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deposit "art of asking" stories HERE PLEASE. (Patreon)

Published:
2015-06-01 13:31:17
Imported:
2023-04

Content

ready, set....ART OF ASKING PAPERBACK HELP! (you may have seen: i already did this over on facebook and got a few good stories, but i have a feeling i'll find a better harvest here on patreon...please, if you think your story is good enough to make into the paperback, really edit that shit to be publishable! SO .... my american publisher (hachette) is releasing "the art of asking" in PAPERBACK this fall and i'm making last-minute changes/edits/additions. i'm also adding a new afterword AND i'd like to include OTHER little stories from fans and readers, i know they're good, and i know they're out there. so, yes, i'm asking YOU (esp if you've READ THE BOOK!): does anybody have any incredible "art of asking" stories? anything the book's unlocked for you? any stories that you can think of that are relevant? any things you've realized about cultural asking, art and asking, the difficulties of asking, asking at work, asking in love...etc? i'm going to choose a handful (if they're good, so please write clearly and know that your writing may be book-published, and keep it short and sweet (less than 2-300 words). please don't just write standard "i loved the book!" stuff - that isn't what i'm looking for, i'm more looking for realizations (book-related or not) that YOUVE HAD about the art of asking...about how asking has transformed from a fear into a gift, etc. post here. and upvote if you see something you love. AND: is there anything else you'd like ADDED to the book, to make the paperback special? i have very little time, but hit me....i was considering maybe including an email interview with maria popova... x a

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Comments

Anonymous

I must admit that I have only just started the book, but I have kept up with your blogs and listen to your music. Over the years I have noticed that there is another question that lies under the skin with "Do you love me?" Which is "Can I believe you?" And that the answer to that question is one we constantly seek within ourselves, except that the internal dialogue we run over and over inside our own heads goes something like this: (To self) Do you love me? - ... any number of answers could follow, but especially if the answer is positive it goes: (To self) Can I believe you? - Ummm. . . And frequently the answer you come up with for yourself is less positive because of the number of reasons we doubt ourselves every day, so the next burning question that leaves us all a bit empty is: "Why should I believe you?" - Ummm. .. . And there it is. It's like a leg shot out from under the table, but it's your own damn leg and it's not funny anymore. It wasn't funny in the first place. I recently told someone that I love very dearly, "I love the stuff of you, whatever is deep down inside you, I love it.I love you." His honest response was "Really. . .?" My response was a resounding, "Yes!" I agree with you that the reasons we ask are partially to validate that somewhere out there in the universe there are people that love the stuff of us. It might be that we don't believe it or see it, or that it only feels real for a little while. It's impossible to imagine what the world would be like if people woke up every day and felt love like the rising sun instead of an occasional shooting star. Thinking in this way has made me look at my passive aggressive supervisor differently, given me a different perspective on the confusing relationship with my alcoholic father, and helped me be kinder and friendlier to people I interact with in general. When I interact with people, even if it's fleeting, I want them to feel like if they asked me the questions above that they can already tell from the way that I talked to them, looked at them, or interacted with them, the answer is YES!

Anonymous

When I was 22 and Amanda Palmer was 32 (and Lady Gaga was also 22 and Madonna was 52 -- well, 49), I made a pledge that, by the time I was 32, I would be as cool as Amanda Palmer. In the six years since I made that promise, Amanda has gotten Fucking as a middle name, ran a 1.2 million dollar Kickstarter, married a famous fantasy author, and published a book. So, I had a lot to look up to. (I’ve gotten married and published a short story--so, not bad?) But none of that made me blink, wail at my situation in life, or even made me jealous--because Amanda Palmer has always been an inspiration. Since following her career, supporting her through all her incarnations, I’ve realized that all I really need to be as cool as Amanda is to believe that art is worth doing, but even more than that, worth sharing. Art is only hard if you think it will be and The Art of Asking really just crystallized what I’ve always known, but really needed Amanda to spell out for me: all that is holding me back from becoming an author--something I’ve known I’ve wanted to be since I was six--is the thought that I will never be good enough or legitimate enough. That somehow I’m an impostor walking around pretending to be a writer. Reading through Amanda’s thoughts on paper has shown me that I AM a writer, that I CAN be what I’ve always wanted simply because that’s what I am. I just need to yell it loudly enough. And, hey, since finishing the book, I’ve gotten two more stories set to be published and a novel out in the next few months. Even though I’ve still got four more years to finish out that promise to my younger self--I’m thinking of changing my middle name to Name-Taking--I know that my new found inner strength is all I need. I just needed to ask around for it.

