I’m back on schedule–or back on a schedule–and I’m back to the Oprah Project. I have to say that this is probably around the time I start getting bored with a project and stop working on it, but I’m trying to stick with it and see where this goes. Finishing all the issues may take me longer than I originally intended, but if I can actually can read them, I’ll be a happy camper.
The Oprah celebrity interviews have been hit and miss for me. Oh, they’re usually interesting, but in terms of helping me and my particular issues, I haven’t consistently gotten something out of them. Maya Angelou was right out of the gate with helpful stuff, and even though her life has been massively different–and really more difficult than mine–I can learn so much from her.
Oprah starts out asking her where she got her confidence from. She says it’s love–not the romantic or sentimental kind, but the love that keeps you going, “to make it.” That type of general love kept coming into her life, and she became more confident because of it. I think that’s pretty powerful, and something I tend to forget, because I like to wallow in my own self-pity a lot, which then makes me feel less confident about what I’m doing. It’s this whole crappy cycle that I like to get worked up about at least once a week, and it’s totally counter-productive to my writing work. Seriously. But if I can simply remember that I am loved, then perhaps that will be enough of a kick to get out of the hole I dig myself.
Angelou continues saying that everything she’s experienced–even read–becomes a part of her, and she takes those experiences with her wherever she goes. That helps her have the confidence to walk into a room full of people. “…I will not allow my life to be minimized by anybody’s racism or sexism or ageism. I will not.”
Last weekend I went to a local artists’ conference (lured by a seminar called “Ten Ways to Get Your Shit Together”–thankfully, that didn’t disappoint). There were all these exhibits, and as I walked into the room, tired, caffeine-free, and not knowing what to expect, I immediately ran into a booth with a fellow writer who I actually had something to say to. Of course, I wasn’t prepared for this, and mumbled what sort of things I was working on and didn’t even mention this project (which I should have). Basically I came across as just not much–a dime a dozen, someone who fades into the background. And I managed to repeat this same type of conversation with someone else.
Later in the day, I realized I’d not done a good job of marketing myself, that I hadn’t come across as having confidence in myself and my work. Maybe that’s because I’m used to being modest and not bragging about myself, but I kind of agree with Maya when she has this exchange a little later in the interview:
O: So when you hear someone being modest….
MA: I run like hell. The minute you say to a singer, “Would you sing?” and they say, “Oh, no. I can’t sing here,” I say, “Oops! I wonder, where is that train to Bangkok?”
O: Because?
MA: Because that person is not reliable. She may not know it, but modesty speaks volumes about falseness.
O: Pretending.
MA: Lying.
O: Not being who you really are. Okay, I got it!
Lying about your abilities–maybe not having the confidence to own up to all you can do…I can be accused of that. The funny thing is is that’s the way I was taught to be. Growing up, you did five million things and never bragged about what you could do or admitted how amazing your accomplishments are. You were just a regular person (or a girl, which was worse), and nothing special.
This translates oddly as an adult. I have no concept that my abilities are anything special. I tend to think that with a little gumption, anyone can do what I’ve done.
One day I was sitting at the kitchen table, reading some music. The Boy asked me, “When you look at that, can you hear the tune?”
“Well, yes,” I replied, thinking this was normal behavior, which I bet it is to many musicians. “I don’t have the pitch exactly, but I know how it’ll go.” The Boy doesn’t have that much experience reading music, so he was impressed with this ability. I realized how many people must not know how to read music and think that’s amazing. Even with handbell ringers, you’ll have people who prefer to play either high or low bells because they’re really only comfortable with one clef. Perhaps they played clarinet or something in band and are only familiar with the treble clef. To me, it’s only natural that you should know both. Then I remember that I have a devil of a time reading alto clef, so knowing two clefs isn’t that special.
But I digress. This way of thinking, I suppose, diminishes my talents in my own eyes, and therefore, maybe I don’t give myself or allow myself to have the confidence to be a special and unique person. Does that make sense?
The interview goes on to say a lot more about other topics–racism, being poor, more of her life–but this is really all I can take in at the moment and work on. And I think that’s enough.
