I will now reveal a secret

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Rock-climbing, especially at a gym, is a very social sport. This is partly because there is only so much space on the wall. While one person is climbing, dozens more have nothing to do but sit and watch, anxiously anticipating the current climber’s triumphant success or near-miss failure. But we are also very social because climbing is hard on our bodies, and we know we should give ourselves a good few to several minutes between attempts of our own. And so we sit and watch and chat among ourselves, sharing tips and observations, no matter if our skill levels differ wildly — we all know this sport is hard, and even once we’ve progressed, we remember how hard it used to be, and often still is.

And so we all become friends. Any given morning at my gym, I’m likely to see anywhere from a handful to a couple dozen folks I feel I know pretty well. It’s one of the big reasons I keep going: I like these people!

They bring their own friends, too, and make introductions, and that’s how our group grows. It’s pretty goddamn wonderful.

The other week, though, one of my regular friends introduced a new guy, who in the course of the usual small talk complimented me on something minor. So minor that I can’t now remember what it was (or, due to trauma, I’ve blocked it). I deflected. He insisted. I deflected again, he insisted again. “Uh,” I finally said, “I’m not good at compliments.” He shrugged, he got it, we moved on.

It is true: I am not good at compliments. If you’ve read any of my essays on negativity, this will not surprise you. I am much more comfortable being ribbed — gently, please — about my failings, which we all know are amusingly minor compared with my accomplishments. Dis me, friends! It’s what I expect.

Except that a couple of months ago, another of my climbing-gym friends — let’s call him S. — posed us all a question that has echoed in my head ever since. What, S. asked, is the compliment you secretly desire most?

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One answer leapt to my lips: “You were right!” Oh, how delicious it is to be correct, and to be recognized as being correct! I love to think, to calculate, to make educated guesses, to act on hunches — and to, by luck or by design, hit the bullseye. I don’t always, of course. Everyone gets things wrong from time to time. But I care so deeply about getting things right — about precision and honesty — that, well, I’m often right¹. And when I’m not, I like to think, I’m quick and eager to correct myself.

Still, note: My answer wasn’t “You’re right!” It’s “You were right!” Because the only thing better than being correct in the moment is having someone doubt you, ignore you, go down the wrong path, and only then realize they should have listened to you, recognized your genius, in the first place. “You were right!” is an admission of hubris, of failure. “You were right!” portends a change in attitude. “You were right!” is music to my fucking ears.

It’s also not the compliment I secretly desire. That’s because there’s no secret about it. If you’ve met me, you know I love being correct. It’s utterly obvious. I do not hold back my thoughts, analyses, opinions, and that’s because I believe in them and I want them to challenge you and I want them — I want me — to be right. It is the most transparent thing of all.

And so as soon as I answered S.’s question aloud with “You were right,” I knew I was wrong. But we were at the gym, so we had routes to climb, which gave me a chance to rethink my answer. It took a while. “Nice hair”? Please. “You seem comfortable wherever you go”? Not sure I’m comfortable with that one. In fact, almost every compliment I imagined provoked in me the usual sense of unease: They were all demonstrably incorrect (at least to me), vague and meaningless, chit-chat puffery, or the kind of transitory praise that’s the equivalent of a fist bump. Good race. Fun email today.

And then I figured it out. I’d love to say the eureka moment came when I lost my footing on a climb and fell suddenly to the mat, landing with an epiphanic thump. But no: I simply thought of it and it felt right.

The compliment I secretly wish for the most is this: I think about you — about something you wrote — all the time.

This is probably a common one for writers, even if we are ashamed to acknowledge it out loud. Writing is always an act of ego — it takes a good dash of narcissism to risk putting words and thoughts into the world, on pages both printed and virtual. We all want to be lauded for the intellectual and emotional work we’ve accomplished; that’s table stakes in this biz. And if you’re any good at it, if you stick with it a while, you’re likely to receive praise (Nice story this week!) or even awards. But even those can feel transitory — they come soon after pieces are published, and fade with time.

No, what I want is to write things that stick in readers’ heads for years. They don’t have to be full stories or essays. I don’t need anyone to memorize my paragraphs. (That would be kinda weird, tbh.) Actually, it’s better if it’s a mere sentence or phrase, or an idea. Those singular literary objects have a way of lodging in our memories more effectively. They can be turned over, mulled, pondered, reconsidered, warped even, but never fully removed. They’re memes in the olden sense — instantly comprehensible units of cultural transmission, infectious and permanent. If I can create a few of them (without the use of GIFs) and have them linger for decades in your skull, bubbling into your consciousness unbidden, at odd moments — and if you can recognize and report to me that that’s what’s happened — then I have succeeded in life. My secret is out, and my heart is warmed. Praise be! 🪨🪨🪨

What is the compliment you secretly desire the most, {{first_name|my friend}}? Tell me via this form, and I’ll publish the responses — without naming you, of course.