I am Nola Bel and I am sorry.
I am white. Hetero. Cis. I live in the country I was born in. Even my clothes are as common as they can be. I kind of love not having snow anymore. I don’t even recycle properly. So you might think I’m messing into sensitive shit uninvited and you might be right. Maybe I’m manufacturing a reason to feel entitled to write and be read. Maybe I suffer from the white savior’s complex. Maybe I’m looking for ways to redeem my own faults. Maybe I’m just trying to turn my passion into a business. You know, I won’t deny any of it.
But they’re really bothering me. The labels. The hate. The injustice. The “first hit, then ask” attitude. And that’s because they trigger me. And I have my own pain to generate that trigger. Pain has no gender, nationality, political membership, or expiration date. It’s just an agonizing void. So if you will, take this pain and consider it the bridge to you.
And let it be the step to overcome my arrogance of writing of things I haven’t lived, of impersonating characters apparently I have few things in common with, and of daring to lend a few of my messed up experiences into ducked up stories. And before someone drops a tear, I want to change this victimizing tone into a more positive one: enjoy these stories, switch to Netflix if they suck, and if you can use them to patch an emotional wound, don’t lose time labeling me.
Furthermore, don’t even think about the person who’s behind these stories. I’m easy to find but useless to know. Take the good, feel the emotions, empathize with the characters, criticize the cliches, point the errors and even denounce the bad writing or spelling. The author is not important. It could have been anyone.
Even a duck.