in praise of unsolicited compliments

plus a few thoughts on the agonising fragility of the literary ego

Over the weekend a British freelance writer whose work I’ve long admired sent me short Twitter DM saying something kind about a piece I’d just published in the Spectator — a reprint, actually, of an essay I’d initially posted here on single motherhood.¹ This sort of thing happens from time to time and it’s always nice. But this particular bit of praise was especially so because while I know of this woman writer, I don’t actually know her at all. I’m pretty sure I’ve never met her, even in passing, and if I have I was probably tipsy and/or nervous and failed to register who she was (this is the problem with ‘networking’ in London: free champagne). But we follow each other on Twitter which is evidence of… something, I guess? At the very least it means we’re aware of each other and interested in what the other person has to say. We may have actually interacted on Twitter at some point, probably we have, I can’t remember — my Twitter small talk memory is worse than my champagne small talk memory. Point being, this one little DM made my day in the way that only an unexpected compliment offered out of the blue from another writer can.

It got me thinking about the importance of compliments, writer-to-writer compliments in particular, and why some have a more lasting afterglow than others. I honestly cannot express how meaningful it is to be complimented by a respected peer who is not strictly a friend (that last part is important because obviously writer friends make sure to lavish praise on each other like butter on crumpets, it’s like a life-support system, or at least it is for me and mine). But a compliment from an unknown peer is more sustaining than anything. It’s better than a gushing editor’s note or a full court agent pep talk because your editors and agents are already invested in you — it’s their job to be on your team. It even beats praise from an idol, which has happened to me once or twice and, as thrilling as it was, is always a teeny tiny bit suspect, if only in the sense that one worries it might be a form of charity.

Having said that, it’s absolute nonsense that writers are more thin-skinned than the average person. We’re really not (she said defensively). Or if we are, it’s just a natural response to the conditions of the job. Look, all of us are pre-programmed to remember what wounds us and to be wary of false seduction, so if part of your job is putting your work — and by extension yourself — ‘out there,’ you learn to gauge every critical reaction with a jaundiced eye in order to maintain perspective. For writers, considering the source is a matter of survival.