Musing on Inexplicable Things
As random as this blog post seems to be, it really isn’t.
Thinking …Recently I came across a very peculiar situation that left me perplexed, but also inquisitive. Needless to say, I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
A day or two ago I came across a fellow author as he gushed over his own work. I’d read his work in the past and quite honestly, I was unimpressed with it.
Granted, if you don’t talk up your own work then who will, right? Or some such nonsense. LOL. :D
Yet, in my own humble opinion, this man’s work was mediocre at best, and lacked substance. At least, that was my thinking, although when browsing review of his work on Goodreads I’d noticed that other people were saying the same things as I.
Yet, there he was, on Facebook, oozing over the magnificence that was his masterpiece.
Blah, blah, freaking blah, blah.
Part of me respected his tenaciousness, the other part of me abhorred his conceit. I mean, how can a person be so full of him/herself, when there is no reason to be.
That was my plight.
Shortly thereafter, I stumbled upon another person I network with whose work I’ve also read in the past as well. Personally, I think it has an abundance of beauty and richness. Yet, she was having a moment of insecurity and disbelief in her own skills.
She shared a situation she’d recently endured via one of our mutual networking platforms. Apparently, she asked someone who claimed to be a professional editor for his opinion on her work. Something which he took advantage of in order to tear her down without mercy.
This person called his merciless feedback “critique” when it was actually unabashed criticism. In the end, he’d crushed her spirits.
Unable to keep quiet, I asked her for a sample of the work she’d given to him as I wanted to see what she was so heartbroken about. She sent it to me at once. As I read through it I was stupefied as to how callous the man was being with her, and for no reason whatsoever as the piece of work was beautifully written. I went on to read the man’s suggestions and realized that should she adhere to his recommendations the essence of a fine piece of art would be sacrificed.
It broke my heart.
Immediately, these two situations got me thinking.
I could not fathom how the person with the least talent had the more boastful attitude, superficial as he was, while the person with the most talent was trumped by self-doubt.
As it always is with me, my mind went into a tizzy of suppositions, some revolving around my own person.
I recognized my own shortcoming through her insecurities in this scenario. I was her, she was me. We shared the same uncertainty in our gift. I could plainly see how amazingly talented she was, yet I could not see it in myself.
Many times I find that after I’ve written something, I need LOTS of encouragement in the form of moral support. Because when all is said and done, I’m not sure if my work is “good enough“.
What an odd thing to think about one’s own talent, right? Right. But, there it is. There you have it.
Needless to say, I cannot (for the life of me) understand arrogance.
I happened upon yet another bizarre circumstance (these things happen in social media. LOL), and it made me think of the human mind and how delusional it can be.
Hold on, let me start from the beginning.
I was on a social media network (Man, I sort of sound like a social media addict, don’t I? :D Lol.) and a question was posed. One, which while I didn’t reply to, left me in deep consideration.
The question was:
Do readers and writers have different perspectives of a writer’s work?
Tuché!
Fantastic question!
Here is why.
I often realize that sometimes us writers are delusional. Either that, or our ego has been stroked so often, whether merited or not, that we no longer see things for what they are.
Here is the thing … I could sit back, look at my stories and go “MAN, THIS IS THE BEST PIECE OF LITERATURE ON THE MARKET TODAY!” Yet, readers whom have picked said work up are going “Wait, what!? Are you serious right now?!”
Why?
Well, because in my mind, the story I put out might be the shiznits. The most epic, superlative, magnificent book out there! Yet, in someone else’s mind it’s, in a word, HORRIFIC.
So all of this begs some questions.
When and how can you tell the difference between a warped sense of security/insecurity? When does confidence cross the line to pomposity? When is self-doubt unmerited insecurity?
In a world when less and less people seemingly know what good reads really are, how can one tell any longer? It feels like an impossible feat to overcome.
