Apparently, I like to torture myself.
Sometimes it’s in small ways, like keeping my size zero jeans from my modeling days that I will never fit into again. Ever. Ever.
Sometimes it’s by spending hours looking at photos, like these, that are so good I know I will never be able to grace the world with images that perfect.
Lately, because I’m about knee-deep in the cookbook I’m writing, the stress of my rapidly approaching deadline has somehow convinced me that I need to read Amazon cookbook reviews. The bad ones. Always the bad one.
And it terrifies me. Although, it should makes me feel better. If people can find ridiculous faults with gorgeous cookbooks, I have no chance of pleasing everyone, and that will put me in good company. The company of every other person who has ever written a book of any kind.
Although I did learn something: People Suck.
-One lady left a nasty 1-star review on a cookbook she didn’t own and had never even seen in real life because she hated the POSITIVE reviews. What the hell?
-Several people left angry 1-star reviews because the cookbook in question had too many "hard" recipes.
-One lady left an irate review about a cookbook called "Savory Pies" because it wasn’t a dessert cookbook. SAVORY!!
-One guy left a 1-star review of a cookbook because he didn’t think the color of the cover went well with his kitchen.
-One lady left a bad review because the author said, "too many common sense things" Apparently the absurd and irrational cookbook wasn’t available for Kindle.
So, I have no chance. I can’t please everyone, that just needs to be a fact that is accepted. Like how it rains in Los Angeles from time to time, or that you will have to replace the tires on your car at some point.
I wish I was OK with this idea that someone will inevitably pay money for my book and hate it, but it happens to keep me up at night.
I worry that someone will try to make the Stout Chocolate Cake with Raspberry Porter Ganache and confuse weight ounces with fluid ounces and blame me when her husbands birthday cake doesn’t work. (BTW, whomever decided that two completely separate units of measurement, that have nothing to do with each other, should have the same name, is an A-Hole.)
I even worry that someone who can’t drink alcohol will leave me a nasty review about my Cooking with Beer book about how he can’t make any of the recipe, due to the fact that they ALL contain beer.
Instead of looking away from the train wreck of the ignorant spewing hatred at other people’s hard work, I stress ate pasta.
It was great, and even my Avocado averse husband loved it.