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You know, Elv, I used to think that too. Did you know I was at one time writing a novel? Well, I was, and it was coming along nicely, if I do say so myself. Then, somehow, my grandparents found out, and of course, squalked it at the church like proud poultry, and the next thing I know, I'm being mobbed by people wanting an excerpt, or to critique something, or to praise me.

I hated it. I couldn't write like that. I couldn't even think like that. It was awful. Theen, I stopped writing.

A year goes past, then two. Mama dies and I start my study of Love. Last Decembre, I began to tentatively step out into the open again, on Gaia. I loved the critiques--well, mosst of them, anyway--and could stand the praise. Soon, I figured out that their praise was genuine, that they really liked my work, and that, for some of them, that was rare. In the cases of an unnamed few, that they read it and came to like it showed me how much they cared about me. Their praise and their attentions--even now they block me, sometimes--are really just ways that they love you. And me. And, when I strop and consider that, it doesn't really bother me so much--it's how they express their love.

Consider it. You'll feel better.

Love and Vale,
~Leavaros Dapple