How a Public Speaking Phobia Almost Destroyed My Career

One of the things I've observed about life is that people who are successful often have to make dramatic changes to the way they think about themselves, and to their behaviour patterns, in order to achieve their goals and dreams.
 

Self-change is not easy.  At times, it requires a head-on confrontation with our deepest fears.  Yet, unless you're willing to change yourself, the chances are that you will not fully achieve what you desire.

One of the examples from my own life was my fear of public speaking.  About the time I turned 13, I suddenly became very awkward self-conscious, and this in turn led to a deathly fear of any form of speaking in public.  Standing in front of a class and giving an oral report was terrifying to me.  The mere thought of it brought on a full-blown anxiety attack, complete with palpitating heart, sweaty palms, parched throat and shortness of breath. 

Giving oral reports became so noxious that there was only one way I dealt with them.

I refused to give them, no matter what the cost.

This wasn't a big problem during junior high or most of high school.  If I was supposed to do an oral report, I just played sick that day or skipped class.  By the next day the teacher had usually moved onto something else and forgot about it.  If not, I simply took a bad grade and didn't give it further thought.

But when I reached the 12^th grade, I decided I wanted to go to engineering school and got more serious about my studies.  I signed up for a chemistry course which was taught by the girls basketball coach.  This woman was the proverbial Teacher From Hell.  She was 6' 3" had a personality that was about as kind and gentle as a freight train.  In all fairness, though, she was a fantastic chemistry teacher, and I made straight A's in her class all through the fall semester.

Then, at the beginning of December, she made the following announcement.

"Every student with a B average or higher must do a science project and submit it to the Vanderbilt Science Fair.    In April, you must do a 15 minute presentation for our class."

I felt like a nuclear warhead had just been dropped in my lap.  I immediately made the decision not to do a science project.  If I didn't do one, how could I do an oral report on it?  The fact that she said that our entire mark that six weeks would depend on it was bothersome, but I could deal with that later.   

By the time April rolled around, I was sweating bullets.

When the day of my presentation came, the teacher looked expectantly at me and nodded.  "Mike Wells?"

"I didn't do a science project," I muttered.

The transformation her face underwent was worthy of a horror flick.  "Excuse me?"

"I said, I didn't do a science project."

The classroom was dead silent.

"May I talk to you privately?"  she said, through gritted teeth.  She marched me out into the hallway and shut the door so the rest of the class couldn't hear.  Towering over me, she said, "What do you mean, you didn't 'do' a science project?"

I shrugged.  "I just didn't do one."

Pointing the classroom, she said,  "If you don't get up there and say something, you're getting an F for the entire six weeks.  Do you understand me?"

"You do whatever you need to do," I said.  "I have nothing to present."

As promised, when I got my report card for chemistry at the end of that six week period, there was an angry-looking red F across the top, with an asterisk next to it.  The footnote said Science project—refused to comply.

I'd like to tell you that my bold actions with that teacher was the result of sheer courageousness on my part, but there was more to it than bravado.   Two months before science project was due I been admitted to the Vanderbilt School of Engineering.  At that point, I was sure that Vanderbilt wouldn't change its mind about letting me in just because of one bad mark in a class.

But my admission to Vanderbilt had a catch.  I had a weak background in math and science, so I had to pass a pre-engineering summer school that the engineering school ran for students like me. 

The summer school was taught by a heavyset, bearded professor of civil engineering who was even more intimidating than my chemistry teacher had been.  The course was broken into eight two-week modules.  As he passed out the syllabus to me and the 40 or other slackers who were in the same boat, the blood drained from my face.  Module 3 had caught my eye:

Communications Skills:  Each student will give a 10 minute oral presentation.

The moment that class was over, I went to the professor's office.  He was already sitting behind his big desk, looking very busy.

"Yes?" he said, without even glancing up.

"I'd like to talk to you about that oral report we have to do."

"What about it?"

"It's just that...I can't do it."

He looked up, frowning.  "What you do mean, you can't do it?"

"I don't do oral reports."

"Oh?  Well, we do do oral reports.  And if you don't do one, you don't pass this course."

"But—"

"And if you don't pass this course, you don't go to engineering school.  Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

I was trapped. 

The reports were scheduled for mid-July.  My anxiety escalated with each passing day.

Finally, I came up with an escape plan.    One of my uncles was a physician, I begged my mother to ask him to write me a doctor's excuse to get me out of the presentation.

"A doctor's excuse?" she said.  " I don't understand."

"He can say I have a clinical phobia about doing oral presentations."

"Don't be ridiculous, Mike."

