despite the fact that it is so easy to hide behind a glowing screen in a cozy apartment behind a veiled username, I use my real name, my real face and my real signature on everything I write. I raise my hand when I have something to say and I take it on the chin when I say something stupid.
And this world is going to keep breaking me, Reddit threads are going to keep stoning me, strangers on the internet are going to keep slicing me to pieces and they should take solace in the fact that I will bleed.
I will bleed.
I will bleed.
I will bleed.
But, at the end of it, when I'm looking at all of them, smiling, mouth bloody from being stomped out yet again, it will be my face that is bloody and it will be my name that is bloody and it will be my writing that is bloody.
It will be Cole Schafer who is bloody.
And, believe it or not, this is the first time I'm not going to digress. I know exactly where I've landed on all of this.
God hates cowards.
And the cowards can suck my fucking dick.
Cheers,
Cole Schafer.
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