A friend of mine recently told me I need to stop caring about what others think. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this, but it’s the first time in a long time so it’s been on my mind. Hmm….I guess I’m caring about what she said too. The irony. I’m not going to deny it. It’s totally true, but is that also totally bad? And doesn’t EVERYONE care about what others think?
What? You’re saying you don’t? Really? Not at all? Like if you just redesigned your whole living room–fancy paints, new furniture, the works–and then someone comes over and tells you she hates it (this actually happened to my parents once and they weren’t amused), the comment is just going to roll off your back? I’m not saying you have to heed what the rude one says or let the words simmer, but can you really just brush the words aside completely, not let them irk you for even one second? If so, I’m impressed. And would love to chat.
However, for those of you who can’t let those comments slide or worse– not only do they not slide, but they come to a halt and then ruminate in your heads for days only to pop up at inopportune moments–have you wondered why? When did it start? My first incident happened in sixth grade. I was friends with a bunch of girls who stopped talking to me because my socks didn’t match my shirt. True, pathetic story. Later, this would be called The Mean Girl syndrome, but then it just sucked. And, P.S., those of you growing up today where the trend–in suburban NJ anyway–is to PURPOSELY wear socks that don’t match, count your blessings. Up until then, I did not care if my socks matched, if my clothes were styling. My favorite shirt was cream-colored with a purple unicorn on it and a gazillion sparkles. A total trendsetter, I know! But after that sock thing, I started to care. My parents didn’t believe in fads so I continued to wear the clothes I had, but now I didn’t like them as much (except for the unicorn–that was one awesome shirt).
In high school, some of this didn’t matter anymore. There were so many groups, clothes were the least of my problems. But then there were grades, and the people in my classes were uber competitive (perish the thought you got a 4 instead of a 5 on your AP exam). And when that got old, people liked to make up rumors. Ah, high school, good times!
But this all typical teenage stuff, right? When you’re young, aren’t you expected to care about what people say. Even in my 20s, I was told that was normal, that when I would get older, I’d care less. So, I’m older now. I care less. Progress made. Yet, here I am in a profession where caring about what people think is constant. I must be a masochist.
I guess the question becomes how much caring is OK. To what extent? My friend’s comment had nothing to do with writing, by the way, but eventually it will. Reviews of my books will be out and I can’t just look at the good ones. Although I know some people who are planning to do just that. Others, who plan on staying under the covers and look at neither good nor bad commentary. I guess that’s an option too.
I could take a cue from my parents and be happy with my metaphorical living room. I could deflect the negative comment each time someone gives me a positive one (e.g. Yes, we love our couches too. Would you believe someone actually thought they were tasteless?). In practice, this would go: “Why thank you for loving my book! Would you believe someone hated it? Not that I care or anything….”
I recently read an article that said you stop caring about what people think at fifty. Fifty, huh? Only 17 years away. Maybe I’ll put away all the negative comments until then. Not let myself focus on them. And when I turn 50 I’ll just read them and laugh.
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