Periodically, something will
happen spontaneously, reminding me of an internal fragility when I’m exposed to
commentary on my writing. Most recently, a local resident and good friend of my
neighbor waxed enthusiastic about Harmony,
one of my novels. It came unexpectedly. How did I react? Did I swell with
pride? Did I walk on air? Did I accept the praise with confidence? No, not
really, not to any of the above. I believe my initial reaction was surprise,
followed by relief.
Odd, isn’t it? Something I
created with great effort over a year of my life, it was not an accident. It
was purposive from inception. Of course, I’m delighted when someone favors a
creation of mine, but delight arrives secondarily. Surprise and relief briefly
hold sway.
Surprise and, then, relief! It
brings to mind the flailing of a young child trying to find a way to earn adult
approval, especially parental. Am I, in my seventies, responding like a child?
Possibly. I think so. Is that unusual? I don’t know. I mean, I do want positive
feedback, celebrate quietly when I receive it. To be surprised by it suggests
it is unexpected. Why would that be? After all, I created something I want
others to find worth in, to enjoy.
Conversely, I’m not as surprised
at critique that’s negative, even harsh. Though it has rarely occurred, it is
painful for me when it does. Yes, painful,
equivalent perhaps to that same child within that feels punished for coming up
short, for failing. Again, is this foreign to most or does it hint at something
familiar?
I recall a woman at a book
signing, uninvitedly criticizing me for language she felt was inappropriate for
her young children to read. Though initially stunned, unspoken questions
followed. You let young children read an adult novel? How young was young? And
judging by your own level of inarticulation, at what level do your children
read? (Yes, there was unexpressed venom in that one.) And finally, you traveled
to a book signing, typically a moment
of celebration, to convey your disappointment and disapproval?
Though fellow writers at the
signing, who overheard her criticism, expressed supportive sentiments that this
was inappropriate on her part and reflective of who she was, I was still taken
aback by the unforgiving edge to her opinion. Beyond my initial shock, I was
stung and not able to easily dismiss it. Sadly, it colored an otherwise
positive afternoon. And here I am, years later, relating this memory of a
cutting judgment, rather than one of many dozens that offered satisfaction,
encouragement and gratitude.
That’s me, I tell myself. But is
it? Am I an outlier in this respect or merely a member of a herd? What do you
think?
I say to the world, yes, I am
open to criticism. But I still flinch when it arrives.
