As an only child, I had the distinct privilege of enjoying the kind words of praise from loving (read: smothering) parents who thought I hung the moon. And pretty much I did, at least, by virtue of the fact that they had no other basis of comparison. I would always hear from my friends how they had to compete for attention with siblings in their household, and whoever shouted clever things loud enough, or won the most awards, or pissed in a way that was most pleasing to the ear won the undying affection of their parents and the tiara of "the favorite." By default, I was that. It's like having a Wal-Mart in your hometown and no Targets, Marshalls, Rosses, Costcos or malls. Even if Wal-Mart is a soul-sucking corporation who outsources their labor and continually mistreats their employees, you would never know the difference and you would brag to all your friends how great it was and take pictures of it and hang those pictures on your refrigerator underneath a Christmas card from Aunt Dora and Shoe, her chow mix who is wearing a Santa hat and bells.
So it's been a hard transition for me as an adult to NOT hear praise from others on a constant and/or frequent basis. When I write a headline I think clever, no one is standing over my shoulder nodding vehemently and offering me a plate of gingersnap cookies as a reward. When I say something witty two glasses of wine into a girls' night, and no one laughs, I wonder if it's just because they didn't hear me or maybe they are deaf. When I am wearing a new, cute outfit, there is no one to tell me how adorable I look, even when I really look like I just returned from a fight with a ball of orange yarn, a screwdriver and a feral tabby. And LOST.
My constant need for approving words and approval in general is really my Achilles' Heel. No, not even a Heel. More like a Leg, Knee and Thigh. I have to remind myself that no one except for George Clooney or Milla Jovovich is getting that kind of constant praise and even if I was? It would probably become real cloying real fast. The grass is always greener, right?
I could see how people who constantly put themselves out there with photos on Flickr, videos on Vimeo, or popular blogs would get tired of the good and bad side of public scrutiny. On the one hand, I still think it's a little like begging for compliments when you pose in a million photos and then act surprised when one of your "friends" or "contacts" says how lovely you look. But on the other hand, sometimes my stupid only child mindset still surfaces and I'm like, "what about meeee?" (said in the tone of a three-year-old beating the kitchen floor with her fists and slinging drool all over the linoleum). This, even though I have no Flickr, Vimeo, or Twitter accounts, nor a blog anyone can "see."
In this age of do-it-yourself celebritudinalism, I have come to the conclusion that the ability to cast yourself forth into the virtual or real world's eye so easily allows EVERYONE to exert their only child.
And maybe that's ok. And maybe I should be ok with the fact that no one reads this blog but my boyfriend. Probably because I haven't really linked it to any other site I'm actively on, but part of me thinks DAMMIT, I'm a decent writer and by force of me pounding keys which make pretty words into the keyboard, somehow other users will STOP WHAT THEY ARE DOING IN MID-CLICK and be like, "oh my GAWD. do you hear that sound?? THAT is the sound of a decent writer saying important, weighty things on a blog that I had no idea about! I'm just going to GUESS this kickass blog's url until I find it. WHICH MAY TAKE FOREVER. But jesus, she's an only child and she needs my comments and that is more important than feeding my crying child or going to work!" After which they immediately slug a glass of Robitussin and fly out the window because that is how magic works and the internet is MAGIC.
So, if you ever find this blog, humor me and tell me what you think. I'm currently accepting good praise, lukewarm praise and cash donations made out to: Genius Sorceress of the Written Word/Only Child.
Alternately, you could just make me a plate of gingersnap cookies. And pat my head. And tell me I'm a princess while I twirl around the kitchen floor with my tiara and magic wand.
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2 comments:
As a writer, I must say that I often feel like a backward child with an out-of-print grammar book, painfully scrawling on a chalk slate, trying to do what you do.
If you do ever decide to go public, I think it might be a somewhat marvelous experience for the highs and the lows. Because even detractors have to recognize the skills.
just re-read this since you wrote it a year ago. it's still awesome.
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