I’ve been thinking of irreparable humans a lot lately. Wondering if there is such a thing. The mind goes automatically to the worst of humanity – mass murderers, child abusers. Of them, I have no idea. When they die, I won’t be there to witness their harsh judgment. I doubt I’d want to be near those bursts of shrapnel anyway.

But those aren’t the irreparable humans I’ve been thinking of. I’ve been thinking of writers. Writers born to do nothing else. Those who’ve given corporate life a try. Retail, acting, makeup artistry, pillow making, public speaking. Those who didn’t work well with others. They just sat idle at their desks dreaming of one day being able to do the thing they were born to do -- write. Writers then struck down by societies heavy handed judgments.

Writers who somehow achieved that insurmountable thing – getting paid real money to do what they were born to do. They finally got to add ‘author’ to their Twitter handles, stalked Publisher’s Weekly for their announcements, and stared at their disbelieving reflections saying “You’ve done it. You’re a writer for real.”

Then, alone in their windowless rooms, they wrote with ten-thousand hours in mind. Seeking expert status, because someone dared to trust them with their words. One day they’d be fabulous at this thing. As fabulous as the best of them. Better. More diligent, less scatter brained. Caffeinated.

But then it happens. They’ve fucked up. Written something that dared to offend.

They wait for the dust to settle but every time they risk to peek their heads out of the cave, it only begins again.

I’m beginning to think that a writer who’s fucked up is an irreparable human, never to be given a single benefit of a single doubt again. The words they’ve dreamt of getting paid to write are now worthless, housed in the box marked free to good home. Their peers shun them in secret but nothing is truly secret. They know. They feel it. They’re sensitive, after all. Some of the most shameless peers clear the room as the irreparable human enters. They’re Timone-less Pumbas, now.

The irreparable human then turns to old faithful – retail. Only to find that Amazon has taken over. How about acting? No. Those roles have since dried up. Makeup artistry? Wtf did Kylie Jenner up-end the cosmetics industry? Pillow making? Etsy’s overcrowded, sorry. Public speaking? Whenever they Google your name, they find a flashing IRREPARABLE HUMAN banner underneath it.

So what to does this irreparable human do now?

Randi PinkComment