Anonymous

This is 5 words over. I can't help it. The rebel in my breaks rules. The Art of Asking changed my life. I know that sounds like a really generic, painfully basic thing to say... but I assure you it's the purest kind of truth. I have never been good at asking. As a kid with a younger sibling who was very skilled at the art of demanding, I stopped myself from being an added nuisance and kept my mouth shut, often. As an adult and an artist trying to make her unconventional way through life, I continued this pattern of always wanting to make others feel comfortable and supported, but never feeling justified in or worthy of receiving help. This book was the lightning bolt that illuminated just how fucking ridiculous that actually is. People WANT to help. -I- have always wanted to help. As it is fundamentally unhealthy in any relationship to take, take, take; it is similarly unhealthy not to take anything. It does everyone involved an injustice. Listening to this audiobook in my ancient little Nissan, these realizations washing over me, my self-worth blossomed more profoundly than anything I have ever experienced in my 32 years. I knew I had to turn this shit around. I have since been practicing my personal art of asking. Part of this for me, is practicing what I call the “Gaiman Gospel” (Making good Art), and simply asking acceptance and support for that, rather than trying to shove my unconventional form of artistry into some ill-fitting box just to justify it. I am learning how to ask for time to work on myself, which as a mother of a young child has been a very counter-intuitive (but very important) thing. I am learning how to ask myself for things, too, and then deliver. For myself. I am a better person after reading this book. Endless thanks, Amanda. &lt;3

Anonymous

I was lucky enough to catch Amanda's recent might-as-well-have-been-a-real-show ninja gig in Chicago. I think it's usually Amanda's music and spirit that brings people to her shows, but we never know what to expect. Seeing Amanda in conversation with Maria Popova was an event I'm thankful to have been a part of. Their conversation about art, arts patronage, and crowdfunding was so refreshing and eye opening that, as an artist, I felt hopeful, which is something I think many artists lack. I feel that I'm too early in my career to start something like a Patreon, but I know that when the time comes, I won't feel ashamed about asking for support. We all need doughnuts. Doughnuts are my favorite (along with pie). At this point, though, my next goal is to write an essay about being an artist today, in the age of crowd funding and the art of asking. I was touched by Amanda and Maria’s conversation. There have always been patrons of the arts—isn’t that what people who buy season tickets to the orchestra, for example, are called? Patrons of art? Why is it okay for the hoity-toity to support the art they love and have their names printed in programs and it’s not okay for us (those who may only be able to donate $1 per Thing to Amanda’s Patreon) to support the art we love? In my mind, supporting a major production of Swan Lake is just as important as the $5 I paid for “The Thing About Things.” I’ve never left a show quite so inspired as I was when I left Amanda’s ninja gig. My partner and I both left that show so excited about art, wanting to make art, loving art even more. That’s the best gift Amanda could have given us.

Aria
>>546430

I just wanted to say that reading this made me feel extremely proud. (Is it strange to be proud of someone you don't even know? Huh. Oh well, there it is.) I'm 23 now, a self proclaimed writer, and a payroll processor by trade. I have yet to publish anything, in fact I've no clue how to go about doing it, but reading this reminded me that I CAN do it, if I just get my hands back to the keyboard and work at it. I can't be a writer if I quit writing- right? So, thank you, Melissa, for the kick in the pants. Much love, Aria

