1.11.2006
TRAMBLINGS. . .
Just finished Carolyn See's MAKING A LITERARY LIFE. Very amusing. Worth checking out for the personal stories alone. She talks quite a bit about surrounding yourself with people who support your writing and your dreams of being a writer. That resonated with me. A couple years ago, when I learned the very exciting news that THE DYING GROUND was being used in five different university classes (including two colleges that I couldn't get into as a high school senior) my friend responded with, "I don't get it. Why could anyone learn from your book?" Mind you, this was also a friend who waited a year and a half to tell me that they'd read the book the week it came out. Neither one of those things are bad separately but together they formed a lethal little cocktail. For the first time in our friendship I saw blood red flags waving in front of my face like airport flares. I started to wonder if my old friend had become someone that I needed to protect myself from. The answer was yes and it hurt like hell to admit that.
I agonized over the friendship for months. I considered the fact that I was making a big deal out of nothing but there was something so passive aggressive and hostile at the base of the interactions that I knew I was right. I talked myself out of the feeling for weeks before I finally accepted that this person meant me harm whether they knew it or not. He and I had been friends for about fifteen years but once I admitted the truth I started to notice all the things that confirmed what I'd suspected. There were just too many comments that didn't sit right, or big, long, pregnant pauses when I mentioned news or information about the book. Normally, you have to pull my teeth to get me to talk about book details but with people that I trust I am a motormouth. When I couldn't be myself with this person I understood that our relationship had changed forever.
I also realized that I was physically tense whenever I was with him. You know the feeling, the one where you're so clenched it feels as if you're tightening your stomach for an imagined sock in the gut. Despite that ugly feeling, believe it or not, I had a tremendous amount of resistant to actually cutting this person out of my life. I resisted until I heard a lecture from a security specialist of all things. The lecturer talked at length about the ways women talk themselves into danger. The female disease-to-please, or maniacal politeness, both figure into women ignoring the warning bells that go off about people, places or circumstances. The lecturer said that when he interviewed women who'd been victimized that the first thing they did was recount all the ways they'd ignored their instincts. Don't get me wrong, this person was not physical or even verbally abusive, but they were insensitive and nasty.
In general, I am easily spooked so with big ticket items like empty parking garages, lone men in stairwells, blind alleys, etc, I do my best to stay away but on the personal side I let folks slip through the security gates. In my mind, once you have security clearance than you're good to go FOREVER. Not until I became a published writer and exposed myself - buck naked - to the world did I decide to make a few changes. I'm not the only one. In private conversation with the writers I've met over the past few years they've often confessed to how vulnerable they feel once they send "their babies" out into the world. It could be that we're all thin-skinned or whiners but I don't think it's that simple. I'll let you decide. Here are some of the things that have been said TO MY FACE since the publication of my books.
1) "I self-published a book of my own, so you're not special. There's nothing special about you at all." This was said to me by an older, salt-and-pepper gentleman who waited in line at an Atlanta mall to let me know how he felt.
2) "You're not a Christian so I'm not going to buy your book." This was said by a woman who never asked about my religious affiliation. Not sure how she came to that conclusion, maybe my entire presence screamed heathen.
3) "Who do you think you are? Really. Just who do you think you are?" Still not positively sure about the answer to that question.
4) "I've been to at least 10 bookstores and I cannot find your books anywhere." Can't count how many times I've heard that one. It's running neck and neck with, "When are you going to get a real job."
5) "Nichelle didn't write that book. Her editor wrote the book, don't be silly. Writers don't actually write their own books, they send them to New York and the editors write them." Damn, really? I wish someone had told me about that deal.
It's easy to turn all of these encounters into really funny stories. I've paid for my dinner on several occasions by telling tales from my book tour but what do you do when this sort of thing comes from a close friend, someone that you love and trust. Generally, everyone in my life is supportive (maybe a little exhausted but supportive) so it's easy to spot the frauds but it ain't easy to shake 'em loose. My writers group is like a protective web, the Crown Prince is a king, my family and girlfriends are sentinels, but once in awhile someone slips through and I feel wounded to the core.
There are rarely big scenes or blow outs when it ends but once I close my heart it stays closed. What's the point, really, of surrounding yourself (whether you're a writer or not) with people who mean you harm. I cannot imagine anything worse than a partner, or friend, who belittles your efforts or flat out doesn't believe the dream.
I'm not a tyrant no matter how this sounds. I leave plenty of room for friends who don't like my books. There's probably even more room for people who'll never bother to read any of them. I've even granted immunity to folks who never, ever, ever want to go to another reading. I can dig it but I can't celebrate you if I know deep down that a sentence that begins with, "Your writing is okay but I thought the reviews went overboard," is your way of saying, "Nichelle, I just don't want to be your friend anymore."
Wish granted.
