Arrogance vs. Assurance: or, Bite Me, Pt. 2

This world seems filled with people who misunderstand the difference between self-confidence and arrogance . . . I encountered another one today. (How surprising, right?)

I am, by nature, cautious. When I dip my toe into a new endeavor — in this case, publishing a novel — I do research to make sure nobody’s scamming me. When I signed with an agent, I contacted several of her other clients to get their opinions. When I signed with a publisher, I contacted other authors to see how they felt about their experience with that label. I mean, come on: if you buy a freakin’ car, you go to an independant mechanic to get it checked out, right? Common sense. It’s all the same idea: don’t get taken advantage of. Not a difficult concept, really. Especially after you’ve been burned a few times. (I have.)

Now I’ve had people call me a scaredy cat, and a wuss, and afraid of my own shadow — while others nag me that I’m not doing *enough* background research and question the validity of what I’ve done. So I know I can’t win by looking to other people for approval of my methods. At some point on any issue, I have to draw the line and say, this is good enough and this is what I’m going to do, and if someone else doesn’t approve, well, they can bite me!

I understand that some people call this maturity. Others call it self-confidence. Others call it arrogance. Who’s right? The line between is fuzzy and grey, and one woman’s “PMS” is another woman’s “standing up for herself”.

Back to the case at hand, which prompted this particular rant. I had called someone for a reference on an upcoming project, as described above — I won’t get into more details than that, except to note that it in no way involved my publisher nor my agent. I asked one question: what was your experience with this company? I explained why I was asking, and was instantly told: “That’s the wrong question to ask. You’re getting way too hung up on whether this is a good company or a bad company. It doesn’t matter.”

(Huh?!?)

The individual went on for roughly thirty minutes — barrelled on might be closer to the truth — leaving me precious little to say or room to say it in. He dispensed unsolicited and unwanted advice without asking me if I already had done research on the topic, fired questions at me as though he were interviewing me on some political talking-head show on a hot button topic, and jumped all over my answers. I finally caught enough breath to say, “You know, all I wanted was to get your opinion on this company. I think that’s why I’m having trouble answering your questions, I wasn’t expecting something like this.”

“You have to be ready,” he told me. “To promote your business, you have to be able to answer unexpected questions like this at any time.” And he was off again, loud and insistent. At one point he actually said, “Some people think I’m an a–hole, but you know, I’ll tell you the truth. Your friends won’t tell you the truth. I will.”

I finally got him off the phone. And promptly burst into tears. Believe me, that doesn’t happen often these days; but he was that damn corrosive. It took me about two hours to calm down, and I’m still hugely pissed over all the things I wish I’d gotten the chance to say. Such as: boy, I can tell you really love the sound of your own voice! and: you’re right, you are an a–hole. And: who the hell asked you, anyway? Why are you assuming I know nothing about this topic? Why aren’t you even giving me a chance to speak? How dare you run your mouth for a half an hour at me, and make me cry? How dare you? I’m not some flitty little twit straight out of high school, I’m a responsible, respected adult with considerably more than half a brain; I called expecting to be treated as an equal, with one damn question. So bite me.

I will say, without a doubt, I believe this guy had arrogance, not self assurance. Although he clearly had the definitions reversed. And perhaps, in his universe, I am a flitty little twit without a hope, without a clue, without a chance of making it into the big leagues. And maybe he’s right. But you know what? I don’t want to live in his world. I don’t want to be like him, if that’s what it takes to “succeed”. I don’t want to make other people cry; I don’t want to talk over them. I want to listen more than I talk, I want to laugh more than I lecture, and I want to admit without hesitation that I am not the most knowledgable person, on any subject, and probably never will be. I want to learn. I want to teach, but I want to always, always remember that while I may know more than my students on one topic, they can run circles around me on a dozen others. So they deserve my respect, no matter their age, gender, IQ level, or educational achievements.

I’m not superior. I’m not special. I will probably always suck royally at self-marketing because of that belief, but I’ll just have to muddle through and do the best I can. Am I the best writer out there? Oh, hell no. I’m no Tolkien, no Silverberg, no Marion Zimmer Bradley or Mary Gentle. I tell stories. I do the best I can with them. I’m fortunate enough to have terrific family, friends, agent and editor/publisher support to make the work shine. If all those supports fell away tomorrow and I had to start over, I’d be hurting like hell, but I’d do it. I’d pick myself up and I’d start over. And over. And over. Until I got back to where I wanted to be.

That is my definition of self-assurance and self-confidence: knowing that I would get up and try again, and eventually succeed. While arrogance . . . is assuming that people would want to jump out and help me climb to my feet. Assuming that a single other damn person on this planet gives a flaming flip about a single word I have to say or write is arrogance. I don’t assume. I pray. I hope. I try to make my words interesting enough to linger over. I’m grateful when I succeed.

Talking at a complete stranger for half an hour . . . without pausing to ask if that person actually wants to hear what I’m saying . . . is a revolting notion to me. Truly offensive, rude beyond words, and, in the end, arrogant.

I like to say “the world is big enough for all of us” — and in this case, I hope I’m right. Because I’m sure hoping never to run into this guy again.