Thoughts on Being Gracious

I did something crazy this last weekend.

I love shoes.

I love dancing.

I LOVE dancing shoes.

So I thought it might be awesome to go to Boogie By the Bay. If you ever have the opportunity, go. Just getting to watch the other dancers is well worth the price of admission, and the pros who compete there make it easily some of the best dancing I've ever seen. EVER. And I've been to a number of impressive ballets live, so that's actually saying something.

I watched competitions, and they were incredible. The dancing, the costumes, the music (though there really was a propensity to dance to Bastille's Pompeii), it was unbelievably good. But when I ran into one of the dancer's after her competition and said "That was great! You danced beautifully!" she blinked at me, tears in her eyes and hugged me.

She said "Thank you so much. I didn't dance as well as I could have."

It shocked me. She'd done things I couldn't even dream of doing. She was magnificent. She was better than I will ever be. Her 'didn't dance as well as I could have' was so many leagues above where I'll ever dance, that it sort of hurt.

Literally, there are not enough years left for me to dedicate to family, job, writing, and dancing to ever get to where she was on a bad day. EVER.

It caught me up a little short. Not because I saw a moment of my mortality in her incredible dance that was "not as well as I could have," but because it was possibly the worst thing to say. Her dance touched me. It gave new meaning to the song she danced it to, and I'll never forget the place she took the dance and the song and me in that moment.

But to hear that it wasn't her best sort of--okay, I'll fess up, it Hurt.

She gave me her art. It had an impact on me. And then--after I screwed up my courage to approach this beautiful, vivacious dancer, a woman put on this Earth to Dance--she told me it wasn't her best.

I understood something else in that moment: just because you are the artist does not mean you have a clue how your art will touch people.

Without a doubt, I could have lived my whole life without knowing that her routine that brought me to tears (yeah, I'm a crier, maybe people shouldn't be proud of the waterworks I give them) wasn't her absolute top performance.

But that was just one more gift she gave me. She showed me how I should always treat people who see something beautiful in the art I create.

Her response should have been: Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed it. I love to dance.

At the end of that exchange, there could be a brief exchange about an upcoming piece. In writing, it would be to direct the reader to the sequel, or other work by the writer (or other work that was similar by another writer).

That wasn't the moment to confess that the performance of something was shaky. She'd already touched my heart. There was no greater place she could have taken me by confessing that it could have been better. In fact, the admission that it wasn't her best cheapened the moment, as if by being touched by the lesser performance, it was some sort of degradation of my ability to discern good dancing from bad.

Yes, this is all in my head. Yes, it is quite possible that she could have danced better. Yes, my dance experience is small enough to be suspicious as a judge. But I know what I like, and I know when something speaks to my soul and not the bean counter that can tell if the steps were all in perfect alignment.

Her performance was more than enough to take me to somewhere else. I didn't need to hear about her insecurities. I understand that she had them. I understand that it was amazingly hard work to put the routine together. Trust me, I get that part.

But what I didn't need to know was that she was dissapointed in the performance that I found so much meaning in.

It's okay to have insecurities. It's okay to talk about how hard you worked on something. It's okay to be disappointed, but it's not okay to greet someone who is praising your words with regret and insecurity.

I get that writing and dancing are different. I understand that on a visceral level. But the thing to do is to swallow your pride and realize that the performance that is given, be it novel or dance or painting or anything where the goal is to touch someone else's heart, is the best that you could make at that moment. Maybe the floor was slippery--we get that. Maybe your editor wasn't what you'd hoped--we get that. What your fans are trying to say was that your work was amazing to them and they don't care how amazing it could have been. The people who come to you after they've experienced your art are saying they loved the art Just The Way It Is.

Accept that.

Own that.

And after they've taken their deep breaths and screwed up their courage to even make eye contact with you (Yes, I mean you, because everyone who reads this blog, whether you mean to or not, intimidates the crap out of someone else), they deserve the respect that you can give to the moment they have had. Once they tell you about how you touched their heart, it's no longer about you the creator: it's about those who have interacted with your art.

