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Monday, 07 January 2008
Be Bitter, Be Free
I am an embittered author.
It's true. I don't deny it. And what's more – I'm proud of it.
I've earned it. It's my right. And no-one can take it away from me.
I have starved, lived in penury, been ignored, reviled, treated with every kind of disrespect there is, and yet, I have continued to do my work, strive after my own kind of perfection (which is not your perfection, white man) and ignored all the experts, gurus and naysayers down the line. Aggressively, with pugnacious determination and downright hostility.
Yes, I'm bitter and, by God, I have every right to be.
I think bitterness is good for you, a positive attribute that should be cultivated by every artist, from the humble novice to the old hack.
Bitterness is both a self-defence and an artistic statement.
Bitterness makes you outspoken and, more importantly, keeps you outspoken. Without it you become an arse-licker, a people pleaser, a sycophant. And that way disaster lies.
Bitterness keeps people away, like a dog's snarl. Bitterness keeps you edgy, focussed, able to stay on your own path. Get friendly and you lose your way. Get friendly and they get in your head.
Bitterness keeps you unique. Without it you start to listen to other people's ideas instead of respecting your own. You start to be reasonable – the death-knell to any creativity. Art is never reasonable.
The BBC is reasonable, your mother is reasonable, your dentist is reasonable. It's not your job to be reasonable. Reasonable is for civil servants. Reasonable didn't create Jesus Christ, Mickey Mouse or the Sistine Chapel.
Whether you admire those things or not is irrelevant; what none of them are, or were, is reasonable – and what they all have in common is cantankerous, irascible, unreasonable people behind them. At least two of whom felt bitter from time to time – and I'm not even too sure about Jesus.
I, of course, take bitterness too far. I mistrust everyone – including the people who can help me.
Of course, I don't believe I take it too far – I think I've got it exactly right – but there's no doubt it sometimes gets in my way. While other less embittered souls might be effectively jumping on bandwagons I'll be standing in my corner going, "Yeah, and you can fuck off, mate."
A couple of nights ago I was playing hostess at an event which shall remain nameless because I'm not stupid as well as bitter. I smiled a lot, I kept moving, working the room, meeting and greeting, offering food, taking photos, topping up the props, generally checking that everything ran smoothly.
I did this for two hours, being sweet, smiley, genial – generally not myself at all. This is fine, good. Wasn't my event – it's what I was there for. There was no-one I wanted to meet, no-one I cared for, nothing I wanted. I was content to be geisha.
I was careful not to get tied up in conversations, to avoid eye contact after the initial introduction. If I was engaged I couldn't do my job.
And so it went on. By the end of the two hours the room was thinning, guests had left and I decided to take myself round the room to see the exhibit.
Big mistake.
I got collared by all the people who had wanted to talk to me earlier but who had been unable to engage me. Suddenly, reading, I was a captive audience. Apparently reading means you can be interrupted.
However, in charming mode, I smiled, I listened, I gave the impression that I cared.
A quick aside for those interested in human psychology. If you ever have to engage when you don't want to this is how you do it:-
You smile, broadly, without showing teeth, making sure your eyes smile also (very important – humans can spot a fake smile fifty miles away). You listen, making sure you always look into the eyes and occasionally at the mouth. This is read by your listener as you watching to see what they are going to say. It's not necessary to say yes or encourage, just listening will do it, but smiling occasionally in response to what they say – or laughing, if you can do this naturally – will very much endear you to them. By all means interject occasionally because this shows you are actually listening. Do NOT ever give the impression you are waiting for them to finish so you can talk. They want you to listen to them, not vice versa.
This may appear calculating (and it is), but all charming people have learned it. In fact, the most charming people and the best listeners often have the most tricks up their sleeves. Without any ill-intent. As I had no ill-intent. Just keep the customer satisfied.
However, the downside was I got stalked by a gossip columnist who decided to take a shine to me. And a photo-journalist. And a psychiatrist. And a creativity consultant. And a charming chap from the Mediterranean who decided I should write his wife's book for her. (Yes, seriously.)
I actually had to fight off the columnist, who was most insistent that I give him my phone number.
And this is where my attitude gets silly. Do you know of any artist who would actually fight off a gossip columnist?
No, didn't think so.
Part of me came home, incredulous at my own 'stupidity'. Part of me is damn happy I'm like that. What could he do for me? Why would I want him to?
In my defence I didn't know who he was, and cared less. Although I realised by the end of the evening that he was 'someone', as everyone in the room knew him, and I'd been presented to him like he was the Queen Mother. But the truth is I didn't even care enough to care about caring who he was. If you get my drift.
Now, of course, after telling Mr Scratchmann, he's determined to milk this for all it's worth – and he's right, of course. And I will. But I still don't really care.
More importantly, even although I know that if I phoned my Mover & Shaker, took him out for a drink, that I could woo him and get some useful contacts – maybe – I really don't want to go there.
It nearly killed me to be Miss Nice for an evening. I cannot be arsed. Christ, I'm bitter, for God's sake. I like being bitter. It means I don't have to court anyone, be smiley, flirt, have conversations with men who talk to my tits, listen to their anecdotes, pretend I care about all the famous people they've met, pretend I think their jobs are worthwhile, pretend anything.
I get to stay home, write my grudging blog, write my dark, twisted prose, see the worst in everyone – and I'm happy.
Yes, I like to be bitter. I've worked hard for it, and now it's working hard for me.
Bitterness is your friend, embrace it and be free.
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