The Smiling Faces

When I began writing the kind of pieces that would become Write Within Yourself, and Fearless Writing, and Everyone Has What It Takes, I would often imagine myself giving talks about how no one is broken, and everyone is creative, and everything is okay even when it looks like it isn’t. I also used to picture myself giving talks when I was writing fiction, but those were quite different. The audience for those appearances was in attendance primarily to appreciate an author whose work they had enjoyed. The fantasies involved me doing a lot of basking in that appreciation, but not a lot of talking. After all, what was there to say but, “Thank you"?

The new talks I imagined giving, however, would be different. In these daydreams, there was no basking and a lot of talking. In fact, that was their primary purpose: I wanted to work out what I would say on these subjects in a workshop or lecture. It was like I was preparing for a gig for which I had not yet been booked. No matter, it seemed inevitable that I would someday, and I enjoyed exploring an idea through speaking rather than just writing.

Initially in these fantasies, however, there was always a problem. There I’d be at my imagined podium, doing my very best to inspire and encourage my imagined audience, when a man in the middle of the crowd would raise his hand. Oh, a question! How nice. “Yes?” I’d say. “What is it?”

“I just want to know,” he’d reply. “Are you an idiot?”

He was bothered by what he perceived as my naïve optimism. Was I not aware of the suffering and pain and cruelty the world over? How the hell could I believe that everything was okay and no one was broken? The exchanges that followed – again, entirely in my mind – never went well. I’d become defensive and angry and the whole fantasy would quickly dissolve. He kept showing up time after time, grumpy and judgmental and I kept having no idea what to say to him.

The first time I actually gave a talk of this kind, I looked out over the small gathering, and there was a man sitting right in the middle of the classroom, arms folded tight across his chest, his bearded face sour and skeptical. He’d come, just as I predicted. Instinctively, I avoided looking at him, moving my attention instead between the curious and interested faces in the crowd. At some point, however, my gaze drifted to him again, and his arms were by his side and he was smiling.

I have no idea what he thought of me, or if he was even uncomfortable in the first place. What I do know is that in all my future daydreams, when I was working out what I’d say in a coming lecture, no one asked me if I was an idiot. In this way, that gentleman was probably the most instructive attendee that day. Speak first to the smiling faces and the others might come along. My only regret is that I didn’t go up to him when it was over, shake his hand, and say, “Thank you.”

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt
You can find William at: williamkenower.com