Be gracious. Your art has just done the thing you've always hoped it would: you have touched someone's life. Be thankful, not everyone manages to achieve the One Thing they have always tried to do with your art. Be sure to say thank you. 

IWSG: Anxiety or D is for Dissertation (or my other favorite, D is for Degree)

I know I said I wouldn’t be around as much, but I didn’t want to miss an Insecure Writer’s Support Group meeting. If you haven’t heard about IWSG, go over and visit Alex and sign up on the linky-do to join.

This month, I’ve been noticing something. I have two projects going on. They are both, essentially, writing. One is scientific writing. The other is of course science fantasy (seriously, that’s what I’d name my genre, but I have to come down on the side of normal ::shakes fist at da man:: ). The funny thing is that right now, I’m using writing to unwind from writing.

Bwah? That’s crazy talk.

Not for me.

See, the problem with my dissertation isn’t that I don’t know what I’m talking about (I do), and it’s not that I can’t string together words to form coherent sentences (I present my blog as proof of competency in that arena), which begs the question: why don’t I like writing my dissertation?

I hate it in fact. It makes me angry and scared, and when I’m done looking over the comments from my committee members (and never has there been a group in more dire need of the rule: honest but not cruel!) I feel small and miserable. Worthless, even if I’ve been working too long on it.

With my dissertation (which is in its sixth full rewrite *gags*), every time I sit down to work on it—which for the record, is Every Single Day including the weekends—I’m worried. The comments I’ve gotten back from my committee could scorch the ground, and if they’d been through Eden, you’d think it was the Atacama. They are intense. No, wait: they are INTENSE!

And they scare me, because they have all the control.

So when I write, every word is pounded out across my heart. It hurts to sit and write because I know that no matter how good it is, it will never be declared good. The best mark of approval they will ever give out is “good enough.” To which I always want to know, “Good enough for what? Toilet paper? Nobel? What does it mean?”

Clearly not Nobel.

The point is that I can’t sit down to write without this dread that no matter how incredible my skill, no matter how hard I work, no matter if I could fart funded grants, the best I’ll ever get is “good enough,” but the worst, ah, now there’s a problem.

The worst are comments that call into question my ability to write, form scientific thoughts, and in general, imply that I am complete moron.

“What a mess, that’s not English! Hell, that’s not even American!” Yes, my advisor wrote that on one of my papers. And that’s just one of the comments I feel I can reasonably quote because it’s also sort of funny. But then there are comments that say stuff like “I don’t think you’ve actually thought about any of this,” Or “Did you even try, because this, quite frankly, is awful,” or “Did you really site all these references, because it just didn’t seem like it.”

Yeah, my committee members are a cheery bunch who take the time to bolster my self confidence at every opportunity. Too bad they think dynamite can be used for shoring.

The problem is that it’s kind of like a query letter. You know how query letters go, every time you get a response, it’s either “I love it, and I’d love to see more!” or it’s “Wow, good luck with that one.” Except in academia, even the “Good luck with that one” responders are locked into making it work. That’s what the committee is bound to do. So they hate it, and they *have* to work on it. It’s not their project, and they don’t want anything to do with it, so any error—any error at all, no matter how ridiculous—and they go nuts. I swear, missing a hyphen might as well be murdering puppies with these people.

And for the record, I couldn’t care less about the proper use of a freakin hyphen. That’s what a bloody style guide is for. So it’s pointless to go on about crap like that until the last edit before being published. URGGH!

Whoops, I went all horrible squid of anger there, and that wasn’t my intent. I was trying to describe the difference between the writing that hurts me and the writing that sets me free. See those jaded paragraphs? That’s what burn out looks like (beware the burnout, grasshopper, it’s the same everywhere, mine’s just with research and committees).

Right, so suffice it to say, there’s a little bit of pressure when I write the dissertation. In fact, there’s so much pressure, I can feel the damned keys tapping away on my soul. It’s horrible to hate something that I love on so many levels. So I run around like a headless chicken, avoiding everything to do with my project. I hate sitting down at the computer. If I’ve sat down, then I would rather respond to student emails or surf the internet, or maybe I should practice that lecture one more time. Anything to not feel the angry little person in me screaming at my committee every time I sit down to write.

