On Pride (And Other Sins of the Self-Made)
What I learned writing my breakthrough novel
I’d been proud all my life of my (limited) achievements.
And what does that do but humble you, tumble you, back down to the rest of humanity because fuck you and your arrogance. What is pride anyway but a stitch in the back where your wings fell off? Now you can’t fly, and you’re proud?
Shouldn’t we be proud of ourselves just for keeping on going when the going gets tough? No, because that’s only the urge to self-preservation that never lets up, it says one more fucking day, and anyway, you’re a coward.
So be proud of what? Of being human? Join 8 billion others just like you, all alive by default, all heading towards not, faster and slower.
What about the abuse? Are you proud of yourself for getting out when others didn’t or don’t? What would that mean, that you think yourself somehow superior to the ones who just crumbled, or couldn’t find a door?
Are you proud of yourself that you got to the end of this sentence? That you wrote a whole goddamn book, and another another and another, are you proud of your sticking power? Are you proud that with the fourth, you somehow, energetically, kicked down the door?
Are you proud you overcame the messages your childhood left you, that writing on the wall that said broken, no good, too clever by half, and nobody loves you? Are you proud that you got yourself up and tried again? That you asked the universe, Give me a big idea! and a big idea dropped in your lap? Are you proud that you listened? Are you proud that you heard?
Are you proud that you filled out the forms, that you made the right effort, that you drafted that paragraph over and over again, to get it right? Are you proud that the letter arrived with the news that you needed?
Are you proud that you worked your way through the next four years and somehow, just about, kept your family together, kept a roof above your heads, though your husband was ill, though your marriage was falling apart? Though your kids were being bullied at school, and one was suicidal?
Are you proud you didn’t fall into depression? That you found, while looking for a fix for your husband, a fix for yourself? That you found, at last, a way to break through the roof of your damage and see, for the first time, the stars?
Are you proud you kept at it, though keeping at it was total necessity? Was nothing but survival instinct? Was desperate clutching of the only rope that might, if you kept putting fist over fist, haul you out of there?
Are you proud, while you should have been writing, that you played hour upon hour of Spider Solitaire, unable to start, terrified of your lack of talent? Card on virtual card, pretending you were “working on your book” while your husband lay sick on the sofa and your daughter played alone?
Are you proud of the eight grand you lost as a noob trading Forex? That you, Ms Clever, while googling for a way out of debt, were fuckwit enough to get snagged by an “easy money” ad? So, suckered into a game made for suckers, terrified of debt, ended up deeper in it? Are you proud of the money you had to borrow from your dad?
Are you proud of the months you spent paralysed, writing nothing, or nothing but shit? Of the way the universe had to come knocking on your thick, bloody skull with the two ludicrous “coincidences”? The woman you got paired with in an ESP test, who sketched Chislehurst crossroads, where your protagonist’s love interest lived? And hours later, your husband shouting that character’s name — a name he didn’t know, because the book was his rival — and not knowing why?
Do you think you did any of this? Or were you always the block, always the resistance, always the misaligned fool? Was the only thing you truly did the asking? Which no one can help but do when they’re sinking in shit?
What is there to be proud of when all you ever did was pure human? Which anyone would do, in the same place as you?
Are you proud that you yearned and strived and released and allowed and kept coming around again in a circle, day after day, bashing out words, overcoming the fears, again and again, but always temporarily? Releasing, by every means possible, the terror that the whole damn thing would fall flat on its face? And then again, and again, handing over the reins to the part that knows its stuff? That isn’t “you”?
Are you proud of the moment you finished, and you went upstairs from your basement study, where you’d hidden daily for almost four years, and told your son, full of pride, “I’ve finished the book!” and your son, who had a child’s voice when you started, but a man’s voice by then, said sardonically, “Can I have some Mummy time now?”
Are you proud that when your agent said it had no commercial potential and she wouldn’t submit it, you knew it deserved better than that? Given the reason is, you knew you hadn’t written it at all, just received it from the ether, from a much better writer or writers than you could ever be? Are you proud that you wanted more for it and sent it to a friend of yours, a former student and now successful novelist, because the universe sent that thought to you, and opened the door?
Are you proud that you signed with someone who believed in you? Maybe, because that was progress. But it was also a no-brainer; he made the offer. The universe arranged it.