"It's not ridiculous!  He could say that it would be dangerous for me to do an oral report."

My mother rolled her eyes.  "You have stage fright, like everybody else.  Just do the report, Mike."

"Mom, I can't!  If I have to do it, I'll die!"

I badgered my mother until she finally caved in and asked my uncle to write me the doctor's excuse.   Which he did, reluctantly.  I'm sure he thought it was as ridiculous as my mother did, but I was certain it would work.

When I presented the paper to my professor, he silently read it, then handed it back to me. 

"That's fine.  You're excused from the assignment."

"I am?" It had been so easy I was caught off guard

"Of course you'll receive an Incomplete in the summer school."  When he saw the look on my face, he said, "You don't think a doctor's excuse gets you out of fulfilling the course requirements, do you?   A doctor's excuse gives you an extension to do the work later, when you're well."  He smiled.  "So as soon as this 'phobia' is cured, you can come give your oral report and join the rest of your friends over in engineering school...that is, if they haven't already graduated by then."

As the day of the report approached, my anxiety escalated to gargantuan proportions.  I might as well have been on Death Row, waiting for the electric chair.

I couldn't eat.  I couldn't sleep. 

The morning I was supposed to give the talk, I was so beside myself with anxiety I did not even feel human.  My slot was scheduled for 8:15.  The only way I could think of to calm myself down was to drink some beer.  Just two, I thought.  That way I could still think clearly enough to give the report. 

At 7 am I was buying a six pack of Budweiser.  Tall boys, just in case.

The weather that morning was ominous—cloudy and blustery, with heavy intermittent showers. By 7:20 I was in the woods across from the engineering building, crouched under an umbrella, downing one beer after another.  I paused and belched, gauging my anxiety level. Two cans didn't seem to have any affect.  I gulped down another.  And another.  Still no effect...

At 8 am, I made my way over to the engineering building, thoroughly soaked—and not just with rainwater.  Despite the fact that I had consumed an entire six pack of tall boys on an empty stomach, my thinking was remarkably clear.  When the professor called my name and I started walking to the front of the classroom, I noticed that the gusty wind outside was causing the entire building to sway back and forth so much that made the floor tip to and fro, like the deck of a ship that's being tossed around in a gale.  I made a mental note to track down the architect and report it as soon as my talk was over.

I have no recollection anything else.  I only know that my worst fears—that the other students would snicker and make fun of me—were not realized.   They could not even look at me.  It was far too painful for them.

I received a D- on the report.  But I didn't care.  I may have made a spectacle of myself, but at least I had gotten through the summer school.   

 From there on out, it was smooth sailing.  Freshman year, sophomore year, junior year, senior year...I not only managed to get through engineering school without every doing another oral report, but  I earned a master's degree in engineering, too.  Most of the classes didn't require oral reports, and in the few that did the reports were for group projects, I always negotiated my way out with the other students– "I'll write everything up if you do the oral report.  Deal?  Deal."

Then I decided to get a PhD.

My advisor quickly noticed that I was a good writer.  By October he had me penning what would be my first academic publication,  a joint paper with both our names on it.  It was about the research we were doing, and it would be submitted to an electrical engineering conference in San Francisco. 

"This is very well-written," my advisor said, as he finished reading my first draft.  "You'll have no trouble presenting this in San Francisco."

"I—what?"

"I said you'll have no trouble presenting this at the conference in San Francisco."

"Me?"

"Yes, you.  Who else?"

"But I can't present a paper at a conference!"

"Why not?"

"Because—you don't understand.  I don't do public speaking."

"What do you mean, you don't 'do' public speaking?"

"I can't speak in front of groups.  It's impossible.   I have a phobia."

He stared at me, confused.  "How the hell do you think you're going to get a PhD if you can't speak in front of a group?   How are you going to defend your dissertation?  You'll have four other professors besides me there, plus an audience of five or ten people!"

"But—"

"And how are you going to teach classes?  I thought that was one reason you wanted to get a PhD."

"I do want to teach, but—"

"And how can you have your own business if you don't 'do' presentations?  Isn't that what you said when you applied here, that you wanted to start an engineering consulting firm?"

When I tried to argue with him, it only made him madder.  Finally, he pointed at me and said, "You're going to San Francisco, and you're presenting this paper.  If you don't, you can forget your PhD.  Now get out of my office!"

I spent the next few weeks in a deep quandary.  I seriously thought about dropping out of the doctoral program...but when I really considered it as an option, it felt so cowardly.  And I kept thinking:  am I going to let this destroy all my dreams, ruin my career? 

