I’ve been getting better. I say thank you, and am polite about it, but inside it’s another story. I figure that if people really like something, they’ll buy it. Words are cheap. I’m sure people are sincere. However, I’m never sure if they really mean it, or are just being nice.
The things I really care about—people don’t buy. The things that my employer buys—just isn’t that important to me. I like to do a good job, or even an excellent job, but I want to be rewarded, not with words, but with a raise.
For many years of my life, I never got raises. My boss always had an excuse. So I figured my work wasn’t worth much to him, and that it probably wasn’t worth much to anyone. I have a better boss now, and he has fought to get me raises, so I know he likes my work. The only problem is that once I got sick, I stopped working, and that’s when the biggest raise came. So it was all weird, and I didn’t feel right about it, because I was no longer deserving of it.
People are generally appreciative of my music and of stuff I write. But I don’t make a living with either. The music, I don’t mind so much. The writing is another story. I like praise, but (isn’t there always a “but”?) I don’t know what it means. I know if means this person liked something, but I’ve found there are people—maybe a lot of them—who like things but never say so. Maybe there are more people who like stuff I write, but never say so. So I wonder if there are enough to make it possible for me to sell my writing.
In the past, I would deny praise because it felt fake. I’m not one of those people who can live off praise. Show me the money. Then I know you’re serious. So, since there never was any money, I assumed I was no good, and therefore people who praised me were just being polite. When I was sick, it was even worse. I would try to convince people they were wrong. Too weird. Too weird.