Your stars do not define me. Give me one star for effort, two for resolve, three for tireless hours slaving to write what you so casually deride. Award me four stars for melting your heart, five for taking your breath away at the end. Oh wait, you stopped before the best part. Have you no heart?
Your stars do not define me. They are a cage you build for yourself, and I leave you to it. Wallow in your self-importance. I’ll be over here, writing beautiful stories you won’t ever know about or read.
Your stars do not define me. I write for beating hearts and minds hungry for deep stories. But your eyes are blinded by the glitz, and you like your stories thin, so go on, pass my work by. I didn’t write them for you. I wrote them for my sister, but God took her before she could read what you have scorned.
Your stars can’t hurt me. Award them as you wish. Death already cut my heart into pieces. I have not enough words to glue it back together.
Your stars do not define me, but their lack stings. You don’t see how hard I worked on a book you got for free. My only compensation is hateful words scrawled where all can see. How many gentle readers will dare tiptoe through the landmines you left?
I’m sorry what I wrote was not to your taste. To each his own, don’t crucify me for that.
Feeling blue. Sorry for the rant. I had to let it out before it poisoned me.