Life in My Years

Criticism is a bitter medicine to swallow. This is why Dale Carnegie, self-improvement guru and writer of How to Win Friends & Influence People (don’t knock it until you’ve read it), warns that to criticize is “dangerous” because it “wounds a person’s precious pride, hurts his [or her] sense of importance, and arouses resentment”.

Me? I am the exception to the rule because I can take it — it being anything. In fact, I’ve always (surreptitiously) thought I handled criticism remarkably well for my age and I assumed this self-assessment would only become truer as I became older. And this private conviction only grows stronger whenever someone in my peer group will act, like, soOoO immature if I happen to throw some helpful criticism their way from time to time. Ever witness a porcupine whomp its quilled tail at those whom it perceives to be a threat? Talk about overreaction, right?

I, on the other hand, whap no tail, but instead welcome the stranger with open paws, for I am perspicacious enough to recognize that the stranger may carry with him or her skunk cabbage, and though my nerves may initially quail at the sight of a stranger holding skunk cabbage because I detest skunk cabbage and prefer peppered salami, I understand that I am an herbivore and it’s all a healthy part of my diet.

This porcupine metaphor has gone on for a curiously long time.

The point is–what wounded pride? Bruised sense of importance? Resentment? Don’t be silly. The key is that I don’t take things personally, you see. If I agree, then I change things and if I don’t, I ignore it. Eazy-peazy.

But then, every now and then – maybe once every eleven years or so – something will happen that makes me realize I’m just as sensitive, just as snappy, just as unreasonable, and just as grouchy when it comes to getting criticized as the next person.

Now let me first say that writing is a vulnerable activity. It’s intensely personal, even if nothing explicitly personal is revealed, and a lot of tender ego teeter-totters fragilely in between those casual-sounding (not to mention hilarious) sentences you take such care to create. Because it’s your thoughts and ideas splayed naked on the white  page, then cleaned up and dressed in all your own designs. A bad accountant just flubs up some numbers and what does a 6 instead of an 8 really say about him or her as a human being anyway? But a poorly written paper or a bad piece of writing, whether in terms of basic grammar or thoughts or ideas, can potentially cast a far more damning judgment on you as a person, your thoughts, and maybe even–your soul. There’s no veil of numbers to hide behind.

I realize I may be being a little dramatic right now.

So I’m chatting with a friend and I ask him what he thinks of my blog so far. He says it’s good, but of course I’m not satisfied with that short answer. What do you mean by good, I insist. Is it well-written? Do you find it entertaining? Yeah, he responds. Again, I’m not satisfied. I decide that to get more detailed feedback from him, I would ask him more detailed questions about a specific post. My most recent one, I decide.

Cue in dialogue:

Me: So what did you think about my latest post then?

Friend: That one didn’t really do it for me.

Me: Oh. Why not?

Friend: Iono. But it’s okay. You have to take risks and makes mistakes like that to develop your writing.

Me: Mistakes? What do you mean mistakes?? I like that post!

Friend: I’m not saying the post is a mistake.

Me: Okay…

Friend: I’m just saying it was rough.

–End Dialogue–

Even in my defensive state, I knew this exchange was funny, but behind the laughter was the wisdom of Dale Carnegie’s words whapping me in the face with its sharp quills. My precious pride was wounded, as was my sense of importance and Resentment quietly snarled in my throat. If I were a porcupine, I might’ve stabbed him.