My 13 secRE:t tips on how to be hated (and grow a thicker skin!): Part 1

“I have insecurities of course, but I don’t hang out with anyone who points them out to me.” — Adele

I’m very good at being hated. I hate to say it, because I’m not a hater. But who better than me to give tips on being hated?

I mean, have you ever had a party held in your honour where the guests had nothing in common BUT the fact that they hate you? (And who’ve also taken the liberty of nicknaming you “Icky?”) I have! Awesome, right?

Of course I wrote about this party, which you’ll read about in a sec!

After years and years of "putting myself out there” I actually want new haters. The old haters have actually started to like me. (Mostly, I think, because they finally realized what happens when they pile the hate on. Nothing, really!)

Haters are often my best motivators!

You need a thick skin to be a writer. Remember when “sticks and stones could break your bones, but words could never hurt you?” Well, society doesn’t always remember this.

And writing truly is a profession like no other. Not only do you get disappointment after disappointment via rejections, writer’s block and whatnot, but writers often receive scathing comments that leave many to question why they started typing words into a blank document in the first place.

Maybe, at times, I still am hated. I wouldn’t know. I don’t tend to let haters faze me or my work. I have developed such thick skin — obnoxiously thick, bullet-proof skin — that I’m forced to buy expensive body lotion formulated for extra dry and “hard” skin meant for your feet (or rhinoceroses.)

If any of my articles or blog posts or books, now or in the past, have made people all huffy, or have compelled them to leave nasty comments…well, first, I apologize. Second, it won’t happen again. And third? I just lied. I’m usually not sorry, and it will probably happen again. What can I say?

I have learned that some readers (and reviewers) will never like me or, more importantly, my work. I have long accepted this and learned to never give that much of a fuck.

I know some of you are thinking, “I wish I had a thick skin!”

While I can't guarantee that every writer or author will develop a thick skin, I can guarantee that if you follow some of my tips (in part two), you won’t feel so emotionally injured when you read negative comments on your blog posts or books, or if you receive a string of rejection letters.

I recognize that saying, “Don’t take it personally!” (which is true) is much harder to do in real life. Rejection stings. Comments can be hurtful. But if you can get into the right mindset, all the negativity surrounding what you write may help harden that tender skin and make it easier on you to brush off negative comments.

Or, candidly, at least will make it look optically like you don’t give a shit.

I'm the walking definition of being thick-skinned: someone who is not easily upset, insulted or offended, and who responds to insulting or negative comments with, “Meh. Whatever…” Sometimes, when I receive a horrible comment, I’m like, “Ouch. And what are you going to do next? Throw a piece of tissue paper in my face?” That’s how unaffected I am dealing with haters.

Being thick-skinned is a skill I had to develop. Because if you are thin-skinned, you'll be eaten alive get emotionally hurt and take criticism, rejection, disappointment, and failure hard. (Even being uninvited, let’s say to the Giller Awards, could be perceived as an insult.)

Recently, a woman named Kim, who I am quite fond of, and who blogs regularly about her struggles with depression, reached out to me after one commenter told her to consider buying a journal to write down her personal thoughts instead of posting her blogs on social media. “She has completely derailed me today and has left me questioning everything I do….” Kim wrote.

I was baffled that my friend was so upset over one person’s negative comment — one she kept reading and reading and reading, even though she has a ton of other fans who look forward to her real and raw posts.

She does so much good sharing openly her experience suffering with depression, so I never took into consideration that she would have haters, like, at all. I mean, she already suffers from suicidal tendencies and depression. Why would anyone hate on her?

Welcome, writers, to the Internet, where everyone is offended by something or everything, and they are going to tell you about it (even, in my case, if you're making fun of yourself).

Personally, I would have simply ignored that person or blocked them. I felt a sense of protection, so I wrote back, “Please! Don't let one person derail you! It's one person! You have tons of fans, including me, who cherish your openness. You’re not going to let ONE person dictate what you decide to write or not write.”