Are you proud that he found you an amazing deal, within days? No, that was all his brilliance. Are you proud of the wonderful hardback and paperback versions? No, that was the powerful talents of your editor, editor’s assistant, copy-editor, proofreader, cover designer, and illustrators. Are you proud of its reach into newspapers, festivals, radio programmes and prize lists? No, that was the amazing team at Hodder: sales reps, marketing and publicity folk: plus, of course, the programmers for festivals, reviewers of papers, producers of radio programmes, organisers and judges of prizes.
Yes, I’m very proud of my breakthrough book. Even if I have little reason to be. I am proud of the book itself, as an object that dozens of people brought into being. That thousands of people turned it into something that was noticed and loved.
I am proud of my offspring for navigating a difficult childhood and emerging as decent human beings, all but one less broken than I was at their ages.
I guess pride is sin (that which separates us from our core self, love) when it is pride of self. When it doesn’t acknowledge our very limited role in our successes. When we think we are “self-made” and not made by the myriad beings, both embodied and not, who support us. When we think that our role has been anything other than ask, focus, release, and align.
Now is the time to “like” this post if you liked it. It helps my “discoverability.” Yeah, that didn’t use to be a word. But if that leads to one of my gorgeous fat manuscripts being taken, I won’t be proud of myself, this time around. I’ll be proud of you, for stitching my wing-wound.
This week I have:
Finally, finally, finally, finished the substantial co-authored essay on something that could have a significant impact (if it gets through peer-review) that I have been working on, on and off, for a year.
Had (and then recovered from, more or less) a bout of vertigo brought upon me by rashly cavorting around a giant inflatable obstacle course with my 21-year-old daughter (her own experience: “I nearly died. I will never again think that I could do better than the contestants of Total Wipeout.”
Gone, with the director of the stage version of The Marlowe Papers, to see the new “hot” Marlowe play, the RSC’s Born With Teeth at the Wyndham Theatre, London. I will be writing a review on my Kit Marlowe stack, just as soon as I can stop rolling my eyes (it makes typing SO difficult).
Over to you:
Have you ever wrestled with that You must be so proud! I’m so proud of you! / Pride is a sin. A DEADLY sin. Pride comes before a fall conflict? (Because I’ve had issues with this since I could first use my brain, and I can’t be alone.)
Have you ever had a moment where pride did come before a fall, literal or otherwise?
Peacock? Or lion? Stand alone, tail fluffed? Or one of a gang who would kill for each other?
Balance problems, anyone?
This one merits several readings and a considered comment. This is the best I can do late on a Friday evening … and is a little bit of a meander, but here goes.
Your piece made me think of the hubris discussions I’ve had about Greek tragedy and why we still love the central characters despite any flaws.
One of the most surreal is ‘Ajax.’ The Trojan hero so proud of killing loads of men until he realises he’s just killed a bunch of sheep (a goddess distorts his vision) and he is so ashamed he kills himself.
I used to find it faintly ridiculous, farcical even. But the older I get the more I think about it and feel for him. It’s his delusion. It is so human.
We have all been deluded and blinded by pride. The moment he realises how much of a fool he must have looked is the very one we can all identify with him (minus the sheep-killing bit,
mind you).
The idea of pride over intellectual achievements is particularly interesting too.
When we realise that intellect is nothing without kindness and that the kindest people have often suffered greatly (both things which I think can take the brightest minds longer to really grasp) it makes us more humble,m about our intellect. If we suffer we become more humble about it.
But I still think we are right to be proud of ourselves.
Especially because the world is too full of people who don’t see kindness as the most important thing and we’re often fighting against that mentality.
The moment we get it we also gain a greater capacity to see the good in others because we want them to be kind - we inherently value it so much. We recognise how much better we can work together if we do this (like fingers on a hand as M Aurelius said). So we can all feel proud of ourselves and the others we have worked with. Collectively proud, and proud of ourselves, I think. Not mutually exclusive.
Possibly a more touchy feely response than you were expecting but it is how I see things now, more than ever.
We work better as humans when we value one another and are kind and we need that so badly now.
Will be so interested in your review. Even if it is annoying having that other play on, it should raise people’s interest in the subject matter, which hopefully will be useful for you when you put yours on in the Autumn.
Yet again you set the bar high; good not to be proud before the fall that seems already upon us.
Just at the end of an essay of epic proportions by my meagre standards, I’m both inspired and left wondering if I can match something this wonderful to read.
I’m exhausted by my writing and by all you aren’t proud of. I don’t know how you did it.
Thanks for making the weekend better.