Self-questioning

I'm probably not the only one who assumes that my way is the best way. That would work fine if I were the only one around. But what when someone suggests a better way?

If I'm really invested in my way, my first reaction would likely be to get mad, or at least a bit irritated. How dare they? I might even argue with them. If that doesn't work, the next temptation would be to devalue their opinion. What do they know anyway?

As it happens, there are rare occasions when they're right. My eyes sometimes tell me that their way is better and, and however painfully, I have to acknowledge it. Changing is likely to be uncomfortable because I'm used to my way. As much as I might want to resist, I know in the back of my mind that I'm only hurting myself if I don't adapt.

Such is the case with my writing. I've written three books. Does that mean I know how to write? I don't enjoy telling you that the truth is far different. More and more, I'm feeling like a beginner. That's especially true because writing is important to me and I'm truly dedicated to being good at it. What I'm learning—the changes I'm making—are often painful. I liked my earlier explanations. I' ve found it satisfying to have readers clearly understand my points.

What I'm coming to terms with is the fact that sometimes my explanations detracted from the immediacy of the reader experience. I was being self-protective by saying too much or being cute with my writing. The kind of writing that I'm now attempting doesn't allow me to set speed records on my keyboard. It involves serious, and sometimes even painful, thought. I'm constantly questioning myself… my style… the words I just wrote. What's more, it's becoming more important to cut material that I like than it is to add something new.

I will continue to show my work in progress as the first chapter begins to develop. I'm describing the beginning of the initial session. The beginning is especially delicate because it involves a feeling out process. In general, the client wants to trust. They have to determine whether it's worth the risk. And if so, how far to go.

The therapist provides an invitation. It's open ended. It can't sound nosey or intrusive. Neither can the opening be so bland that nothing happens. Of course, even that statement requires qualification. It all depends on what's right for that client. Here's what happens as the session begins:

             She looked around my office, pausing briefly with my diplomas before sitting gracefully. She leaned back and crossed her legs, all the while keeping her purse in her lap.

             I began with my usual, open-ended question. "Linda, what brings you here today."

             "I was talking to some of my friends at the club. They said they had seen a psychologist and found it to be worthwhile. I decided, what the heck. I have plenty of time on my hands and nothing better to do, so I looked in the paper and saw you had just opened a practice."

             "How about telling me something about your life? Who is Linda?"

             She looked around until her gaze settled on the door. "What is this… like a philosophy class? I'm just not sure it's going to be worth my time."

             I gritted my teeth and waited to see what she what direction she would take.

             Finally, she said, "I’m no one special. My life is actually pretty routine. I sleep late quite a bit. The housekeeper wakes me up most days, so I get dressed and go to the gym."

             She stopped and looked at me. "Do you really need to know all this? It doesn't have anything to do with why I called."

             I held myself in check.

             She stole a glance at the door and then back at me. I felt myself start to breathe again as she continued. "After my workout, I have brunch or lunch, depending on the time. I spend a lot of time in the afternoon with phone calls and, I’m almost embarrassed to say, social media."

             I smiled briefly. "How do you feel about your day-to-day life?"

             Her jaw clenched slightly. "Well, it’s pretty much what I always wanted."

             "You created the lifestyle you wanted. What's it like to live in it?"

             Again, a brief tightening of the jaw as she looked to the side.

             "It’s okay. I mean it’s pretty much what I'd dreamed of."

             "Is it what you thought it would be?"

             She gathered herself and shifted her weight to the edge of the chair. "Look, I hardly know you. You're asking questions that aren't easy to answer."

             I felt a momentary tightening. "We're going to work at the pace that's right for you. This is your time."