I’m proud to be taking the reins this week at the Carrot Ranch, with a flash fiction prompt on showing someone around a property. My theme arose partly from the open weekend at North Lees Hall, which attracted over a thousand visitors across the two days. Although I got rather chilled standing in the doorway trying to steer a one-way system on the two sets of stairs, it was great fun. For those who couldn’t make it to Derbyshire, here’s a virtual tour of the house, both inside and out.
Did you notice the p-word in my opening sentence? Did it make you wince? If so, I hope I can persuade you that, not only is the adjective perfectly apt for the purpose, you should lay claim to it yourself.
I accept that language evolves faster than species, and words can change to mean their opposite in a generation or less. I’ve almost adapted to literally meaning figuratively and obviously meaning not obvious at all. But I can’t stomach people saying they’ve been humbled when they’ve been praised or received an award.
I have an idea where it might come from. We were taught that humility is a virtue and pride a sin. But with the ever-so-‘umble Uriah Heap one of the slipperiest Dickensian characters we’ve been warned of the unattractive face of exaggerated claims to humility. Why not learn from the Pride movements of marginalised identities, such as LGBT, to claim proud not as a vanity, but as triumph over prejudice and a joyful self-acceptance?
I’m proud to have published a novel that readers seem to enjoy, happy with what I’ve achieved while acknowledging a huge leap for Anne is a teeny tiny step for womankind. I’ve been moved and touched by the generosity of the reviews, but I most definitely haven’t been humbled (as in shamed or robbed of my pride). And if an author were to say they’d been humbled by one of my reviews, I’d be insulted, unless it were a really damning review, as it would mean the appreciation of someone like me equates with a drop in their status.
A writer, at whatever stage, will have enough genuinely humbling experiences to prevent our heads growing excessively large. Remember that descriptive paragraph you slaved over that your critique group considered riddled with cliché? Remember the story you poured your heart into that was dismissed as oversentimental? There’s the gruelling journey to publication and, once published, the discovery that, apart from perhaps at your launch party, readers aren’t queueing up to read your words. Then there’s the inability to find your name on the latest literary prize longlist, and the painful reviews. Even highly successful authors aren’t immune from the feeling of failure when their work doesn’t manage to shine.
So let’s not deny our achievements in a simpering false humility. If full-blown pride is too scary, how about the other h-word? I’d be honoured if you would share your reactions to my thoughts.
I have an idea where it might come from. We were taught that humility is a virtue and pride a sin. But with the ever-so-‘umble Uriah Heap one of the slipperiest Dickensian characters we’ve been warned of the unattractive face of exaggerated claims to humility. Why not learn from the Pride movements of marginalised identities, such as LGBT, to claim proud not as a vanity, but as triumph over prejudice and a joyful self-acceptance?
I’m proud to have published a novel that readers seem to enjoy, happy with what I’ve achieved while acknowledging a huge leap for Anne is a teeny tiny step for womankind. I’ve been moved and touched by the generosity of the reviews, but I most definitely haven’t been humbled (as in shamed or robbed of my pride). And if an author were to say they’d been humbled by one of my reviews, I’d be insulted, unless it were a really damning review, as it would mean the appreciation of someone like me equates with a drop in their status.
A writer, at whatever stage, will have enough genuinely humbling experiences to prevent our heads growing excessively large. Remember that descriptive paragraph you slaved over that your critique group considered riddled with cliché? Remember the story you poured your heart into that was dismissed as oversentimental? There’s the gruelling journey to publication and, once published, the discovery that, apart from perhaps at your launch party, readers aren’t queueing up to read your words. Then there’s the inability to find your name on the latest literary prize longlist, and the painful reviews. Even highly successful authors aren’t immune from the feeling of failure when their work doesn’t manage to shine.
So let’s not deny our achievements in a simpering false humility. If full-blown pride is too scary, how about the other h-word? I’d be honoured if you would share your reactions to my thoughts.
| As this is likely to be my last post of the month, I’ll leave you with a reminder of the 13 novels I’ve reviewed in April. Click on the image to catch up with any you’ve missed. |  |
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