Know-It-Alls

No one wants advice, only corroboration.

— John Steinbeck

My vice is advice. 

I give it freely—often unsolicited.

People say it's due to my "executive personality," and always add their own advice—also unsolicited—about what I can do with it.

The English word advice, meaning a "worthy opinion," dates to the late 14th-century and was borrowed from the Latin visum, meaning "viewpoint."

Advice is simply another's viewpoint.

But no one welcomes advice.

No one.

The reason it is so detested, I believe, is explained by a remark of the late painter Malcolm Morley: "Any artist who asks advice is already a failure."

No one welcomes advice, because to do so is to admit to incompetence. 

And no one wants to admit to incompetence, even secretly.

Psychologists say that dispensers of advice are often "alpha personalities," know-it-alls who are assured of their views and assured of their right to dispense them.

Know-it-alls are also highly compulsive.

"If you know any unsolicited advice-givers," says psychologist Seth Meyers, "you know they can’t stop themselves from giving advice. At root, they are compelled to give it."

Advice-giving is a compulsion among alpha personalities—always anxious to solve everyone's problems.

They rarely, if ever, consider whether solutions are sought after. 

When they offer advice and are met with hostility, they're constantly surprised; even startled. What's the big deal?

Psychologists think that know-it-alls, at bottom, are power-mad.

Studies published in 2018 in Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin

proved that people who dispense advice, whether welcomed or not, feel a strong sense of dominance and control afterwards. They give no thought to appearing a stuffed shirt know-it-all.

At the risk of appearing once again a know-it-all, let me offer advice to the recipients of unsolicited advice: Be patient with know-it-alls; they don't know they're annoying.

Chicago Tribune columnist Mary Schmich said it best: "Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth."

Adorable

"Sharing photos of adorable animals is a great way to skyrocket engagement," according to lead-generation provider OptinMonster.

To prove the point, I asked Ron to pose for Goodly. Talk about adorable!

Ron, an adoptee from Delaware SPCA, wants you to know that his rate is highly competitive, should you need a professional male model for your next photo shoot. He can be hired through his agent, Pawsitively Famous Talent.

Photo credit: Ann Ramsey

Making Merry

An English Christmas in the Middle Ages would begin before dawn with a mass that marked the end of Advent and the start of the holiday.

The Christmas feast was an EOE affair.

Commoners made sure at least to serve ham and bacon. 

One memoirist of the period described his family's Christmas feast also to include sausages, pasties, black pudding, roast beef, fish, fowl, custards, tarts, nuts, and sweetmeats.

Royalty took things up a notch. In addition to the above goodies, King Henry III added salmon, eel, venison, and boar to his table; King Henry V, crayfish and porpoise.

Royalty also drank heartedly on Christmas. 

Wine was served, not by the bottle, but—literally—by the ton (a ton equaling 1,272 bottles). 

Henry III served 60 tons of wine on Christmas. That's more than 76,000 bottles! 

What will appear on your table?

Above. The Only by Ans Debije. Oil on panel. 6 x 6 inches.

Now on Vitalcy

I'm pleased to announce that Goodly posts will now appear each week on Vitalcy, an online magazine that targets "peak stage" adults.

A gutsy new alternative to AARP, Vitalcy is "your hub to discover what’s next and navigate through and expand the potential of this stage of life," the publisher says.

Goodly posts will also be syndicated beginning 2022.

You can become a member of Vitalcy at no cost here.

HAT TIP: My thanks go to Dan Cole for introducing me to the publisher. Thanks, Dan!

Bitched

We are all bitched.

— Ernest Hemingway

It's 1934 and F. Scott Fitzgerald has just published Tender is the Night, his first novel in a decade.

Fitzgerald is out of favor with readers, who are impatient with stories about rich people (it's the height of the Depression, after all).

He's anxious to learn whether Tender is the Night is any good and writes to Ernest Hemingway to ask his opinion.

Hemingway responds by saying the characters in the novel seem like little other than "marvelously faked case histories." He scolds Fitzgerald for "cheating" readers by inventing characters who merely give voice to his own self-pity.

"Forget your personal tragedy," Hemingway says. 

"We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt use it—don't cheat with it. Be as faithful to it as a scientist—but don't think anything is of any importance because it happens to you."

We could use a little of Hemingway's stoicism right now. We're awash in self-pitying writers. 

And why not? 

Self-pity is, as James Fallows says, The American Way.

A current example appears in writer Beth Gilstrap's article "A Monstrous Silence," in the new issue of Poets & Writers.

Gilstrap describes her agonizing efforts to write while attending to her cancer-patient mother-in-law. Needless to say, the writer's art suffers. And oh how it suffers!

The struggle to chauffeur her mother-in-law to the cancer center twice a week overwhelms the dolorous Gilstrap, and she finds writing eludes her. "When you spend so many hours in hopeless environments," she confesses, "it becomes difficult to see the point of continuing to make art."

And art is her raison d'etre, her "identity," her "sense of self." 

Never mind that Mom wears an unreliable IV drip, endure bouts of nausea, keeps getting blood infections, and has to undergo repeat intubations—Gilstrap's art is suffering! 

"I people-please myself damn near out of existence," she writes.

Golly.

To a writer like Gilstrap, I just want to say, "Honey, hate to break the news, but we're all bitched. If you don't believe me, ask Mom."

Forget your personal tragedy. Don't think anything is of any importance because it happens to you.

But Hemingway is out of favor, alas; and self-pity, The American Way.

I'm wasting my breath.