In the end, I forced myself to go to San Francisco and present the paper.  It was intimidating, let me tell you, especially having only spoken once in front of a group—while drunk—since I was 12 years old.  There were 200 people in the meeting room, mostly engineering grad students just like me, along with a bunch of professors.   All of them knew just as much or more than I did.

But once I got started, I wasn't as frightened as I thought I would be.  I was older, more confident, and the presentation was about my own research, something that I truly cared about.  Sharing what I was doing with a lot of other people with common interests sparked a tingling of excitement in me. 

I know that on the whole, the presentation was pretty bad.  But afterwards, several people in the audience came up to me and asked questions about what I'd said, and seemed genuinely interested in my work.  This did a lot to raise my confidence level.

When I got back home and told my advisor about it, he said, "You could be a fine public speaker if you really wanted to, Mike."

I was taken aback. "You think so?"

"I know so.  Anyone can be a good public speaker—it's just a matter of wanting to become one, and focusing that.  Public speaking is just like anything else.  It's something you learn."

Today, 30 years later, I'm no Tony Robbins, but I can stand in front of a crowd of 500 people and give a talk and get decent feedback on it.  I feel almost as comfortable standing in front of a group, even a large one, as if I were standing in my own living room.

But back in school, if anyone would have told me, "Mike, one day you'll be a good public speaker and will feel completely at ease talking in front of groups" I would have thought that person was stark, raving mad.  I would have argued vehemently against it, explaining why such a notion was impossible, that I have a phobia about it, that it's just not my "personality type", not in my genes, blah blah blah.

Poppycock!

We human beings are capable of incredible change, especially when we want decide we want to change.  Sometimes we only change as a last resort, when refusing to do so blocks us from achieving our goals and dreams.

The path that I've pursued to become a successful writer has forced me change in many different ways, some of them as dramatic as overcoming my fear of public speaking.  Here is a list of various "I can'ts" that, at one point or another, were blocking me from achieving my writing dreams:

I can't promote myself

I can't deal with rejection from agents and editors

I can't write without inspiration

I can't write synopses of my own books

I can't write without an outline

I can't write with an outline

I can't create my own website/blog

I can't design my own book covers

I can't write and work a full-time job

If you are a writer, do any of these sound familiar?

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Why I Will Never Change the Cover of Wild Child

Although many readers love the cover illustration of my young adult thriller, Wild Child (paperback edition), it is occasionally criticized, and there is a certain pattern in the comments.   “Looks amateurish”, “Not polished” and “Unprofessional” are a few examples.

Well, there's a reason that the cover may appear appear amateurish, unpolished, and unprofessional to some people.  It was created by a 17 year old art student in Atlanta, the winner of a city-wide student art contest I held in 1997 for the best cover illustration for the book.  His name is Seron Fuller, and he is an phenomenal artist.

Over 150 students entered the contest.  No guidance whatsoever was given other than to read the book and come up with the design that they believe best depicted the story and characters.  There were lots of interesting designs, but when I saw Seron’s illustration, I was awestruck.  He chose to depict what I consider the perfect moment in the story, when Briana shows Kyle the magical green water.  The expressions on their faces, and their body language, it says it all!  Briana:   euphoric, hyper, and slightly out of control. And Kyle:  bewildered, concerned and uncertain, as if thinking, “What am I going to do with this girl?”

Before I go on, I want to emphasize that the readers who have criticized the cover design had no idea that it was done by an art student, or that I’d even held such a contest.  I know that these well-meaning readers have only had my best interest at heart—most raved about the story and the writing.  They only want to see Wild Child get into the hands of even more readers, believing that a more professional-looking cover would help make that happen.  And they may well be right.

But there are several reasons I will never change the cover design of Wild Child.   

First, a key part of art contest prize was that the winning illustration would be used as the paperback book cover forever.  Not just for the first six months, or until the second paperback edition was published, or until I got tired of the design, but forever. To change the cover now would be going back on my word, and I would never do that.

Second, my books are like my children, and I think most other authors feel the same way.  If you’ve read The Wild Publication Story, you know that I threw 3,000 paperback copies of this little baby in the trash can—every copy I had—before the poor thing could even walk!  Miraculously, she was able to crawl out of  that rubbish bin all by herself and make her way into schools, to help teach young people English, and into the hands of a dozen Amazon resellers, to help those people make a living.  To change the cover now would be like telling my 16 year old daughter, “Honey, you’ve done absolutely amazing things up to this point, but some people think you’re ugly so we’re going to give you plastic surgery.”

