Alpha Schmalpha......

 

Heroes may not be braver than anyone else. They're just braver five minutes longer. ----Ronald Reagan

 

During a discussion about alpha males, a dear writer friend chided me and said I was a ‘true beta lover’.

Why?

Because I love a man who has that trace of something that lets him cry, lets him be in touch with—and, damn, does this ever sound cliché?—his sensitive side. I was going to say his feminine side, but who says crying was strictly a girl thing?

Busted. She’s right. I accept my crown graciously and wear it with pride.

But, wait.

The truth of the matter is, I decided to research alpha and beta males.

After studying, I admit my idea of what constitutes an alpha male was pretty much off target. For some reason, I believed alphas had to be perfect in every way—strength, confidence, looks, charm, the whole checklist of qualities to make him…well, a hero. Turns out, like I said, I was wrong. The distinction between alphas and betas is really nothing more than a matter of leadership, a take-charge, protector persona as opposed to a more secondary male role.

The role of beta male was, however, more clearly defined. And it was as follows: An unremarkable, careful man who avoids risk and confrontation. Beta males lack the physical presence, charisma and confidence of the Alpha male.

Aha! Turns out, according to that description, I may have to relinquish my Queen of the Beta Lovers crown because that is not the personification of the male characters I love.

Here’s the question, then, if the above is truly a portrait of a beta male: Who the hell is the character I love? So he cries, sure. But he does not avoid risk or confrontation, he certainly doesn't lack physical presence, and most assuredly does have charisma and confidence.

So. Is he an alpha or not? I don’t know. You tell me.

Many writers and readers feel that an alpha male indeed can be vulnerable, can cry. In fact, they love them more when they do exhibit these tendencies.

But others argue that it emasculates them to some degree, strips them of the alpha status. Many see this in the case of real-life relationships as well. Let a man cry at something, and he's out the door on his bum faster than you can say Jack Be Nimble.

Does crying, being easily affected by emotion, make a man less masculine? I don’t think so. If anything, I think it makes him more masculine, simply for the fact that he's strong enough, confident enough to not feel the need to hide behind a macho persona.

Jose Saramago said this: I never appreciated 'positive heroes' in literature. They are almost always clichés, copies of copies, until the model is exhausted. I prefer perplexity, doubt, uncertainty, not just because it provides a more 'productive' literary raw material, but because that is the way we humans really are.

Interesting!

An example who comes to my mind is King David. Powerful King of Jerusalem, fearless leader of legions in his army. Wise. Yet one of the most romantic, poetic souls in history. The Psalms contain some of the most agonizing, tearful, poignant prose ever written. Yet his constant inner angst personified the beauty of his character without negating his power.

I think I shall not categorize my heroes into alpha, beta, or any other Greek alphabet. They just are who they are. How about if I just call them the heroes of the story?

But for those who might feel there should be that distinction—alpha as opposed to beta—does a hero lose critical points for being sensitive and possibly vulnerable? As long as these softer sides of his persona do not thwart his ability to take control, can he still be an alpha male?

 

 

 

 

Apology to a Book....

 

“No name-calling truly bites deep unless, in some dark part of us, we believe it. If we are confident enough then it is just noise.”  ― Laurell K. Hamilton

My first book (contract long expired) was published in 2011.

Like all new authors, I was in the clouds. The entire experience, from finishing the novel to the offering of a contract, to the first glimpse of the cover to the event—its release.

 And then reviews.

Most authors may have much more confidence that I do. Feedback may not affect them. Bad reviews may glide off them like water on a duck's back, and good feedback may just be taken in stride.

Not me.

Oh, I got many wonderful reviews. Some cited good, strong positives about my writing as well as informative and appreciated constructive criticism of the book’s weaker points. Most importantly, many took my book seriously. My chest swelled with pride.

But here's the kicker.

The weeds—those unavoidable yet necessary weeds called negative feedback—cropped up in my lovely garden of praise.

In retrospect (you know how you remember the harsh stuff more than anything else?), I think the worst hit to my pride was for a reviewer to call the plot silly.

Ouch.

To compound the fracture of the embarrassment, the reviewer's tone was—and how I hate this word—snarky. It made fun of the plot! To have my book mocked in such a demeaning fashion was hurtful, especially as I was a new author.

Welcome to the world of thick skin development! Double ouch.

 In my smashed ego-vision, I saw the reviewer as a sort of Skut Farkas (A Christmas Story), making fun of my silly story and taunting me to run home and tell my mommy.

Oh, hey, I'm not pitying myself. I'll be the first to admit the plot probably was kind of silly. I learned the hard way—which I have to admit might be the best way—that plotting was not my strong suit in writing. I did have many strengths, but, alas, plot creation might not have been among them.

Even this realization didn’'t discourage me. I'd learn to put the iron to my writing weaknesses. To acknowledge those issues and work on them could and still can only improve my skills.

What did bother me is that I took that particular weed and held it close to my heart, clung to it and, for some reason, set it as the standard for my self-confidence.

After that review, I even found myself warning potential readers, Hey, the plot is pretty silly, just warning you. Or, Hope you enjoy my silly little book. Yes! I even warned that my book was silly!

Tragically, I constantly referred to my book as silly. And I meant it. I really believed—because someone poked fun at my book—that it was a piece of garbage.

Shame on me.

Recently, after the first year had passed, after I'd resigned myself to having a silly book to my name, after apologizing constantly for the book itself—I took a long look at the story.

And you know what?

I cried first, just from reliving the memories of writing it, the pride in being accepted by the publisher, the thrill of it all. And, finally, I cried because I'd be damned if I didn't see my baby through new eyes, and actually found myself admitting it wasn't such a bad book after all. It had its good points as well as its bad, and I was sorry that I'd spent so much negative time on being embarrassed by it.

It was a first book. Some write perfect first books. I did not. Yes, the silly plot hadn't miraculously changed in a year's time. It was still there.

But I finally allowed myself the pride I should have had all along. I realized that the silly thing was to have judged and condemned my own work based on one comment in one review. I'm not saying I should not have taken the feedback seriously. I should. And still I do.

But I shouldn't have lost my pride in my work—which put the shadows of doubt on any future works and in my ability—based on one little neutron of negativity.

I'll always embrace humility in my work, but I'll write to the best of my ability and I'll try to embrace my pride as well. A happy medium of both, I hope.

So, my precious little book. I owe you an apology for letting myself ever be ashamed of you. You weren't such a bad little book after all.