Insert crazy novel.

Not crazy as in I write whatever I want however I want it. It’s not even a write-whenever-I’d-like-to (don’t I wish!). No, my novel is crazy because there’s nothing like it (at least not that I’ve come across), and it’s ridiculous in premise. It’s so odd that its realistic chances are slim. Which means it’s all mine. So few people are going to ever see it that I don’t have to worry about whether it’s soft-skinned face, or soft skinned face (it’s the former for those of you curious about it, but my feelings are that you only ever use punctuation when there’s the possibility of misunderstanding if you don’t use it; in short punctuation is politely informing your readers of exactly what you mean without being a dictating pain in the arse). Regardless, chances of my novel getting published as the draft I’m writing right now? Zero. There is literally no way this will see the light of day without a huge edit and some serious soul searching.

My work in progress is for exactly one person: me, and to hell with the rest of the world (no offense world, I just need some me time).

I wish I could write my dissertation with that same kind of freeness, but now I’m stretched to deadlines and meetings and if I don’t get it done by, and what will my committee say when they read it? Is it “Good enough?”

And what exactly was so terrible about it last time that they hated it?

It’s crazy to have two such completely different experiences with writing, but I imagine there are plenty of people who feel like I do when I work on my dissertation when they’re working on their novels. Take a step back and breathe.

As much as the idea of it might hurt, you can always redo this draft. There’s no need for the crazy stressful pressure we put on ourselves. We can do as many redos as it takes to get it right. Even in academia, they’ll let you do it again. And even after you’re finished, they let you redo it one more time to clean up all the hyphens and what not.

So today, I’m going to write everything like I’m writing in my WIP. I’m writing for me.

Doubt

I don’t think it’s any big secret, but many of us suffer from low self esteem. It’s pretty much the one topic that’s been constantly brought up since I was in grade school: the importance of self confidence and self esteem. I suck at both of those. 

All my friends are shocked to learn that I suffer from pathetically low self confidence. You see I have this one quality, this one great and terrible ability. 

I lie. 

I’m not talking about telling falsehoods. I’m morally bound from perpetrating things that aren’t fact, but I am talking about knowing I’m a coward and stepping up to bat like I don’t have a care in the world. I have presented the world with a falsely confident person. My colleagues ask me how I give talks so well. I tell them the hardest part is keeping my knees from shaking too hard to climb up to the podium. 

Do I have confidence? No. Do I think I’m doing a good job? No. I live in mortal fear that someone is going to knock on my office door and say “Ms. Ford, you’re a fraud, and we’re here to make sure you leave the department quietly.” 

I got my degrees like everyone else. I got into the program like all the others (although I happen to know I was the bottom of the barrel, but that’s a whole other issue entirely). Still, I feel like I don’t belong. I don’t feel smart enough. I don’t feel talented enough. I don’t feel good enough. 

When I took my comprehensive examination, I brought boxes. I was so certain I wouldn’t pass that I wanted to be able to pack up and leave as quickly as possible. I didn’t want to embarrass anyone by staying a minute longer than I needed to after I’d failed. 

And then, I didn’t fail. I had all these extra boxes in my office and I had to do something with them. I was in shock. Now everyone says it’s completely ridiculous that I felt that way. What they see in me isn’t what I see in me. 

I blame all those years of riding horses on this false confidence I show to the world. 

With horses, they react the way you do. There’s a reason cowboys are stoic, and it isn’t that they know life’s mysteries. You just can’t let the horses see how scared you are. It’s just the way it goes. Imagine, for instance, riding along a winding road on a cliff side and a snake slithers out onto the track. Panicked horses don’t do rational things. They fall down, roll over people, jump off cliffs, and otherwise endanger lives. Horses will follow anyone who seems to be in control of the situation. A snake on the path is only scary to the horse if it’s scary to the rider. 

And so I spent my time building up this façade to show my horse (he wasn’t that bright either, so I got to be pretty clumsy at first). Now, everyone buys it. My colleagues, my friends, my peers, my students, even my mom. 