Whenever I’ve been tempted to have a new cover designed for the paperback, I always remind myself that it was Seron’s cover that was on all those copies that found their way out of the trash can, and not another.   This may sound silly to some people, but I believe there is a certain magic in his cover illustration, just as there seems to be in the story itself, and that this magic comes across to readers, at least on the paperback edition that you can hold in your hands.

Seron Fuller's Self-portrait

But there’s a far more important reason that I would never change the cover.  When Seron Fuller won the contest and I presented him with his $250 check, I asked him what his future plans were.  He answered, very modestly, “I want to be an illustrator at a Hollywood movie studio.”  I thought this was very ambitious, but on the other hand, with his amazing talent and quiet determination, I did not think that goal was beyond his reach.  I told him so, and I encouraged him to go for it.

Today, 14 years later, Seron Fuller works in as an illustrator in Hollywood, at Paramount Pictures.

Just knowing that his winning the Wild Child cover illustration might have played some small role in his journey to achieve his dreams is worth more to me than any amount of money I could every make from selling mere books.

Thank you, Seron, for being part of the Wild Child magic!

Persistence & the Myth of Overnight Success

I’m always irked by the way the news media presents superstars, particularly in entertainment and the arts, as overnight successes.  The overblown images of these media darlings are much like icebergs.  All you see is the tip.  The many years of hard work and failures that it took for these people get there—the other 9/10ths of the iceberg— is hidden beneath the surface.

The reason superstars are painted this way, I believe, is that it sells newspapers and ad clicks.  Most of us don’t want to hear that Brittney Spears’ spent her entire childhood traveling around the country singing at shopping malls, desperately trying every angle she could to break into show business.  Or that Woody Allen was booed off the stage night after night, for years, until he finally developed his unique style of comedy.  Or that J.K. Rowling lived through a decade of poverty and strife while her writing was endlessly rejected by publishers.

Why don't we want to hear this?  Because it makes being successful sound so very difficult. 

But success is difficult.  It's difficult in any field, at any place, at any time.  

The  "instant success" myth is not only misleading, it's damaging to those just starting out.  If you’re trying to be successful at something and success doesn't come immediately, the way it seems to on TV, it’s only natural to think, "Well, I guess I just don’t have the talent, that magical X factor" and throw in the towel.

There is no "X factor."  We can all name lots of extremely successful people who seem to have very little in the way of raw talent.

The secret is persistence. 

If you study the celebrities I’ve just mentioned as well as successful people in all walks of life, you see that the underlying ingredient—even more important than talent—is pure, blind persistence.   I know that you’ve heard this a thousand times, but it’s true.

Mainly I’m speaking to the many fiction writers out there who are digitally publishing their books like I’m doing, trying to make it as self-published authors.  It’s a tough game, baby, I’m not going to kid you.  I was online for 12 hours a day, three months straight, before I ever sold even one book to anyone who wasn’t already friend or acquaintance.  It's disheartening to get up every morning and check your Amazon or Smashwords sales, and see: 1, 1, 1, 1, 1...knowing that the one book you've sold is the copy your mother or best friend bought as a “mercy buy.”  With everyone around you giving positive but shallowly supportive comments, accompanied by underlying looks that say, “What are you wasting your time with this for?  Don’t you realize it’s fruitless?”   

Under these conditions, the temptation to give up—to escape that debilitating feeling of failure—is almost overpowering.

However, if you persist, and you have something of true value to offer your readers, you will eventually break through.

But the same thing applies to any difficult endeavor in which you're struggling to achieve success.

I have always been impressed with stories of prisoners who were able to dig through a three-foot thick wall of concrete using only a nail or a teaspoon, simply through desperate, dogged persistence.  If you scrape off only 1/8th of an inch of concrete per day, after one week you’ll be one inch of the way through; after 3 months, one foot of the way through; and after 9 months, you’ll reach the other side of the wall.

Persistence.  There is no substitute for it.

Will you have to change your approach from time to time?  Definitely.  If your nail doesn't seem to be scraping away any concrete, sneak into the prison library and steal a paper clip.  Or wet the concrete with water to soften it first.  And by all means, peek into the next cell and see what your neighbor is doing.  If she seems to be making progress, copy her approach.

The theme of persistence is evident in many of my novels.  In Lust, Money & Murder, Elaine Brogan persists through hell and high water to avenge the wrongful imprisonment of her father—she spends four years studying hard in high school so she can get into the Rhode Island School of Design, where she takes a double major in Intaglio Printing and Russian, all so she is qualified to apply for a job at the Secret Service.  Once she gets in, she has to fight her way through the organization's incredibly difficult training academy...and those are just her first few steps!  In both Wild Child and its sequel, Kyle Dunlap persists in trying to find an acceptable solution for Brianna's severe addiction to the green water, going against the will of his domineering father, fighting off aggressive government agents who will stop at nothing to get their hands on it, and resisting Brianna's ceaseless pressure join her in drinking it and becoming an addict himself. 