I also didn't take into consideration that many writers forget — or quickly learn — that if you put yourself “out there" criticism is…inevitable.

At times, I don't believe commenters mean to hurt writers. They may not understand all the work and effort that goes into a blog post or manuscript, and certainly not the stomach it takes to share your life so personally. They may not realize they are even being insensitive.

Someone told me just last week that her old journalism prof once told her class, “You haven’t made it as a journalist until you have haters.”

Personally, I don’t always think any press is good press. But if this is what aspiring writers and journalists are being taught, then shouldn’t they also be taught how to be hated?

(Wouldn’t you sign up for a free webinar called, “How to Be Hated 101?” Anyone? Anyone? I totally would! Maybe I’ll create one.)

Since being hated is part of being a writer, the one thing you can do is prepare yourself, mentally and emotionally, in order to prevent from spiraling downwards, which only affects your productivity and takes up real estate in your brain.

Developing a thick skin took a lot of practice. This isn't about being an ice queen who lacks empathy or is insensitive.

It’s about how, for my own mental well-being, I had to learn the skills to react to critics and trolls and not take things so personally, and learn to have a positive mindset and attitude in the face of assholes with nothing better to do criticism. And once I got that down, I realized that other people’s words and actions could not hurt me, unless I allowed them to.

So, I’m going to share my 13 secRE:t tips on how to be hated (and grow a thicker skin!) below. Again, who better to learn from than me?

But first, here’s the article I wrote back in the day about my hate group. It’s TOO good not to re-share!

***

THE ANTI-ECKLER BLOGGERS HOST A ‘PARTY’

(originally published in Maclean’s magazine)

There’s a saying: “Never wrestle with a pig. You’ll both get dirty and only the pig will enjoy it.” I think of this as I sip a vodka cranberry while spying on a gathering—in my honour—that took place one cold evening at a Toronto bar.

The guests at the “party” in my honour have only a few things in common as far as I can tell. They spend too much time on their computers. They have way too much time on their hands. They seem to experience joy only when trying to bring someone else down.

And they hate me.

For months and months, they have described me as talentless, mentally ill, a sociopath and an idiot. They have discussed in minute detail every column, every story, every blog entry I have ever written. They have debated about how many siblings I have, obsessed about the state of my relationship, my career, where I go grocery shopping, my friends, and have even discussed where my child goes to school.

Along with trying to monitor what seems like every second of my life, they have posted lies (for example, that I have ghostwriters). Paranoid, they became convinced that every time someone posted something kind about me, it was me writing about myself (not true).

These “Coconuts,” as I’ve started calling them, do all this obsessing and carry on all these vicious conversations, behind their computers, on a Rebecca Eckler parody blog, where they hide by posting fake names or by remaining anonymous. As far as I can tell, only one Coconut uses her real name, purely, from what I can surmise, in an effort to restart her stalled career.

The Coconuts decided that hating me was enough of a reason for them to all meet up in person. Apparently, in the alternative universe that is cyberland, hating someone is a perfectly sane reason to meet strangers: “Damnit! I want to join the fun but I probably won’t be able to make it until 8ish,” one Coconut commented to the Coconut who was organizing the “anti-Eckler party.”

Not everyone was as gung-ho. At least one blogger seemed to realize that maybe the group’s creepy and cowardly anonymous cruelty should remain anonymous. “I can’t even tell you how tempting this idea of a meet-up is,” the blogger wrote. “But the thought of going somewhere to meet a bunch of folks who won’t even sign in with their actual blogger/gmail IDs (myself included) just seems scaaaary.”

When I heard about this “party," I knew I had to go and spy. I’m curious by nature, as all writers should be, and besides for me, this was a job. Unlike them, I’d be getting paid.

