I’ve noticed something a bit startling about myself: I am prone to ranting.
However, I like to think of my rants as well-constructed and justified. More often than not, they spawn from a place of righteous indignation about things of no real consequence. Most of my rants revolve around terrible writing in the plethora of mediums I consume, or books that have let me down as of late because, hey, that’s my area of expertise.
I enjoy writing about things that make me miffed, but it may give people the wrong idea about me.
I am not an angry person. I do have things that make me happy. It’s just easier to go on lengthy diatribes about things that irk me.
All of my friends know this. They even have a look they give each other when they realize they’re in for another trademark Rachael Rant.
It’s what a person must look like after they think they’ve found a metal egg in their backyard only to realize it is actually a hand grenade and the pin just fell out.
Or when you accidentally send a nude to your boss.
Which has never happened to me.
As far as you know.
My friends will try to appease me with a sacrifice, usually a goat, or wine poured in libation, but with very limited success.
The only true way to stop a Rachael Rant is to hand me the cup of wine and let me drink my fill until I’ve forgotten what I’ve been saying and just start belting out Disney songs or other show tunes.
If wine is unavailable, just prepare the same way you would a nuclear holocaust: hide under a desk and weep bitterly until oblivion wraps its cold arms around you in a suffocating embrace.
While my friends, acquaintances, family and others in real life are likely to feel the brunt of my self-indulgent ire when it comes to politics and other such subjects, fear not, fair reader. For the sake of this blog, I will stick to giving my opinion on matters of fiction and the written world only….mostly.
God knows we have enough temperamental millennials with blogs blithering on about other things.
Oh, and don’t get me started on….