The Art of Self-Promotion

“So what is it that brings you to me?” asked the performance coach after the first of four awkward silences. I mention them because I still have trouble with them, which at the age of forty-two and a half is somewhat embarrassing. We were about three minutes into the first free, thirty-min session.

We had exchanged pleasantries before. I had awkwardly brought up the weather as an ice-breaker after noticing the aurora borealis-laden Zoom virtual background and the sleeveless heavy winter jacket he was wearing.

He said, “I live in the foothills of Himachal Pradesh—it’s freezing here. I wouldn’t mind trading places with you right now.”

I guess he meant “Himalayas.” I realize that my frosty metaphor could have been literal if I had been there, which is something I might need to work toward. I’m not sure if I’m cut out for perennial cold weather, but the invitation of quiet is overbearing.

I eventually respond to the question. A long and winding answer, but I eventually manage to sum it up and wait for a response. That’s when I realize that I hadn’t finished my story.

So I add,

“As an artist, I think I am well-rounded in most aspects of creation and performance. What I find myself falling short of, thanks to my depression and social anxiety, is a sustainable way to get my art out there, exposed to the rest of the world, waiting for acts of judgment and critique from people, who may not even know what they are talking about.”

A couple of moments of silence pass, and I find myself marching on:

“I guess I’m talking about self-promotion and marketing that goes hand in hand with music these days. One can even argue that content and talent is not as important as promotional skills and perseverance. I used to do this for my band back in the day, so I know I can do it. But I somehow don’t seem to have the strength anymore. The act of creation has taken a step back too because of the inevitable motion toward self-promotional stagnation. So my idea of a coach is someone who offers support and who is an enabler and a motivator for me to do what needs to be done. Somewhere between the role of a manager and a coach.”

He returns with the elegance of a backhand chip return:

“I hear you and I can help you. I work with my clients in whatever way that I think would help them achieve their goals. Twenty-four-seven, I think about them. So my clients may even get text messages from me at three in the morning. If there’s something that I think I need to communicate, I will, regardless of time and place.”

It lands gently, but it sounded intrusive and dangerous. I’m worried that the juggernaut of drive and intent might even run me over. Feelings of alienation and anxiety start to gently wash over me. It was the second uncomfortable silence, much longer than the first.

I am grateful that there is no effort to break it from his end. He seems to simply sit there in the cold and watch my grainy 720p video. Is he sizing me up? Maybe my smile isn’t thick enough to veil my vexation.

I respond with some deflective conversation until I eventually find my way back with a question about his writing. After all, he has written and published books. At least one bestseller as far as I can see from his websites. I’d even checked the book out on Amazon. I now know that it is available for free on Kindle Unlimited, which I had recently started subscribing to. I guess I’ll download it and check it out.

“You must have also gone through phases of self-doubt and reticence while you were in the process of writing/publishing your book.”

The answer is a smash.

“No. I did not. In fact, I wrote my book without even reading any. Of course, I’d read books through school and college, but nothing worth mentioning since then. I decided that I wanted to write a book, so I found a book-writing coach—India’s premier one, in fact. I took lessons and simply wrote the book. I had to choose an attractive topic, and the rest was pretty straightforward.”

The audacity! Or was it just self-belief? What would I think of myself if I had done something of this sort? What would others think?

But that’s the whole point, isn’t it?

I remember my friend Dennis telling me on our way back to Medical College in his Maruti 1000. We had just had lunch at the Indian Coffee House after a morning of lectures in microbiology and forensic medicine. We had been discussing Asimov’s writing in the backdrop of The Foundation series. I had borrowed two of the books from the initial trilogy from him, but I had to pick up the rest from the lending library that my parents had bought me and my sister a subscription for.

Somewhere along, I must have expressed my desire to write like Asimov.

“You want to write?! For every book you write, you’d have to read at least ten. Maybe a hundred. Don’t even dream about it until you have read enough!”

He was/is right, of course. Reading a lot makes you a better writer. Listening to a lot of good music, written by talented songwriters and crystallized heart-felt renderings, has given me the information and inspiration to hone my musical craft too.

It has, or they have, brought me here. My as-of-yet insubstantial attempts at writing prose/poetry and producing/recording/performing original compositions stem from it or them. The mountain that is starting at me, or I’m staring at, is the process of getting it all together in a nice little package, getting it out there, planting it in the center of the cauldron of humanity.

This is the third silence, by the way. It gets broken by him this time. He tells me a story, the details of which I fail to recollect. But it did end with this thought.

“I believe in the philosophy of not worrying about what others think. It’s their job to think, criticize, and judge. It’s mine to not care about them or their thoughts. Simply put, I don’t care.”

This was the longest period of silence. I find myself immersed in a pool of awe and disbelief, shimmering with a thin layer of intimidation at the top.

Was it even polite to be this way? What about humility and introspection? I thought it was necessary to be painfully—but I guess not debilitatingly—self-aware, armed with the knowledge of one’s perfectly ignorable position in a world full of artistic pinnacles. Then again, I realize that they are propped up by artistic debacles that are more by orders of magnitude.

The conversation meanders to a close with discussions about fees and frequency of the coaching sessions. We hang up soon afterward, but my guard is up at the prospect of further monetary onslaughts, but I do have someone who can guide me about this. Another coach, in fact. A finance/investment consultant.

Hours later, what stays with me is this:

“He is either someone who I absolutely need or someone who I should stay far away from.”

The latter is already a reality, at least physically, but I think I need to move closer to him—while not being him, of course—and his state, not just physically but also cognitively.