I’ve always thought that there are two types of people in the world: those who prefer to accuse, and those who prefer to deny.
I’m the accusing type, even on this blog. It’s a philosophical predisposition. In fact, I am always loathe to deny, knowing that denial is the most certain indicator of guilt. I even accuse myself at times, if only to forestall people from accusing me first. On this blog, I’ve accused myself of arrogance, which you wouldn’t know by simply chatting with me, but you would if you sauntered around in the dusty attic of my head. I’ve accused myself of being shallow at times. And I’ve accused myself of occasional ungratefulness.
Since we’re being honest–and this blog is about nothing if not honesty–I will accuse myself of something else. Admitting to faults, it seems to me, often accrues in your favor. Not everyone understands this, but it tells people that you’re aware of your imperfections, which paradoxically makes you seem more perfect. I suppose I’m accusing myself of being manipulative, but if I am, I’m glad to report that I don’t have a terminal case of it.
But a couple times, I’ve been unable to admit to something. Sometimes, it’s too large of a sin. Sometimes, I just didn’t do it.
The following excerpt from my novel actually happened to me, verbatim…
She never apologized.
To download the novel to your Kindle for $3.99: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DSSN5SU.