Anonymous

Yes, holy shit. Art of Asking stories, I has them. I don’t know if they’re incredible or not, but I’m delighted to share some with you. Art of Asking sparked a whole bunch of epiphanies. I wish I’d read it sooner. Shit, I wish I’d read it years before it was even fucking written. Your book and the comfortable familiarity of artists and divergent thinkers kept me company through a rough fucking experience. I read (listened to) Art of Asking in a raw, heart-ripped-open state shortly after my mom died, and my complicated 9-year relationship ended, and as I had to leave the blueberry farm I had stewarded with my ex while getting rid of a lifetime of treasured possessions. I’m going to chunk up a few instances/stories so it’s easier to scan through them for usefulness. I hope there’s something helpful, because your book helped me, a lot. It’s still helping. *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+* I wanted to but didn’t ask my dad’s coworker/AV guy friends to record the performers and speakers at mom’s funeral. Mom had died just two weeks after her cancer diagnosis, so we hadn’t had time to record her stories and it ached to lose the ones told at the funeral, too. *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+* *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+* There was an especially epic asking-related epiphany after the funeral, which had been preceded by copious family drama and ending my 9-year relationship You know that point of overwhelm you hit where you know you’ve got about thirty seconds left of language before everything dissolves into incoherent snarling? I hit that point and found myself backing out of the reception hall, hands splayed in front of me to fend off anybody else who wanted anything, so that I could escape to the little green space just outside the door of the unitarian church. My tribe is fucking awesome, and swooped in to continue directing the cleanup and packing of things, while a couple of friends followed me silently as I dissolved into uncontrollable, hiccupy sobbing (I’m not an in-front-of-people cryer) After a short while, when I was starting to become human again (albeit a human with cloudy-as-shit contacts at that point), a close family member came down to offer awkward comfort, as best they knew how. The ask-related epiphany happened when the close family member asked if there was anything they could do for me. I pulled myself outside my comfort zone to say yes. I asked for a bottle of water — a cooler full of which was maybe 50 yards away, easily accessible. The close family member paused for a moment and asked if there was anything they could do "that didn’t involve actually doing anything." Time stood still for a moment and I swear to fucking god it was like there was a crystalline chiming noise as the epiphany hit; it had been hard to ask for water. And I asked anyway. And was told no, because it was too much to ask for. And I understood, finally. it was so hard to ask for things, even basic shit, because I was so used to not having the most basic needs met. Not that a bottle of water is a basic need, but it was enough to bring everything into focus. Asking was all weird and tangled because I was afraid to ask until a situation was dire, and then it was worse because I was There was this whole confusing landscape of self esteem/sense of worth issues I’d been hacking through for years — why it had been so hard to get used to letting guys open freaking doors for me, why getting flowers from people I knew felt so weird (as opposed to strangers, which was fine - they were safe) In that moment in the dark outside the unitarian church in Arlington, with traffic whizzing by just beyond the trees, it was like in that moment I noticed I was holding a map. I looked over at my friends who were there with me. Their open-mouthed shock was weirdly validating, and suddenly it was funny, and I couldn’t help laughing. *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+* *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+* A few days prior I had broken up with my partner of nine years. I was in Arlington, handling mom's funeral and assorted lesser silliness when I discovered that at some point I’d developed a potentially life-threatening medical situation, one that a friend had died of a few years prior. I had run out of money and had no gas. I didn’t want to freak my stepdad out with a trip to the emergency room because he was in an uber-delicate state, and anyway I had no money, and no insurance, and no interest in being fat in an ER because unless it’s a gunshot wound the diagnosis is usually “you’re too fat." So I took my chances with google and the extreme good fortune of a number of doctors and RNs in my various circles. Yes, what I thought it was, and yes, it was dire since blistering had already started and I couldn’t remember when the physical pain had started. (Grief is weird ~ everything hurts) I got info on the specific kinds of antibiotics for that particular issue, and knew that chances were good I could find some among mom’s stuff the next day, even though I’d just thrown out bags of medicines. I realize in hindsight that it’s silly and irresponsible, but my plan was to go the turmeric and coconut oil route, internally and externally until the next day when