“Good luck with that *deliberate, sarcastic pause* …project.”
These were the last words I heard from the author who had
come to my hometown to promote his book; a hefty, hardback tome about a river
and the deaths that it carried with it. During the reading portion of the
event, I started getting the feeling that this author was a like soul, a
brother in the field, so-to-speak. He waxed on about how creating twists in his
fiction just sort of “came to him,” and that establishing the prose was a process
more akin to art than science.
Man, he’s cool, I
thought. And he thinks like I do! That must
mean… I’m cool!
But, I’m not cool. Never was. It never occurred to me to
change who I was around people, and that—it seems—is a prerequisite for being
cool. To put on a show of affable disinterest. Only, if that’s what being cool
is, then no one, it seems, is truly cool. Are they?
Flash-forward to the end of the event. I typically lurk in
the corners until the onslaught of raving fans dissipates and I can have a more
one-on-one conversation with the celebrity. To me, giving them the common decency
to connect on a human level is what is most important. And, I don’t change that
to be cool.
So, I walked up to him and we chatted for a few minutes. I explained
how I was a fledgling author (to position my commentary as more than just anecdotal)
and then marveled at his book tour going so successfully. He seemed cheery
enough. But then, with his answers, I began getting the feeling like he was not
interested in talking with me.
Of course, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do; his
fan-base had dwindled and the store was closing soon—presumably he had a hotel
bed waiting for him somewhere. Although, he made no motion of getting up from
his table, or indication that he was done. It was just an attitude, perhaps.
And in that moment, the feeling of uncoolness began to
settle on my psyche in the same way wisps of snow settles on a rose bush. It
wasn’t so obvious that I understood what was happening at that moment, but the
feeling started to erode my generally pleasant disposition.
A few moments
later, after talking to someone I knew who was also there, I crossed the room
to reach the exit. As I passed by his table, I said over the small bookshelf
between us, “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
 |
| You're just jealous I'm so kind. |
That’s when it happened: with an audience of only one or two
other people, the “cool” author had to keep up appearances. Forget any altruistic
notions, or congenial discourse—this had to have bravado. Apparently, he
thought we were fighting for a mate, because with no just cause, he deftly
minimized my existence in deference of his own with the insincere salutation, sarcastic
pause, and weaponized word “project.”
My book, my platform, my hopes of a future as an author was,
to this author, a mere “project.”
Still thinking that he and I were two equal humans sharing a
moment with each other, I didn’t quite process the sarcasm until I was in my
car and on the road. To me, we were just chatting. To him, it was a reinforcing
of status. And that left me wanting.
For the next two days, I pondered why I suddenly felt that
all my relationships on social media, my (albeit sparse) blogging, my writing
in general was a complete waste of time. Why didn’t I just go get a real job? And then, it hit me. I was
shivering in the aura of coolness.
Only, it wasn’t, well, cool.
Even days later, this author was syphoning off my passion, my interests, my
love of crafting words into drivel to propagate his own superiority. All it
managed to do was motivate me to focus on my own lack, and to long for—maybe even
design for—that lack to be filled.
Aha—that was it!
Being cool is service of self. It’s arrogance in a nice
package. It is selfishness to such an extreme that it feeds off the self-confidence
and altruism of anyone around it. The author wouldn’t ever see me again, so
what did it matter if he took a little more for his pride that night? It’s not
like I needed it, after all, I’m not a NYT best-selling author.
But I see now, with even more clarity, that for myself being
cool is not the aim. This is not new to me, of course, but at least it offers a
better perspective for me than just thinking—however distantly—that I’ll never achieve
it. It is nice to know, after all, that turning your back on societal
acceptance has its merits. I don’t want to be selfish about my writing. I don’t
want to be cool. I prefer altruism. I prefer generosity. I prefer being hot. Er,
wait… that didn’t come out right…
If I don’t sell a single book, but I can rest at night knowing
that I made people feel better about themselves, allowed them to connect on a
human level with me, and/or gave them something of myself that might help them
better understand the world, then I would call that a success. Even if I
reached the level of this author, I’m not sure I would—at least I HOPE I wouldn’t—be cool.