Some of their vicious comments about me? “Doesn’t Icky realize that all that sunning is the reason she looks 45 years old, and not a good 45 either, but a wrinkly, haggard 45.” Another wrote, “Even when she smiles, the smile doesn’t show in her eyes.”

I’m wise enough to know that people, especially strangers, who post anonymously and take enjoyment from tearing others down are barely worth a minute of my time. It’s too easy to be cruel from the safety of your laptop or iPad.

And yet these anonymous bloggers sometimes do get to me, especially when they post blatantly slanderous lies, or when they think I owe them answers to questions only good friends and my family have a right to ask. Sometimes the wild inaccuracies are humorous. Sometimes they are just hurtful.

In the real world, I am convinced these Coconuts would never have the courage to say to my face what they have written about me online. Their jabs were all served up online, where acting like an outraged lunatic is de rigueur.

Would these Coconuts dare show up? Were they even adults? And if they were, were they as vicious and threatening in person as they seemed in their posts and comments?

A bit nervous, I organized two friends to come along with me, one who would stay with me, and one who would join the “party” as a mole.

One of the Coconuts had written that she would be wearing a blue beret to the party, and that’s how people would recognize her. I thought it was a joke until my confidante called me—I was at a bar next door with my other friend at that point—to tell me she had found the Coconut, wearing a blue beret, and was going to sit with her.

I would find out later that this Coconut hates me because, apparently, I’ve met her at parties where I didn’t remember who she was. (And these Coconuts say I’m stuck in high school?)

I would find out that this Coconut is 46 (!) and has two children and lives in Michigan. When my confidante asked her if she knew what I looked like, she eerily pulled out a photo of me from a magazine. It is still not clear to me whether or not I have actually met her, as she once wrote she had only been in the “same room” as me. “Truth” online is not the same as truth in real life.

Well after the called-upon gathering time, I walked in the front door of the party venue and sat by the bar to observe. Only one other Coconut showed up—this for a party that had been discussed for weeks.

This Coconut admitted to my confidante that she had posted rants about me under “several” false names. (It suddenly made sense why there was so much discussion over this party and then only two people showed up.)

She admitted she’d never met me, had driven 45 minutes to get to the bar, from a town outside Toronto, leaving behind two small children. (And this from the poster who wrote, “Unlike Icky, I actually give a damn about my kids.”)

I can tell you this much. I would never leave my children to drive 45 minutes to meet a perfect stranger, all to bitch about another perfect stranger.

“They were socially inept,” my confidante told me later. “If I hadn’t been there, I have no idea how they would have talked to each other.” She also told me that for 90 minutes (!) they talked about nothing but me. “But you were sitting with them for so long,” I pressed. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “It seemed like forever.”

My confidante got the two Coconuts’ names, and their email addresses, as I watched from my bar stool. The two looked quite harmless in person. In fact, they were entirely forgettable.

“They blame you for everything,” my confidante told me. “They blame you for their bad marriages, the fact that neither of them is successful, that they don’t have a lot of money. They blame you for the bad weather.”

The anti-Eckler gathering had proved at least one thing, which bloggers should know about. Bloggers can, if they have the time—and clearly these Coconuts did—post hundreds of comments to make it look as though a ton of people hate you.

One of them wrote, “I loved meeting you all tonight,” as if one other person amounts to “all of you.” Truth in the virtual world is warped. The night also proved that cruel bloggers have too few friends and too much time. (Most of us in the real world don’t have time to meet up with our real friends, let alone find the time to leave nasty comments all day, let alone meet strangers so far away from home.)

“Honestly,” my confidante told me later, “I think they really wanted to meet you.” She explained that they had been hoping I’d come to the party.

“They wanted you to come and sit with them.” But what, in the (real) world, would I possibly have to say to people like them?

***

I have only two questions I generally ask myself: “Why do I care what people think?” and “Why do I give AF?”

Read part two here of “My 13 secRE:t tips on how to be hated (and grow a thicker skin!).”

xo

Rebecca (“Icky”) Eckler