You May Be Right

My day started with a review of one of my books—glowing and positive. (Cue warm fuzzies and atta girls!) A few hours later, I received a critique of a play in which I’m performing—in which most of my cast and crew were called out for their extraordinary work, but I was glaringly omitted. (Cue palpable ouch and poor mes!) Of course, neither of these opinions is fact, and neither has any real influence over my wellbeing.

And yet they do. One of them much more than the other. Any guess as to which?

Oh, ego…you snaky little bastard. What is this drive to be acknowledged and liked and validated—and when not, why in the world do I let that rob me of my joy and peace of mind?

Because the thing is, I only do these things—the writing and the performing and the creating in so many different arenas—because they bring me great pleasure and soul-deep satisfaction. How flipping fantastic is that? My life is utterly filled with creative outlets, and each is a joyful opportunity to express and grow and prosper and thrive. Why in the world would I care even the smallest iota what anyone has to say about them?

Oh, that’s right. Because each is an expression of me…and I want to be…well, liked. It’s that simple. And the reality is that plenty of people out there don’t like me, or what I’m doing, or what I think, or what I say, or what I create, or even my existence on this planet.

And plenty of people do.

And neither one has any power over me that I don’t give it.

And…so what? No, really. So what?

A favorite story of mine told by Wayne Dyer is how he received two letters one day—one from a fan praising him to the skies and another from a non-fan explaining what a terrible author and speaker Dr. Dyer is. The good doctor took each letter and sent it to the other with this note attached: “You may be right.”

I’m looking to get to my “you may be right” place. To be so okay that I take neither comment as a reflection on my person but rather simply as someone’s opinion—an opinion from which I may be able to learn and grow—or not.

I’m not there yet. Today I am fully human. And a wonderful writer. Or not. And a terrible actress. Or not.

But I’m a writer and an actress nonetheless. An egocentric, insecure, uncertain, jumbled, weak, and very human hot mess of me-ness, always striving to be a good me—a better me than I have been before. I think I’m growing. I think the lessons are taking hold, and I am becoming a better, stronger, healthier, more secure person by the day.

Or not.

As it happens, I may be right.