July 20th, 2026 - Gatekeeping
Dear TNY,
My life has some order in it now, which is how I got to “Gatekeeping” on time.
Let’s start with the positive. It’s the first story I’ve read from the perspective of the person that pushes the other-than-abled around the airport. I hadn’t considered they would push the same people frequently. Like, ever. This was easily the most interesting part of the story and provided the narrative with rich variety even though it seemed to me, as an outsider, a fairly mundane job. I also appreciated the pace of this story as well as how much dialog was included. The pages weren’t dense or filled with frilly prose, so what points needed to be made by the author were dispatched quickly and concisely. Even though it was over 7k words, it read much more swiftly than that.
And that’s it. Because the rest of the story was no good.
See, for the ending to work I have to care about the protagonist. I have to have some sort of emotional attachment. There needs to be will he / won’t he tension built all the way up to that final scene. And I’m guessing the author tried to do this, but I could not discern where. The protagonist didn’t seem afraid, as his little inner monologue implied. Instead he seemed aloof. Hollow. Indifferent. Kind of simple, actually. This whole story was everything happening to him. He didn’t happen to anything until the end, which was just to get on a plane. But by then I couldn’t care less where he went. Because what was at risk? Nothing. He could take vacation days. He had money. The person whom he was going to see was eagerly awaiting his arrival as well as having already funded the trip. He knew he would be met with care. So what’s the fucking risk here? That your parents died and you are afraid your brother can’t take care of himself? Even though he said he would figure it out and said you should go? Eat shit.
It seems like the MC is a fucking child. A thin, boardgame piece moved around by the whim of the author for reasons I cannot comprehend. Like, listen you fucking pansy, do something with your life. After having done something with my life, multiple times over, I cannot comprehend not jumping at this opportunity. Maybe if he was turbo depressed; I’ll grant you that, but that’s not apparent on the page. He seems to have the motivation to get up every day, go to work, do life shit, be responsible. So get the fuck on with it, dude. I don’t need to read your fucking story.
And my biggest peeve, which you motherfuckers are serial fuckups with this at this point, is that in the first page (my page, but it’s Word, 12 point font, double spaced; it’s not that much writing is what I’m saying) I’m not told the basics of this character. Specifically gender. And before you start pointing fingers, I don’t have anything against any gender or whatever or whomever anyone wants to fuck. What I’d like, though, is to be able to see the fucking character that you are asking me to follow through your bullshit fiction. And in this case, it wasn’t until my page two that a lady asks if the MC has a wife, then a husband. This is ambiguous as to firmly identifying the MC as a gender, so not much help there. Then on my page four the MC says that JT came on his stomach, and “I did too.” Now, this is the most identifying piece of information yet as I was struggling to think of how a woman would come on her own stomach. That’s not to say that they can’t; I’ve been with squirters and that shit can and should go every goddamn place. But what I’m saying here is that I still wasn’t 100% sure that this person I was “inside of”, as it’s first person POV, was a boy or girl (or whatever, right, because I don’t fucking care what it is, just fucking tell me so I can imagine it for chrissakes). It’s not until page fucking ten until JT states that the MC is “queer”. Does that seem right to you? Look, write about whatever the fuck you want. Who fucking cares. But I can’t emotionally invest in your MC if I don’t even know what they look like or who they are as a fucking person until page ten. And you might say, “Why does that matter?” Because that’s storytelling. If you can’t get me to paint the picture, which I have to because this isn’t a goddamn visual medium, it doesn’t matter what your reasons are for leaving the information out, whether it was an artistic choice or not. Tell me up front so I can build someone or something to hang these emotions on. If you don’t, I’ll be confused or hesitant until such time I find out, and if that’s a third of the way through the story, good luck getting me to feel anything positive about this fucking character or story.
Whew.
Me, you ask? I’m in Vermont. I am on zero meds. I am working and running and drinking a gallon of water a day (at least) and not drinking alcohol at all. Let’s talk about that for a second. It was easy. I quit when I wanted to. I understand it’s not that easy for everyone. I totally get it is an individual journey. And I hope that everyone who wants to do something gets the help they need to do it, both internally and externally. For sure. What has been pleasant about this experience is that the depression didn’t go away, the anxiety isn’t gone, but I feel better. Why? Well, let me tell you about my brother in law. When he chose sobriety years ago, it’s because when he was drunk he was a dick to everyone. He stopped so he wouldn’t be a dick. Then he realized that he was a dick without drinking. And he’s working on that now. So that’s what I learned. I was me before drinking, I was me through drinking, and I am still fucking me. The only thing that is making me feel better than I did six months ago, or a year ago, is I have greater conviction that I was right. And I was.
And am.
Sure, in the back and forth that happens, the superficial shit that people do to each other…I did wrong things there. Things that I want to apologize for. But overall? All the data I pulled in and chewed on and processed and pored over like a wild fiend? I was right. And the longer this goes on, the more right I’ll be. When things were hard in my brain, it was like reading Dostoevsky. But now I realize it’s actually a children’s book. And not a good one, with deep meaning like Where the Wild Things Are or The Giving Tree. Just a run of the mill children’s book. In fact, it’s all so much easier to read now that I’m not intentionally slowing myself down to have more patience with others. What’s great is I DO have more patience though; I did work on that in the past couple of years and it’s definitely a skill that I have gotten better at.
Overall, I discovered that I’m allowed to have other feelings.
I have the right to be mad. I’ve fucking earned it.
And I have the right to be sad.