The most important advice I can give to anyone who is struggling to be successful at anything, is simply:

Never give up.

What Lady Gaga Taught Me about Fiction Writing

Yesterday I watched Weird Al Yankovic’s video parody of Lady Gaga, and I ended up reading a lot of  posts criticizing her.  The usual stuff.  How her music is "superficial crap," how she is nothing more than a Madonna clone, and how her weirdness was carefully crafted for marketing purposes and is not who she really is.

First, I want to say that I’m not the biggest Lady Gaga fan, but whenever millions of people are responding positively to something, I pay attention.  I pay attention for the simple reason that I don't believe they can all be wrong.  Plus, I don't want to miss out on the fun!  Is her music superficial crap?  I don't know, but I happen to like some of it, and I like some of her outrageous videos as well. 

Second, yes, of course the woman has influences!  She is an artist. She acknowledges that Madonna is one of her sources of inspiration.  She also cites Queen and David Bowie.  If you look at her work, you can clearly see the mark of all those superstars.  In turn, if you study Madonna and Queen and David Bowie, you will see their influences, too.  And so on, all the way back to the beginning of music.

But third—the accusation that her weirdness is not genuine—well, this brings me to the subject this post.

 .

The Paradox of Weirdness

One of the most interesting things about success—and I’m talking about success in any field, not just the music business—is that being weird or different is ultimately the most important factor.  Yet, ironically, when you first set out to be successful at something, it seems everyone you encounter pressures you to be like those ahead of you who have already established themselves, to conform to the formula that results from studying the already-successful group as a whole. If you succumb to this pressure, you will inevitably be lost in the sea of other wanna-bees who are following the same formula.

 

Two perfect examples are Cindy Crawford and Arnold Schwarzenegger. When Cindy Crawford began her modeling career, she was repeatedly told by agency owners to have the “unsightly” birthmark removed over her upper lip or she would never make it as a model.  Yet that “unsightly” facial feature became her trademark, the characteristic that set her apart from every other model she was competing against.  It played a significant role in her rise to stardom.

Similarly, Arnold Schwarzenegger was repeatedly told that he would never be successful in Hollywood unless he lost his Austrian accent—“American audiences don’t like foreign accents” was the mantra.  Yet who can ever forget those famous words, “Hasta la vista, baby!” that made motion picture history.  Had they not been uttered in that deadpan, self-assured accent that is pure Arnold, would they have had the same impact?  I think not.

I’ve personally run up against this paradox over and over again in my own work.  It started with my very first novel, Wild Child, which the big NY publishers said was too short.  But I tend to write short books, it’s my style and a way I’m different from many other writers, especially the long-winded ones.  I tried lengthening the book to please the industry experts, but it slowed down the pace.  I eventually published the novel myself, and it went on to be a very successful book.  What is one of the most common praises? “Wild Child is a short, super fast-paced read!”

The same type of thing happened with my book Lust, Money & Murder—the publishers said the protagonist, Elaine Brogan, was “too plain,” that she needed to be more of a superhero.  But that was the whole point!  This is a thriller about an ordinary young woman who goes on to do extraordinary things,  butts heads with one of the most dangerous criminals in the world.  She's able to do this not because she’s a superwoman, but out of sheer tenacity and determination, simple qualities that are within everyone's reach.  I withdrew the book and published it myself.  Readers love this story, and one of the main reasons is that Elaine Brogan is an ordinary person that everyone can identify with. 

Similarly, I was told by the big publishers that readers would find an “evil” baby offensive.  And later:  no female readers are interested in the romantic affairs of a New Age playboy.  Yet my novels Baby Talk and Cosmic Casanova are both receiving outstanding reviews.

Odd, isn’t it?    

The very elements the experts criticize and want changed always turn out to be the strongest elements of my books.

It takes courage to fly in the face of all that criticism and advice (well-meaning, I'm sure) and stick to your guns, to maintain your uniqueness.  At times you really wonder if you're shooting yourself in the foot by not conforming. 

So, back to Lady Gaga, and the third criticism I mentioned.  Is her weirdness natural, or is it part of her act?

The answer is, it doesn't matter.  The fact that she's different is a major factor in her success, there's no doubt about that.  It took a lot of guts to do what she's done.

Lady Gaga, even though I know you will never read my words on my little blog, I thank you for the inspiration.

You dare to be different.

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