The early \”grade\” on my e-book is that it is interesting – but the language is “tentative.”
I am currently having the manuscript for my e-book on writing edited. One of the criticisms the editor had made is that my tone, at times, sounded uncertain. In places, for example, where I could have said, “Keep a notebook,” I instead wrote, “You might want keep a notebook.”
What was ironic about this criticism was that, while writing, I had been afraid I was coming on far too strong – adopting an obnoxious know-it-all tone that was sure to alienate readers.
However, I have decided to go through the manuscript to see what he is talking about.
“You do not have to be tentative,” my husband said. “You know a lot about writing. Be confident.”
Surprised at this comment, I laughed. “Sometimes I am manically and insanely confident. But I am not always confident about sounding confident.” I let my husband absorb this. “When I was in elementary school, seeming too confident was a way to be labeled a snob – unless you had a lot of friends to back you up. I have confidence – but a lot of times, it is closet confidence.”
Of course, this needs some explanation. To illustrate, I will have to step back in time a few decades.
Part 1
I learned a new social skill that day; I remember a pretty girl in the restroom at my elementary school, looking in the mirror. “My hair looks awful,” she said – or something similar.
I remember that when she had said this, it set me at ease. If other girls admitted to having bad hair days, then that meant I could relax about my own wayward hair. I was both sympathetic – and charmed. Because I wanted to be liked too, I began to say similar things. “I hate my hair,” or “this shirt makes me look fat,” trying to strike the appropriate charming, lighthearted tone. Another girl, if she was a friend, would sometimes say, “What are you talking about? You look fine.”
Comments like these, especially among girls, were common. Even the five girls in my sixth grade class who were bullies would complain that their “butts” were too big, or that their nose was strangely shaped – before tearing into someone else for having some physical flaw.
The bullies were all friends with each other; the tacit agreement among them was, if one of them made a self-critical comment, another girl would rush in to defend the first girl from herself. “Your hair looks great. I wish mine looked like yours.”
If you were outside the circle of friends and said something similarly self-critical, you were on your own.
It was not that these girls put themselves down because they disliked themselves – but they relied on each other for validation. If girls put themselves down, and then were reassured by the others, they knew they were still accepted.
Even if you were not part of the group, the rule was, never brag, or people would think you were a snob. The girls who hated other pretty girls constantly hurled epithets, such as “snob” or “stuck-up.” And, in my class, a “snob” was the worst of all labels.
In my sixth grade class, and even beyond, self-deprecation was not just a way to win friends; it was a vital social skill.
Part 2
Fast forward to the present. Continuing the subject of confidence, my husband, who is from Abbeville, SC, made a fascinating comment about my home town in the same state. He observed that many people here said self-deprecating things – but at the same time, they were quick to become jealous, and attack other people.
This may seem like an odd combination of traits, but I knew what he meant. I had known many people who fit his description. However, the suggestion that the trait could be a regional oddity was new to me.
I pressed him further. Did he mean that people from his home town never did that? He replied that he had never noticed it there or anywhere else – only here. “Where I came from, everyone bragged.”
I was not sure I believed him. “Didn\’t anyone ever say to be modest?”
“Not to me.”
I could not say the same; remembered being eight – and happily extolling my roller-skating skills to another girl. She\’d frowned and stopped me, “I don\’t mean to be rude or anything, but don\’t brag about all the things you can do.” It was as if ice water had been thrown in my face.
I continued my interrogation. “So no one ever told you not to brag – that it is rude?”
“I never heard that,” my husband said. “I was always taught to have confidence.”
“You never heard that if you bragged on yourself, no one else would brag on you?”
“That\’s crazy,” he said. “Where I grew up, if you put yourself down, other kids would always agreewith you. Confidence was everything. You recognized other people for their accomplishments too – but if there was something you could do well, it was okay to tell people about it. In fact, you weresupposed to tell them about it. If you didn\’t, who else was going to?”
He had a point. Whether the idea that modesty and self-deprecation are great virtues is a trait specific to my town or not, I wondered about the purpose of embedding it into any social code.
Does it have any real social value?
I thought there was a certain logic: if you said bad things about yourself, others who felt insecure would feel better. Bragging was rude because it made people, who were modest, feel bad. Calling the offender a snob was a way to protect their egos.
I imagined, instead, a utopia based on the principles Donnie had described – a world in which all people were allowed to openly like themselves, but recognized the virtues and accomplishments of others as well. In this world, everyone would feel more secure, and would not need to look to others for validation, be jealous of anyone, or tear anyone down.
It would also get rid of some confusion.
Like my husband I had often heard, “be confident” or “if you don\’t like yourself, no one else will.” But there were other messages too – warnings about the character flaw of pride, and lectures on the need to be modest. I heard, if you “toot your own horn,” no one else will compliment you, so avoid revealing your accomplishments. There were words, too, like “snob.”
The label of “snob” always seems to be underpinned by jealousy.
At my high school, there was a type of student that my friends called “candies.” I had always heard that they were all snobs – obnoxious rich kids of doctors and lawyers. A a kid, I had always accepted that these students were snobs and bad people. It was only much later that I saw anything wrong with vilifying students based on what their parents did for a living.
Other than the word “snob,” the word “narcissist” is a popular term for people who like themselves too much. The word “narcissism” – what does it really mean? Is a narcissist a person who likes himself – or is it someone who likes only himself?
Psychoanalyst Erich Fromm defines narcissism as a clinical personality disorder in which a person recognizes no other needs but his own, and exploits others. Fromm describes self-love as something entirely different – a condition for mental health, and for loving other people.
Love, he says, is a faculty that is directed at specifically toward human traits. You are either capable of it, or not. Excluding the self from love makes no sense.
If Fromm is right, what happens when pride – or self-love – is discouraged and labeled as a character flaw? Can that attitude fuel insecurity, jealousy and hate – or cause others to put their confidence in a closet?
Conclusion:
I thought about my e-book. What had I been thinking when I wrote my tentative instruction to keep a journal?
Was \”closet confidence\” confidence at all? When I had tried to tone down the authoritative tone, there actually had been a point in which I had been imagining someone saying something like, “Look at her. She thinks she knows so much about writing.” Or, “She sees herself as some kind of expert.” Or, “Who does she think she is?
Where were these thoughts coming from? Some writers may call them the voice of the internal censor. For me, they were echoes from long ago. “Look at her. She thinks she knows everything. She is so stuck-up.”
I am going to edit my e-book soon. I am unsure about how much I will actually change – but I am banning those echoes from my writing; the critical voices of sixth grade girls have no place in my writing – or my life.
Recognizing those echoes for what they are is helpful; understanding their consequences is sobering – and moving beyond them is a vital necessity.