The Incessant Selling of Self

Accomplishment is no longer sufficient. If the webinar falls on deaf ears in the attention economy, the brand called me may be damaged.

So we are subjected to a seemingly endless barrage of tweets, Facebook posts, emails, Instagrams and other digital tom-toms, all seeking to remind us to 'see my interview,' 'read my article,' 'catch my appearance,' etc ad nauseum.

Has it really come to this? Is our culture so devoid of self-awareness or more subtle means of self-expression that the tacky has become the norm? We may hope not but we fear so.

The impetus probably comes from two sources, deeply intertwined, as is every other influence in this society.

The first is that this is, indeed, an attention-driven economy. We seek attention because we believe that in doing so we increase our chances of success. In this case that means the ability to sell more of whatever we are selling, including our own prospects. This, in turn, increases our chances of monetizing our salability. Not exactly a virtuous circle but a rather perfect one, nonetheless.

The second is the plethora of platforms we have at our disposal. It was easy when there were three TV channels and a couple of spots on the radio dial. We didnt expect much because access was restricted to the notorious or already/soon-to-be fabulous. The mass market wouldnt tolerate anything less. Now, however, with a million channels, platforms and other media demanding more of what passes for content, 'everyone' believes they have to get it out there or they risk becoming...invisible. The presumption is that is a prescription for humiliation, destitution and death.

The danger is that we have become addicted to becoming famous for being famous. There is no there there, no end game, no outcome other than seeing one's name or face on someone else's site. Snap a selfie, send it to mom and on to the next one. This is not to say the old way, with its rules and games and personal connections and inherent corruption was any better. But maybe it's time to let the effort and the output speak for itself and enjoy the fruits of that eminently productive labor. Which means leaving the relentless personal horn-tooting to those who can actually make a living at it. JL

Ann Beattie comments in the New York Times:

Young people have been educated to believe that self-promotion is essential.

Being excellent is only part of the scenario, and quick personal advancement is mandatory. Otherwise, all will be lost. All the talent, all the hope, all the achievement. Those things are not meant to speak for themselves: They’re kindling for the fire, and the fire must be breathed out of the mouths of young dragons that have no fear (with tongue piercings removed for job interviews).

How sad for everyone, that they’re expected to have their narrative — facts are to be spun into fiction; they’re prompted to make up a coherent story, though life itself is hardly that — while they’re still developing. Then they’re expected to be “adult” and to ask another adult to endorse them.

Although I am no longer even teaching fiction writing, I nevertheless am regularly asked to recommend former students for residencies, fellowships, unpaid internships, teaching positions and perhaps a trip to the moon. (I know: The moon seems so old-fashioned.) I can’t even imagine what the load on current teachers must be.

It’s almost always open season for these requests, though the end of spring semester is particularly action-packed. You suddenly get lots of email asking where you are and how you’re doing. The candidate reminisces fondly about interactions with you (“You bought me so many cappuccinos!”). Greetings are sent to your husband and your dog, Domani. (It reminds me of someone I once knew who was so excited about the start of fishing season that for weeks in advance, he fed canned corn to the fish in the pond.)

Then comes the request (I’m sympathetic; candidates are asked to do this, it’s not some idea they came up with): Yaddo; the New York Public Library; the Radcliffe Institute; the Bogliasco Foundation; Columbia’s graduate program; a magazine internship; a fellowship; four calling birds; three French hens.

It’s a difficult time for students. It’s also a difficult time for teachers, because even though it isn’t exactly part of the job description, there is the unstated assumption that writing recommendations is part of the job. After all, those students had to have recommendations to get to you.

 As with any presumption that’s implied, it’s hard to articulate exactly what’s unstated. Either at the beginning of their studies or at the end, the subject of writing recommendations is usually no more directly addressed between student and teacher than asking why a person is seeing a psychiatrist. Students, themselves, are apologetic: They misunderstood the deadline; they’ve called on you six times before; they’re sending a link to the organization’s own form because your letter on file with Interfolio, which provides a much-relied-upon, paper-free online service for gathering and relaying letters of recommendation, is not sufficient.

I am regularly contacted for letters of recommendation from former students. If you’ve ever taught a student, you’re fair game forever, according to much older retired professors I know. I remember well that as a professor, I myself read many letters of recommendation — though only as a late-in-the-game curiosity, when the applicant’s writing already spoke for itself. Personal statements, I tried to avoid. In an attempt either to gain or deflect attention, people were often quite bizarre; for example (this is true), writing about how long they soaked in the bath before drying off and applying to graduate school.

Since a young writer’s success does not at all exclusively depend on talent, who would presume to see the future? Yet the requests increase. I must write something original and attention-getting, though high seriousness is the required mode; it’s counterproductive to display much of a sense of humor. I’m sure I’m not the only person who gives out my unlisted phone number in case some human contact is wanted. If the candidate is to succeed, I have to give up my secret. The same way people sometimes ask about a blurb I’ve written for a book, “Is this true?” I am sometimes called, always after many emails establishing a time to speak have been exchanged. (“Please forgive me if yoga class runs a bit late.”)

I’m skeptical about the benefit of soliciting so many opinions. Surely, the crowd should be discomfited, as so many inflated balloons increase the risk of more students’ eventually sinking from sky to field. People on the receiving end have become inured to hearing that everyone is the very best, the very brightest, and though the recommender does not care for poodles, even the person’s dog ...

Almost always, the people at universities and foundations and writers’ colonies who are asking my opinion have never met me. I suspect these recommendations are not exactly, or exclusively, what they seem to be, but statements about the candidate’s ability to play well with others, or lazy acknowledgments of the recommender’s clout. They’re also something to point to if things go wrong: This person, as well as this person, said this was an exemplary young woman!

 There’s already been a cry about grade inflation. Letters of recommendation are an equal problem. If all the letters stopped, the burden might be shifted. What are the standards of those offering opportunities? Couldn’t they conduct interviews and form opinions based on the person and his or her work, rather than amassing letters by seemingly objective authorities that by now everyone takes less than seriously?

Tonight my husband chased a flying squirrel from inside the house to the screened porch. After some effort, with the help of the basket from the salad spinner and an Atlas of the World to clamp over it (well: we were sort of in a panic), and with me holding open the door, my husband walked down the steps and across the lawn, sincerely apologizing to the scared creature trapped inside, and I thought: Off-moments, unrehearsed — there’s where we see a person’s true character.

We were both gratified that the squirrel seemed to be happily dumped out into the night.