Monthly Archives: November 2013

A Word with the “Success” People

It’s nice to think that if we just keep trying, we’ll be successful. There’s a recurrent meme these days, if that’s the right phrase, that points out the number one marker of successful people is that they don’t give up. No kidding. Successful people didn’t give up before they became successful. Obvious. Tautology. What bugs me about this is that it’s waved about as though that’s all it takes. Not giving up. And that’s not true.

For every “successful” person who did not give up, there’s a crowd of strivers who have never given up and will never be “successful” in a corporate or financial or celebrity sense. Like Willy Loman, they try so hard, but they can’t make things work out in the way they dream. Not everyone can, and that’s just a simple fact. The problem is with the way success is measured. I think it can be an important growth moment to realize that a certain strived-for thing will never happen. Let it go. Move on to something else. Don’t surrender at the first sign of trouble, don’t be a quitter, but consider all the facts.

When we read the articles that say most of us give up just before we achieve success, we need to understand that no one can know that. There is no certain way to know if success was just about to come after the next effort. At some point, we have to accept that we are not going to be ballerinas. Our ankles are too thick. No amount of practice is going to change that physical fact. There are realities that we cannot change. Instead of beating the crap out of ourselves for being failures, we can decide not to buy that model of success.

As a writer, I can’t measure success in terms of copies sold and royalties earned. If I do that, I’m a failure. Every writer has to decide where the borderland of success lies, and I admit that for me, it’s in the validation of publication. For Diane di Prima, it was “simply to have lived and done the work.” I’ve always loved that. I believe it. There’s tremendous satisfaction in the writing, in the act of doing. It’s a success all by itself.

We’d all like to have more money, pots of it please and thank you, but that is not the only way to measure success. In fact, for almost everyone, it just can’t happen. Making money isn’t my gift. Corporate success isn’t my dream. An intersection of dream and gift might get us somewhere. And therein, mayhap, is the rub, as Hamlet might say. So few of us identify the gift and learn what it can do. We try to layer someone else’s idea of success over our own lives, and it just doesn’t work. We’d all be better off, individually and collectively, if we knew what we’re good at and what to do with it. If something isn’t working, stop doing it–that isn’t failure: it’s awakening.

Leave a comment

Filed under On Thinking, On Writing

Writers Are So Insecure

Or, maybe it’s just me. But I don’t think so. It isn’t often that someone comes along and proclaims, “I am a great writer,” as Sylvia Plath did. Mostly, there’s a miserable struggle going on. We have a conviction that we are writers, but we torture ourselves with the suspicion (sometimes certainty) that we aren’t very good.

People might think it’s false modesty, but I’m not talking about those types, the ones who can set up a conversation so that all kinds of compliments flow, compliments they humbly believe to be deserved. I write things and sometimes, I think they’re really good. I’m all confidence. So, I send them out to a journal for publication, and when they are returned, as most submissions are, I look at them and think, “Of course this got rejected. It’s crap.”

Writers aren’t like contestants on American Idol, those who can’t sing to save their lives but have been told by family and friends that they are great singers and born to do this. No, writers hear the encouragement and praise, and we take pleasure in the sentiment, but we are pretty sure that the people we love are just being nice. We think they have to say those things. It’s their job.

Where we really get trapped is when someone we don’t know says something glowing about our work. We start looking for the excuse for it, thinking they’re just being nice, but then realizing they have no reason to be so. It’s scary territory to stand there with the idea that maybe this person really does approve or endorse or appreciate the work. We’re sure it can’t be true, but we can’t find the reason to suppose that, and so we’re left running a little tape in our heads that keeps coming to the spot where this person is just being nice, but hoping they’re not. It’s exhausting.

This week, I received some really lovely comments about my long poem. The specifics of those comments told me that I had succeeded in some of the things I had set out to do in that poem, and that’s extremely gratifying all by itself. When I try to expand that to allow for the general praise of the work, I get on the little hamster wheel that runs that tape.  I always tell people that the writer is the first and most important audience for the work. I don’t ever tell them that they’ll have a terrible time learning to believe that their satisfaction is justified. Good luck with that.

2 Comments

Filed under On Thinking, On Writing