The stupid thing is that even though I am wracked with doubt and fear, I actually have done great things. I do have those degrees like all the others. I did get into the program. I have written novels. Sure, I wasn’t the top of the class, and my writing style needs help, but I have still done these things. 

I’ve been faking it, I guess it’s time to start making it.

The Crazy Dream Department is open for business

Okay, so we all have anxiety, and without turning this into some sort of my-life-is-harder-than-yours contest, let me just say I’ve got a lot on my plate, and I worry about all of it. My short list:

Am I being a bad mother to my 2 year old?

Will I ever actually graduate? Seven years seems extensive…

Will any of my writing endeavors actually lead to something more than “I loved your book, honey” from my mom?

After I do graduate, how will I get a job?

My short list sure makes me think I wouldn’t win any of those my-life-is-harder-than-yours contests, and you know what? That’s great news for me. Still, I spend a lot of time worrying that I’m wasting my life on things that have marginal value. And so much of my life is out of control. I perceive I have little control over major, career affecting moments in my life. And like any good homo sapien sapien, when my back is up against a wall, out come the crazy anxiety dreams.

When I have bad dreams they come in exactly three flavors: snakes, nuclear reactors and natural disasters (usually volcanoes, but earthquakes and tsunamis are a close second). What spawned this tour of my crazy-@55 dream factory was a dream I had two nights ago. Most of my dreams are pretty easy to interpret, from a psychological standpoint, and I won’t waste anyone’s time on the easy ones. No, the ones I find intriguing are the weirdos, where I wake up and shake my head. Did my mind really just make that up?

Two nights ago, I dreamt I was typing on a type writer that spit out words in 180 point type. Only the type writer made objects out of the words. A sentence was larger than a 2 by 4. As I typed out my novel (literally), the words filled the room. I noticed water was coming in from under the door, and I thought, “Oh my god! It’s a tsunami!” I leapt from my chair and headed outside to find higher ground, but it was already too late. The tsunami was approaching, and instead of debris and cars like we are seeing out of Japan—my most sincere condolences to all who are suffering there—my novel rushed towards me in a jumble of giant words. To escape, I climbed aboard an apostrophe (not the punctuation mind you, but the word) thinking that it would float better than other words lying about. The reason for this line of thought is that there are numerous closed circles, as anyone who has ever used the paint bucket tool to color in will notice right off the bat: two Os, two Ps, an A and an E (in lower case in my dream).

Yeah, weird, I was saved by apostrophe. 

Then there was the time I had a dream where someone stole my printer. At the time it wasn’t much of a printer. In fact, it was free after the mail in rebate, and I had printed more on it than any other printer previously. I’d printed and bound six books from that printer. In my dream I was riding on the train from the beginning of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, you know, the circus train? Well in my dream there was a passenger car on the train. Sitting in my seat, I noticed someone carrying a printer. I realized it was my printer and I jumped up, yelling, “Hey, that’s my printer!” The guy carrying it turned around, and I saw he wore a gorilla suit. But it wasn’t a good gorilla suit with real hair, or anything, he was wearing a felt gorilla suit. Yeah, I know, I can’t even have my stuff stolen by a classy gorilla suit wearing dude. I take off after him and a chase scene right out of the Indiana Jones movie ensues. Mr. Gorilla suit did make it off the train and into the wilds with my printer.

An interesting side note is that my printer, which had been long in telling us of its eminent demise, died the very next day. I guess the gorilla got it after all…

And then there’s the agent dream. I’ve almost written about this one before just because it gives me a feeling of empowerment over the process. In that dream, I’m standing before an 8’x8’x16’ block of marble. In my dream, I know that it’s marble from Pietrasanta, the quarry that Michelangelo got his marble for statues such as David.  And then I begin to carve. I carve out 7 figures from the marble so the top halves are almost free of the rest of the marble. They are carved in the neoclassical form, and after a while, I realize that the seven people are actually literary agents with offers (ha! Seven agents with offers, what a gas!).

Again, I like that one because, while it is strange to carve ones offers out of stone, it made me feel like maybe I could. Sure it would be hard, but everything worth doing is hard. Yes it would take a lot of work, but in the end, maybe I’d have David.