It arrives without invitation. One minute I'm hatching a plan to place my book into the hands of every past, present and future mourner of the world. Bestseller lists and awards, here I come. Out of nowhere, the plan sours. I berate myself for being unrealistic, grandiose, pie-in-the-sky. The book proposals and promotional plans present a confident and competent author who believes in her ability to market a manuscript on a tough topic. Fortunately, those potential editors, publishers, marketing managers, publicists, and readers have no idea what a stretch it is to make such claims, even though they are probably true. The culprit is my smog of unentitlement, and I don't think I am the only writer with this affliction.
Smog, a mix of smoke and fog that leaves a haze of bad air hovering over us, hinders visibility and can make it much harder to breathe. The smoke from toxic pollutants released into the air is bad enough. The weather pattern that creates fog holds all of that nasty stuff in place until a good strong wind clears it out. My toxic pollutants are a combination of one-liner messages that, on a good day, blow over as fast as they arrive on my inner landscape, and a vignette or two.
When I hear the voice inside that says things like "What makes you think YOU can … (fill in the blanks)" or "Well, aren't YOU full of yourself?," I can deflate as fast as a bicycle tire meeting its destiny with a thumbtack. If this doesn't sound toxic enough, you might be missing out on the snide, bordering on vindictive, tone of voice in which such one-liners are delivered. It's a scolding designed to bring me down several notches on the self-importance scale … and it often works. I'm left with a nod of agreement and "Yeah, who DO I think I am … I really shouldn't be so full of myself, and I definitely don't deserve special treatment."
Speaking of special treatment, here's one of the vignettes. My mother and I were staying at an upscale hotel in Bermuda … so upscale that Queen Elizabeth stayed there on a royal visit. Upon arrival, we'd been given a beach towel with the implicit understanding that bath towels should remain in the bathroom. You can keep a beach towel fairly clean if you don't lie on it while you are wet … but who goes to the beach in Bermuda without going in swimming? Day after day, we shook the sand out of our towels and dried them out overnight on our balcony overlooking the ocean. On the day of departure, we realized that Mom's flight left later than mine. She had time, after check-out, to get a few more hours in the sun at poolside. Noticing the cabana at one end of the pool, we hatched the scheme that she could shower and change into airplane-appropriate clothes despite no longer having her room. Of course, it never occurred to us to ask for a late check-out.
But how would she dry herself off? Her idea was that she'd use the 4-day old beach towel which, by this point, reeked of sand and salt water. I said, "Don't be ridiculous, we'll exchange it at the front desk for a fresh one." She looked at me as if I'd suggested we ask that a free 8-course meal be delivered to her at poolside. "Oh no, we can't do that!" But I did. I dared to ask for something that would make my mother's last hours in paradise a bit sweeter. As I hopped in the cab to the airport, I felt the afterglow of Mom's mortification. By comparison to others in this me-first world we have created, my request at the hotel's front desk was "No problem!" And yet you would have thought I'd not requested but demanded, in the haughtiest of tones, this small favor.
Another vignette: in the last months of my brother Nick's life, I was in California and he was in a hospital in Boston, Massachusetts. I couldn't tell whether he was dying or not, and I wanted to know. It seemed so logical that I would call one of his umpteen doctors and ask for a status report. All I really needed was the answer to one or two questions, "Is this dire? Should I get on a plane or not?" When I subsequently mentioned to my mother that I had left a message for the doctor, her discomfort with such an audacious (!) request got somehow assigned to Nick: "Oh, I'm not sure Nick will be okay with you doing that." So I called Nick in his hospital room.
"Is it okay that I called your doctor?"
"You can call my doctor anytime you want."
The irony is that the doctor never called me back which, of course, reinforced the prevailing smog-message of "Who are YOU to ask for that? He's too busy for unimportant people like you."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Even in my naïve 20's, I was savvy enough to know that most people get jobs through people they know. Lacking a sense of entitlement, I was extremely uncomfortable with the idea of using connections to get a foot in the door of employment. When I moved out to San Francisco, my boyfriend knew handfuls of people I could have called. Not me. I had this silly notion that I should get hired based on the merits of my credentials, as presented in my resumé. Here's yet another irony: the low-paying job I did take was one that I heard about from my only other contact in San Francisco! But did I get the message that it's okay to ask for favors, or to tap one's personal or professional networks for job leads or other assistance? Heck no. Yankee stoicism can be another one of those pollutants, too.