Until next time. . .
Just finished Carolyn See's MAKING A LITERARY LIFE. Very amusing. Worth checking out for the personal stories alone. She talks quite a bit about surrounding yourself with people who support your writing and your dreams of being a writer. That resonated with me. A couple years ago, when I learned the very exciting news that THE DYING GROUND was being used in five different university classes (including two colleges that I couldn't get into as a high school senior) my friend responded with, "I don't get it. Why could anyone learn from your book?" Mind you, this was also a friend who waited a year and a half to tell me that they'd read the book the week it came out. Neither one of those things are bad separately but together they formed a lethal little cocktail. For the first time in our friendship I saw blood red flags waving in front of my face like airport flares. I started to wonder if my old friend had become someone that I needed to protect myself from. The answer was yes and it hurt like hell to admit that.
I agonized over the friendship for months. I considered the fact that I was making a big deal out of nothing but there was something so passive aggressive and hostile at the base of the interactions that I knew I was right. I talked myself out of the feeling for weeks before I finally accepted that this person meant me harm whether they knew it or not. He and I had been friends for about fifteen years but once I admitted the truth I started to notice all the things that confirmed what I'd suspected. There were just too many comments that didn't sit right, or big, long, pregnant pauses when I mentioned news or information about the book. Normally, you have to pull my teeth to get me to talk about book details but with people that I trust I am a motormouth. When I couldn't be myself with this person I understood that our relationship had changed forever.
I also realized that I was physically tense whenever I was with him. You know the feeling, the one where you're so clenched it feels as if you're tightening your stomach for an imagined sock in the gut. Despite that ugly feeling, believe it or not, I had a tremendous amount of resistant to actually cutting this person out of my life. I resisted until I heard a lecture from a security specialist of all things. The lecturer talked at length about the ways women talk themselves into danger. The female disease-to-please, or maniacal politeness, both figure into women ignoring the warning bells that go off about people, places or circumstances. The lecturer said that when he interviewed women who'd been victimized that the first thing they did was recount all the ways they'd ignored their instincts. Don't get me wrong, this person was not physical or even verbally abusive, but they were insensitive and nasty.
In general, I am easily spooked so with big ticket items like empty parking garages, lone men in stairwells, blind alleys, etc, I do my best to stay away but on the personal side I let folks slip through the security gates. In my mind, once you have security clearance than you're good to go FOREVER. Not until I became a published writer and exposed myself - buck naked - to the world did I decide to make a few changes. I'm not the only one. In private conversation with the writers I've met over the past few years they've often confessed to how vulnerable they feel once they send "their babies" out into the world. It could be that we're all thin-skinned or whiners but I don't think it's that simple. I'll let you decide. Here are some of the things that have been said TO MY FACE since the publication of my books.
1) "I self-published a book of my own, so you're not special. There's nothing special about you at all." This was said to me by an older, salt-and-pepper gentleman who waited in line at an Atlanta mall to let me know how he felt.
2) "You're not a Christian so I'm not going to buy your book." This was said by a woman who never asked about my religious affiliation. Not sure how she came to that conclusion, maybe my entire presence screamed heathen.
3) "Who do you think you are? Really. Just who do you think you are?" Still not positively sure about the answer to that question.
4) "I've been to at least 10 bookstores and I cannot find your books anywhere." Can't count how many times I've heard that one. It's running neck and neck with, "When are you going to get a real job."
5) "Nichelle didn't write that book. Her editor wrote the book, don't be silly. Writers don't actually write their own books, they send them to New York and the editors write them." Damn, really? I wish someone had told me about that deal.
It's easy to turn all of these encounters into really funny stories. I've paid for my dinner on several occasions by telling tales from my book tour but what do you do when this sort of thing comes from a close friend, someone that you love and trust. Generally, everyone in my life is supportive (maybe a little exhausted but supportive) so it's easy to spot the frauds but it ain't easy to shake 'em loose. My writers group is like a protective web, the Crown Prince is a king, my family and girlfriends are sentinels, but once in awhile someone slips through and I feel wounded to the core.
There are rarely big scenes or blow outs when it ends but once I close my heart it stays closed. What's the point, really, of surrounding yourself (whether you're a writer or not) with people who mean you harm. I cannot imagine anything worse than a partner, or friend, who belittles your efforts or flat out doesn't believe the dream.
I'm not a tyrant no matter how this sounds. I leave plenty of room for friends who don't like my books. There's probably even more room for people who'll never bother to read any of them. I've even granted immunity to folks who never, ever, ever want to go to another reading. I can dig it but I can't celebrate you if I know deep down that a sentence that begins with, "Your writing is okay but I thought the reviews went overboard," is your way of saying, "Nichelle, I just don't want to be your friend anymore."
Wish granted.
Until next time. . .
