So, recently I received a giant, heaping, pile of cow crap in the mail. It got EVERYWHERE. It stuck to things it could not have possibly come in contact with, just like dog doo and chewed gum. It smelled exactly like cow crap always does -- at first you think, "oh gross, it's poo." Then you breathe in again and remember that there's a reason this is never going to be a best-selling scented candle aroma. At first it's bad, and then it's astonishingly bad. And then it's truly horrific, yet still possessing a pungent quality that leads us to ask ourselves, "Was it really that bad? Maybe I should take another sniff." We always do and it is always and precisely that bad. And it LINGERS. For daaaaaaaaayyyyyysssss.
I should probably clarify at this point that this was a metaphorical meadow muffin, and not, thank the great god of fainting goats, an actual one. The manifest form of this patty was a critical review of a piece of writing I had submitted for a contest. The reader was both universal and specific in his or her (I have no idea who the reader was) critique of my story, taking time to write four extra pages extolling exactly how derivative, rambling, smarmy, un-funny, and unoriginal I was as a writer. They took time to rewrite passages to show how they could do it better. They plead with me to try actually reading some science fiction if I thought I was going to write some. (Apparently my collection of 100+ sci-fi books and multiple decades reading them isn't enough. Because, of course, the goal is to make sure my book sounds exactly like every other sci-fi book written. Whoops. Gotta pause here, ranting is not the point of of this post. Ahem.)
I have received MANY critical reviews in my life, both as a writer and as a human being. This one really felt unnecessarily mean. Having raised and worked with pre-teens and teens for the better part of three decades, I thought I was pretty criticism-proof. I was wrong. This one hurt. It happened to zap me right at a time when I was already feeling a bit vulnerable for entirely separate reasons. When I saw the envelope in the mail, I got my hopes up for maybe a little bit of positive feedback, maybe a little bit of happy in a temporary sea of meh. Nope. It was a big, steaming, fragrant pile of shit. Sorry for the potty word, but that's really what it felt like.
As mentioned above and just like the actual waste product, it somehow managed to stain and ruin every other aspect of my life for the next couple of days. I was sad and felt injured. I couldn't manage to read the entire write up and put it in the trash, just to pull it out the next morning and see if was really as awful as I thought it had been. Maybe there was some positive stuff too that I had just not read because I round-filed it too quickly? Nope. It really was that bad. There was a moment of hope when I found a sentence that started "You are a good writer . . . " but then went on to say that this was only because all the words were spelled correctly and there were no grammar errors. Great. I'm right on par with Spellcheck. The sentence finished by saying if I completely started over and tried again with another topic entirely and followed the aforementioned suggestion of not being a complete sci-fi moron, I might think about entering the contest again. Yes, I'm definitely going to get right on that. Just as soon as I finish pulling all my fingernails out one at at time.
By day three, after spending an evening trying to not cry as I finally told my husband what was bothering me (because Holy Llamas in the Sky, am I really CRYING over one person's opinion of my HOBBY?!), I knew I needed to get a grip. After mentally drafting the long, scathing, but clearly still calm and rational (?! Do I really think such a beast actually exists anywhere but my imagination?) email I intended to send the next morning to the contest organizers, detailing precisely how mean and cruel their so-called "critics" (really just ordinary people who also like to write and were willing to volunteer their time to help review all the contest entries) were, I took a big step back.
I am not, despite my feelings of the prior three days, thirteen years old. I have one of those currently living in my house (fifteen actually, but difference is about the same as that between the colors teal and aqua--different but not really.) and have daily reminders of that flavor of irrationality. I am, gray hair, wrinkles, and joint pain included, a bona fide adult. Additionally, I had entered this particular contest specifically because they do provide feedback. Almost no writing contests do this because it is so hugely time consuming. The angry gorilla in the room of my pain, however, was the fact that, setting aside the painful wording of the critique, the reviewer was right about a lot of what he/she pointed out.
Most of the reviewer's many points were precisely the aspects of my story I had been struggling with all along. But, because I felt personally attacked and completely misunderstood, I allowed the emotion of the situation to prevent ME from growing and improving. I have no idea what the personal intent or situation of the reviewer is or was. Maybe they like making people sad, maybe they're really a super villain, maybe they just suck. But probably not. The overwhelming likelihood is that he/she is not a super villain and takes no joy in hurting people, but instead is a regular person just like me who took the time to give a thorough review, intended to be helpful, and has no further thought about me one way or the other.
Which still leaves me with a mound of poop to deal with. What do I do with this? Allowing that the reviewer didn't really mean to crush the joy of life from my soul, I still feel hurt and angry. So I examine the patty. If it were a real pile of crap, I could recognize that while it's soooo gross, it is actually great fertilizer and a valuable commodity. I can take that poop, shovel it into my garden soil, and benefit from it in the long run as bigger, better vegetables and flowers spring up. It's going to be hard work, it's still going to smell, and won't necessarily be anyone's idea of first choice for an afternoon activity. But I will be so much better because of it if I CHOOSE to make the effort. It is up to me what to do with the poop.
It can be really hard to be thankful for our trials because they can be devastating, much more so than this simple critique was to my ego. What would be worse, though, would be to deliberately multiply the damage of that trial by acting out in anger, in revenge, or in deliberate malice. If I started throwing the cow pie back at the reviewer and organizers, not only do we both get covered in bovine feces, but also my garden does not get the benefit of the fertilizer. The long-term benefit is lost and I have added exponentially to my own suffering.
What really helped pull me back to this awareness (which I have learned before but apparently need constant refresher courses) was a passage from our family scripture study in 2 Corinthians 12:10, but the concept is found in all major religious and philosophical studies: " . . . for when I am weak, then am I strong." Sounds like a contradiction, but it's the foundation of all growth. We can't get stronger if we aren't first weak. And those areas where we struggle and practice and fail are where we eventually grow and become successful.
So here I am, pulling up my big girl panties and finding the value in the poop.
And I really just wrote that sentence.
Pretty sure the reviewer had a point.
