I am a member of an online writing community, many of whose other members are published in places like The New York Times, The Washington Post and The Atlantic, as well as famously hard-to-break-into magazines like Oprah and Real Simple, to name just a few.
The mission of the group is the dissemination of publishing information and advice, and it’s frequented by writers and editors alike. I was delighted to be invited to join by my writing mentor. I devoured with glee the flood of information and writing opportunities and success stories. An hour in, I was engulfed in the flames of self-hate.
I once told a friend that when I am driving, I think every directional arrow is talking to me. Scrolling through the online writing site was like navigating a street with a thousand arrows: Every opportunity beckoned to me, every essay link begged to be followed, every call for submissions intrigued me. And so it was that I fell down a rabbit hole of overwhelm and confusion, my own two-ingredient recipe for self-loathing. What happens when I self-loathe is I decide, with the clarity self-loathing so famously affords, that the world looks upon me with a hating hate reserved especially for me.
So I certainly wasn’t going to wade into the forum with my laughably naïve publishing questions. Too, I had a precedent to uphold: In my entire elementary, high school and college career, I spoke up in class not once, not twice, but never. To the question, “Does everyone understand what we’ve just gone over?” I sat, for 16 years, mute and petrified. I never understood what we had just gone over, because I was forever busy romping around inside my own head, wondering things like whether this would be the year my father would break down and buy me a horse and whether Tab cola tasted so terrible because of the saccharin or because it came in a pink can.
And then about a month ago, I got a publishing contract so cryptic it was like reading a tome in which all the nouns were rubbed out.
“I don’t know what it means,” I said to my husband.
“Do you have anyone you can ask?” he said.
I thought of my brilliant online community of writing professionals.
“No,” I said. Then I shut my eyes and signed the contract.
Weeks went by. The article came out. I was thrilled. But I wondered if I would really get paid. Finally, the suspense became too much. I broke down and posted to my online community.
“I’m writing this with one hand over my eyes to hide my shame,” I wrote. “But can anyone tell me how the publishing entity B.H. works?”
Answers flew in. Some people offered up what they knew. Others suggested I contact the editor. All of them said put your hand down. Stop being ashamed about not knowing stuff.
I was reminded of a scene in Mary Carr’s memoir, “Lit,” where, as a young, insecure literature professor she was deeply ashamed of all the classics she had yet to read. One day, she burst out of her office and announced that she had not read some monumentally important book and invited others to confess the monumentally important books they had not read. What ensued was a hilarious scene whereby professors spilled from their offices and confessed all manner of personal literary oversights.
Recently, on Facebook, someone confessed they did not understand hashtags, after which there was a mass pileup of people confessing that they, too, did not understand hashtags. Someone who did understand them posted an explanation. I swear there was a collective sigh of appreciative relief. And that was that: We all understood hashtags.
So, at the encouragement of my online writing community, I did the previously unthinkable. I dropped the editor of B.H. a note, asking him to explain what I did not understand. What happened next astounded me: He explained it. Lightning did not strike. I did not implode. I was not fired from some mythical standing in the writing world.
Last week I was talking to my friend Cindy, who has been wrestling with whether or not to change the hours of her framing business.
“I kept going over and over in my mind how to do it, when to do it, what the repercussions might be. And then one day I just stuck a sign on the door with my new business hours, and that was that. My hours were changed.”
Which brings me to one of my favorite life coaching questions: “What if “it” (that thing you are thinking of doing but are afraid to do or are unsure of) were easy?” Because it just might be. As easy as confessing you don’t understand. As easy as asking a question. As easy as putting a sign on the door.
Dana Shavin’s memoir, “The Body Tourist,” is available locally at Barnes & Noble and Star Line Books, as well as on Amazon. Her website is DanaShavin.com, and her email address is dana@danashavin.com.