When a Star Falls… And Screams “BORING!”

I remember writing an article a while ago titled When a Star Falls Without a Sound, where I reflected (somewhat smugly) on the mystery of receiving a one-star review with no explanation. I waxed poetic about the silence. Wondered who the ghost reviewer might be. Pondered the cruelty of a rating unaccompanied by words. And like a true writer, I turned the pain into content.

Well. The universe heard me.

Because this time, a star fell—and it yelled something:

“BORING. Very short and boring.”

That’s it. That’s the whole review. For The Headache, a short story I released into the wild with the same vulnerability one might feel stepping into a cold shower naked, on camera.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Gabriel, you asked for this. You literally said it was better to write something than nothing at all. And you’re right. I did. I still believe that.

But man… BORING?

I’d almost prefer “offensive,” “pretentious,” or “what did I just read?” Because at least then I stirred something. Boring is the death sentence of art. It’s the literary equivalent of being ghosted mid-sentence. It’s also hilariously brutal in its honesty. No sugarcoating, no fake politeness. Just a public shrug and a yawn.

“Very short and boring.” Gracias, stranger.

Let me be clear: this isn’t me defending the story. It’s a weird little tale, sure. It doesn’t have dragons or a car chase. It doesn’t feature a James Bond-type character sleeping with bimbos and causing mayhem. It doesn’t promise you closure. It’s not supposed to. It’s a headache, remember? That title wasn’t just for kicks.

This isn’t even about the review itself. This is about the strange relationship writers have with feedback. The hunger for validation. The fear of irrelevance. The desperate hope that someone, somewhere, will get it.

And then someone does.

They get it.

They read it.

And they say, “BORING.”

I laughed when I saw it. It was so beautifully ironic. I had practically begged for words last time—any words—and the universe delivered them in all caps.

The funny thing is, I’ve written pieces that I thought were “boring” too. I’ve closed books halfway through. Skimmed short stories. Scrolled past someone else’s art. We all do it. And most of the time, we don’t bother to say anything.

But this reader did. They left a trail. And weirdly, I’m grateful for that. Because boring or not, The Headache made someone feel something strongly enough to hit one star and hammer out a double “boring.”

In a world of endless content, that’s something.

It reminds me that not everything I write will land. Some stories hit a nerve. Others hit snooze. And some, if I’m lucky, hit that strange sweet spot where someone hates it just enough to say so.

I don’t write for five stars. I write for the ones who see themselves in the shadows I create. For the reader who’s had a headache they couldn’t explain. For the soul that’s been stuck in traffic, staring into the void of a dashboard, wondering if the pain in their head is from stress or something darker.

That’s who The Headache was for.

Not everyone. Just someone.

And maybe that’s the point. Not every story gets applause. Some get dismissed, some get ripped apart, and some just get called boring. But every review, every whisper, every star, even the falling ones, adds to the constellation of this messy, brave thing we call writing.

So thank you, stranger. You gave me what I asked for.

Now let me give something back.

To any writer out there reading this, keep going. Whether the world praises you, ignores you, or throws “BORING” at you like a tomato in a Shakespearean tragedy, keep writing; someone out there will appreciate it.

And when they do, they’ll write something better than “boring.”

They’ll say, “This story stayed with me.”

They’ll say, “I saw myself.”

Or maybe they’ll say nothing at all, but they’ll remember.

And that’s worth every headache.