“I wish you weren’t so sensitive.” Ouch. That one hurt. But it’s true, I am too sensitive.
John is putting together a book of his photographs that he plans to publish (the beauty of the internet and self-publishing!) He asked me to write the author’s bio that will go on the back flap. I was excited that he asked me to participate in his project so of course I said yes. I wrote a draft today and let him take a peek at it. The first two comments out of his mouth were negative. I was certain I had totally missed the mark and he thought it was horrible. My ego was bruised. “Geez, can’t you give me some positive feedback before you criticize?” That started an exchange that ended with John going upstairs to take a nap. And now here I sit writing this post, still not really sure if any parts of the bio are salvageable or not.
Our conversation brought back feelings that I experienced in the writing class I took last fall. In keeping with my efforts to step out and try new things, I enrolled in a 10-week class, “Autobiography, Memoir or Fiction.” The class was structured like a writing workshop. Each week we wrote between classes then came prepared to read our material to our classmates. Everyone, starting with our instructor Martha, provided positive feedback and constructive critique. Believe me, for a novice writer, perfectionist and person who worries far too much about what others think of me, this took a huge amount of courage. But that was the whole idea—to push myself both in terms of my skills and my willingness to put myself out there for others to see.
I participated whole heartedly in the class. Each week I wrote and each week I courageously shared my writing. I even had some fun with it. I decided to write about my internet dating experience and, at Martha’s encouragement, I wrote a series of stories about dates I went on. I got a few good laughs from my classmates and learned some tricks about writing good stories in the process. (My last post contains one of those stories…it’s quite funny, if I do say so!)
But at the end of the whole process, I felt more discouraged than encouraged. In its totality, the feedback I got seemed to be more of a critical than supportive nature. With one exception, I didn’t feel like I was able to connect with my classmates through my writing. If felt like I had nothing special to offer with my stories or any special talent to warrant the admiration of my classmates. I started the class with a bit of fear, lots of nervous excitement and confidence that if I worked hard enough I could do it. (After all, that’s how I’ve been successful in the past.) But this was an entirely different experience. I couldn’t “work” my way to the top of my class. It wasn’t just my intellect and work ethic that would get me through—I needed creativity and talent, intangibles that were still beyond my grasp.
I’ve hardly written a thing since the class ended. When my friend Marc asked me why, I shared my discouragement with him. He said, “You’re really good. You need to keep writing and put that experience behind you.” I know Marc pretty well and I don’t think he would blatantly lie to me. He might be a bit more encouraging than is warranted, but he wouldn’t lie to me.
I am too sensitive, especially when I’m in uncharted territory. (If I’m in a realm where I feel confident, I’m actually quite resilient.) So why, when my ego gets bruised, do I give up so easily? Why don’t I grow a thicker skin? Why don’t I take the constructive (i.e. critical) feedback and use it to improve my work? Why can’t I step back and take it in and not let it feel so personal?
John is still napping. When he gets up, I’m going to start over again and ask him what he likes about the bio I wrote, what he doesn’t like and how he thinks I can improve it. And I’m going to remember that John loves me, regardless of whether my paragraph stinks or not.
I love books. And my husband loves me. So he bought me a book–Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh. He heard a review on NPR and was fascinated so he bought a copy for me and his mother. I was so tickled I could hardly stand it. I hugged it like a little girl hugs a teddie bear. Then I wanted to hide it like a box of chocolates-it was mine, all mine! 