Jump ahead a number of years to my 30's, the decade of becoming a psychotherapist. If you're in private practice, you've got to do something to let potential clients know you exist. Successful private practice therapists must place ads, circulate flyers, send out mailings, and oh, don't make me gag … network. I still cringe at the sight or sound of that word. If I make plans to meet a colleague for lunch, can't it just be that? Lunch with a colleague. Must it be aggressive, results-oriented networking? With my roots, I have a hard time making a distinction between networking and cold-hearted manipulation. When being "networked," it sometimes feels like there's no genuine interest in me. Rather, it seems the networker is on a mission to get what s/he wants from me all under the guise of a social visit.
Needless to say, I kind of stink at networking. That silly notion from my 20's is still present in my "marketing strategy" for my 30's and now 40's. That unentitled part of me still believes that the only appropriate way to get new clients calling for an appointment is to let my reputation speak for itself. I gloat inside when a satisfied client refers another client to me but my reluctance around self-promotion exacts a price: my appointment book is not always full.
And now, here I am in my 40's with a 500+ page manuscript that's looking for a publisher to call home. Perhaps, as the old saying goes, the third time is the charm. I've been presented with three opportunities - one for each of my adulthood decades - to bust through this oppressive smog that tells me it's not okay to take up a lot of room, not okay to ask for small favors through various connections or to flaunt my multiple talents. This third test feels like the ultimate final exam. Are you going to do what all of the darned experts say you need to do in order to effectively market your book, Martha? I must admit, I've shot imaginary bullets at those same experts because they just assume that what they're suggesting is a short sprint rather than the uphill marathon it feels like to someone like me. I translate all of the expert advice into one distilled message: sink or swim, Martha. Ironically, I do love to swim.
At this point, one might wonder why this trained psychotherapist hasn't got this issue licked. Didn't all of that training and education provide answers to this puzzle? Isn't there some reliable formula for stepping out of the smog? We assume that all electronic engineers should know how to hook-up a DVD player to a TV, or that any physician ought to be able to respond to a medical emergency, or that any psychotherapist would know how to bust through years and years of lousy programming. Presented with a problem, our culture seeks the "fix." On a scale of 1 to 10, discomfort and anxiety associated with not knowing the supposed "answer" registers at 11.
No single solution exists because everyone's smog has different ingredients -- a variety of toxins can muddy up the air. Just as laboratory tests help physicians determine the cause and locale of illness in order to design an appropriate treatment, perhaps the best "answer" is to meet the challenge of discovering what those potentially detrimental toxins are, and finding a way to unravel or disempower them. What incidents left you feeling unentitled? Was it something that someone said? Is that what you now say to yourself? If so, you can change the script. It is also possible to massage the memories and messages to your advantage.
Ultimately, that often-used adage, "feel the fear and do it anyway," provides good counsel. It helps to have a cadre of cheerleaders and supporters backing and believing in you, too. The solution you craft may borrow from those who have gone before you and it may heed the advice of the experts. Its unique elements, however, will emerge from your discovery of the toxins that may have previously stopped you in your tracks but don't or can't any longer.
When I try to summon the courage to do what does not come naturally, and what does not feel comfortable, I tap my memory of two conversations in my 20's to manufacture a gust of wind strong enough to disperse the smog. In the first, I was sitting with an ex-boyfriend and exploring the possibility of re-kindling the old flame. His explanation for not wanting to get re-involved with me was quite simple: "You have no ambition."
Only a few years later, my partner at that time kept criticizing me for my lack of direction or sense of purpose. The repeated question was, "How are you going to make a difference?" At the time, I was dumbfounded. Twenty years later, I see how difficult it can be to be ambitious about making a difference when you've been convinced that the most important contribution you can make is as a mother of two or three kids. What if you don't want to have children? What if you can't? What if being a mother isn't all that you aspire to be?
As hurtful as both of those comments were, I've taken some advice from Julia Cameron. In The Right to Write, she invites the writer to convert heartache into motivation in an essay called "The Wall of Infamy:" "So, yes, I advocate for revenge. I advocate writing 'to show them.' You turn the dross of your disappointments into the gold of accomplishment. In the long run, the person you show is yourself."
Even if my efforts at self-promotion stumble and stutter at first, I really do want to show these two men how utterly wrong they were. And as soon as I show them, I'll send each of them a personal thank you note, expressing gratitude for their brutal candor. Today, it helps me clear the smog that perpetually drifts above and around me.
So, would you like to hear more about my book? It's terrific, and so am I.
I better print this out before I delete that last line.