And I have the right to the rest of my feelings too, no matter who, in the past, has tried to manipulate me into feeling them differently. To make things my fault. I’m not a fucking dumb dumb. I know when I fuck up. I apologize. I did just the other day to my youngest son because I was getting frustrated with him on the phone about fixing his car. When we hung up I texted right back to apologize for that and offered to help him. I thought about it more and I couldn’t remember a time that my mother said she was sorry for anything.
Whoa, speaking of my mom, I tried to fix things with her again. And she chose god instead of her children. Now, I explained to her that god wasn’t the problem. She was. But, and I quote here: He told me to live life to the fullest…and that is why His (sic) son came.
I won’t be capitalizing god here, or any of his pronouns except in that quote. As I told my mother, what does a benevolent spirit who created all of this need with capital letters? Nothing. Her statement, though, it’s laughable guys. It’s a complete lack of personal responsibility. Yeah mom, you do you and let god sort out the forgiveness later. Not once did you reference any other of the many, many references in the bible regarding the treatment of other humans. Nope. You’re going to be shitty and let jesus sort your shit. Fuck. You.
And I’ll regale you with my response, word for fucking word:
Your strict adherence to a policy of zero personal accountability for your actions is the hallmark of a weak mind. Weak both intellectually and religiously. You've become self absorbed. So much so you can't even see that your actions betray the idea of a benevolent spirit that created this for us. You have become your own god. And that is also weak. It's called the Dunning-Kruger effect. Not their main point, but the sub point: you do not possess the cognitive capacity to see the problem with your behavior.
If you'd like an example of what this looks like externally, it's like Israel saying their war is holy because they are Jewish. It doesn't not make it genocide just because you invoke a deity that didn't ask to be invoked in the first place.
You remind me of this phrase: never play chess with a pigeon; it'll knock over the pieces, crap all over the board, and fly home declaring victory.
So that we are clear, you're the pigeon.
It is hard to feel sorry for you when you insist on a path you would punish us for as children. And to be very fucking clear here, the problem is not god, it's you. You're a child and you use god to back your petty bullshit.
And you know what she said: You do you.
Fuck my face, guys. I cried on my long hike yesterday because of this. And because I realized that I shove all my anger down to work with people like my mom. And I have and did have people in my life just like that. And it’s fucking dumb. But that’s the thing. They are human. I am human. I am also dumb and have done dumb and hurtful things. Life isn’t a place of perfection. It’s a place of growth and change. And my once amazing mother has rewritten her fucking story in her mind that she is now the pinnacle of growth and learning, but instead, and I’m stealing this quote from Tropic Thunder because earlier I had stated that the MC of the story was simple, my mother has gone, “full retard.” And you know what RDJ said about that? You never go full.
Her choice. No self awareness. No apologies. God’s got her (I capitalized it there because it’s the first letter in the sentence).
Do I feel bad writing this shit? You bet your fucking ass I do. I had a rage attack yesterday in a VM that was meant for her, but after I calmed down I deleted it. Because I don’t want to hurt her feelings even though she continually shows that she sucks. But, fucking christ, guys. Buttfucking Christ!
The thing is, I’m not alone in this. I know my sisters feel the same. But it’s bigger than that. I doubt anyone at TNY has self awareness, just based on this shitass writing that you publish week after week, year after year. But maybe there’s a reader out there that will read this and say, “Fuck! I thought it was just me! I thought I was alone.” Nope. You aren’t. And yes, my mother was a woman that brought me into this world and was loving and fed me and taught me so much about how to be a person. She was lovely. She’s been replaced by this other woman who isn’t. None of her children talk to her. She complains about it. But does nothing within herself to change, even though she has been told what needs to change. Oh, and so we can keep it tidy here, she was asked to change two things: Stop making every fucking thing about you, and keep god to yourself. Instead, she chooses to not speak to her children or be in their lives or in her grandchildren’s lives. But sleep tight, fam. Jesus has her.
Conviction, see? I’ve seen this behavior so many times. And my response has been to fold and let people walk all over me and make me feel like I did it all wrong. But I didn’t. I know what I did wrong. I fuck up all the time. And I apologize for it. Ask my ex wife. I have apologized to her for years and years. Since 2012, actually. She has told me to stop (but the data shows it still hurts because it comes up now and then and I feel fucking terrible about that; I’m sorry, A).
People say they want to be called on their bullshit. Nope. I sure didn’t before Katie pointed my bullshit out and I certainly didn’t want to face that shit when she did. But I’ve faced it now and I keep facing it. Illusions are just that. And we all have them. I’m trying to curtail the illusions around these parts. One of which is that you can fight the pigeon. You can’t. The pigeon has to want to play chess. And my mom will die without fixing this, which is why I reached out to course correct. But she ain’t having none of that. And that’s how it is sometimes with people.
I miss the mother I had growing up. And that mom, guys, she beat the living shit out of me with ropes and sticks and brooms and utensils and her hands and ground me into dust with her words. I wish she was around, truly. Because she was still reachable then. She used to ask us to put our music on because she wanted to know what was good in the world. She pulled us out of school and homeschooled us for years, teaching me that an “education” can come from anywhere. She bandaged our wounds and let my brother and I go on adventures and she was an amazing cook and she taught me how to sew and slaughter an animal and grow a garden and how to create and be creative and how to clean and fix and build and do so much with so little. She was a real banger, guys.
But somewhere in there, like the horsemeat stew in Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?, she turned. One of the last things she said to my father, as he was dying, was, “See, all that sex you wanted wasn’t all that important, was it?” She told me this thinking I would understand. That’s who my father had to die in front of. Someone who couldn’t even see him, only seeing herself. Trying to absolve herself of the guilt of having not done that for him. Nice one, chief!
Fuck it. I have so much more to say. But that’s probably enough.
Nick
