The Impossible Dullness of Attention Seeking

Attention works for some people. I've been thinking about Dolly Parton a lot this week, and the way she was always so bubbly on stage or in interviews. It had to come naturally. No one can fake it for 50 years. Fifty minutes for me would be a stretch. 

So, I chose the wrong business to be in. No, not the writing business--that's actually perfect for an introvert. I mean the selling business. As a little kid, I was a bit of a ham. It was my parents' fault. They encouraged it. I vaguely remember them having dinner guests over and me getting up in front of everyone, lip syncing and dancing to records. How uncomfortable for their guests! If I could, I would seek those people out and apologize. But I was only four, five at the most, so what did I know about embarrassing myself? 

The thing is, though, because I'd been praised for making a fool of myself, I decided to go with it. That's when my mom set me straight. "Don't call attention to yourself!" she'd admonish. I don't even remember what I did to draw her rebuke, but I mustn't have been a quick learner. She had to repeat that phrase more than once until it finally sank in. Thus ended my show-off days.

Maybe it was cute to push a four-year-old out in front of people, but once that kid hits a certain age threshold, the cuteness ceases. My mother was a stern woman, so I took everything she said to me to heart. From that point on, it was they who had to cajole me to get up in front of people. Talk about mixed messages. I took music lessons for a few years, starting around age 8, and so when my parents hosted picnics, they wanted me to become their little minstrel entertainment. I fought it--hard. Hated it. But I had no choice but to give in. There's an old photo of me engaged in the art of "entertaining", and a poutier face you would never see. I'm kind of proud of that picture, actually. Compliant, yet defiant.

Once my parents became too busy with their business to focus on me (at all), I still maintained my creative pursuits, but only privately. If I felt like singing, I sang along to records alone in my room, my voice drowned out by the volume of the disc. If I wrote something, it was for my eyes only. I saved my writings for a time, but eventually trashed them all. I practiced my guitar behind a closed bedroom door. 

I probably was a decent singer and a decent writer for a thirteen-year-old, but no one ever knew it.   

Fast forward to my publishing career. I've noted before that I was perfectly content publishing stories that no one bought. I was used to just doing things for my own satisfaction. But no. If a writer ever wants their creation to have any value, she has to sell, sell, sell. That went against my nature and definitely against my mom's admonitions. Every time I tried pushing one of my books, her words rang in my ears. Don't call attention to yourself!

I don't know if my mixed emotions were the cause of my failure, but they couldn't have helped. Maybe people could read between the lines. "Buy my book" came across as, "I mean, if you want to buy it, you can, but you probably won't like it, and I don't want to impose. Please don't hate me."

Lucky for me, I write under a pen name. No crowd is standing outside my door with pitchforks and lighted torches. 

In short, I am the world's worst salesperson. Social media is torturous. "Don't just promote your book. Be conversational." About what? The only reason I'm there is to promote my book, and I hate even doing that. "Engage people." Sorry, did you say enrage people? I think I'm already doing that by posting about my book.

I've reached the point where I don't even mention the name of my novel nor link to it in my blog posts. (Yes, I know it's on my home page, but c'mon.) My attitude is, hey, it's out there on Amazon. That's the best I'm willing to do. Imagine if my book became a hit and I was suddenly deluged with podcast invitations and TV interview requests. I'd have to join the witness protection program. 

I'm pretty okay with anonymity. After a lifetime of hiding, anonymity is my comfort zone.