I could get a ride (I was out of gas) to my parents’ place and look for one of the antibiotics that would work. At that moment my now-ex happened to be about 10 miles away, instead of up at the farm. I asked them to come over. When I asked, I knew it would be someone of a hassle, but it didn’t occur to me *not* to ask. I was kind of afraid for my life. I wasn’t asking for them to take me to the hospital, I was asking for my partner of nine fucking years to make a short side-trip on their way home to either bring turmeric or the one atm card we shared to put gas in the car and go get turmeric myself. It didn’t occur to me that they’d say no, that they were too tired. I thought maybe I hadn’t explained myself clearly. After all, grief makes you stupid (it really does lower cognitive function.) Nope, I had. Okeydokey. When I hung up the phone, I realized that sitting on the same bed my mom had been carried away from by the paramedics on her way to die, and that maybe it was about to be a mother daughter funeral. An entire lifetime of feeling unworthy hit me like a fucking dump truck. In the space of a few sobs I recognized the same patterns had plagued mom; I saw the echo, the connecting dots. I had one of those cascading epiphanies things, which boiled down to the whole “compassion/unconditional love has to start with yourself or it’s incomplete” thing that’s probably basic for 98% of humanity but was completely alien to me For 9 years I’d been trying to unconditionally love someone who accidentally broke my heart on a regular basis because I thought I could *earn* love, Maybe if I’d reach some kind of enlightenment if I could just find that place of selfless detachment where love just pours forth regardless of how the other person behaves, or how many other strangers they fuck in your house while your’e asleep, or how many hundreds of pounds you gain because you abuse chocolate instead of heroin to dull pain and avoid dealing with shit. I had no idea before that moment that I had it so. fucking. backwards. So there I am, wailing at the whole convergence of situations, and I realized I was going to have to put in a pin in the grief and ask somebody for help. An irony of this is that I somehow won the “people lottery.” There are more people than I can count who I *know* would answer the phone at 3am if I called them. I missed a whole day with mom immediately before she died because I didn’t want to ask any of the dozens of people who’d have been happy to let me crash on their couch. (I sincerely believe there’s some kind of karmic balancing thing going on with my current couch-surfing situation.) So I reached out to a friend — late at night at this point, which is *not* my m.o. — and asked for help. She brought turmeric and, as it turns out, an almost full bottle of the right kind of hardcore antibiotics. I didn’t die. I did learn soon afterwards that my ex had already started seeing people again while I was away from the farm. Thankfully, my pattern of martyrdom was nice and clear, which has made it easier to dismantle. When I first listened to the part in Art of Asking about the dog laying on a nail but not getting up because it didn’t hurt enough yet, I burst into laughing tears because holy shit: that *exact* fucking thing. It had taken such big nails for it to hurt enough, even with all the whining. *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+* *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+* I made it through mom’s funeral and immediately headed back up to the farm to prep for the opening day of blueberry season. I started to brace myself to tend to the hundreds cheerful, chatty people who always showed up for the easiest days of berry picking. (Normally I loved that part, but I was a bombed-out version of myself, and chewing tinfoil sounded WAY more pleasant than keeping my shit together in front of people.) I’d been under the mistaken assumption that my ex and I would be doing the “uncoupling” thing, since things had been heading in that direction for so long. Embarrassingly, since she’d started living as a woman several years prior, and since I’d gained back the over 100 pounds I’d lost before that transition. Neither of us were the person we’d fallen in love with and we were *horrible* partners, but we had been such good friends. We had broken up once before, and had rebuilt the friendship and I was thinking that I was coming back to my friend. Nope! Tricksy gemini’s, always keeping you on your toes. My ex decided to go off to the beach for the opening week, since she hadn’t been in years. That me with both sides of the farm operation, in a state where I was lucky to put together full sentences. But this time I was quicker to ask for help, and my friends answered, instantly. They came up to the farm with suitcases and groceries and they helped handle shit. They gathered around me and helped weigh blueberries and make change when the lines were long. They made me tea and made me take breaks and made me vent and made me breakfast over and over until the thought of food wasn’t repulsive anymore. They let me escape into the woods to refill and run the irrigation pump, which was *so* fucking useful because I could have a big old boohoo without customers hearing. They even let me sleep in a couple of days, since it had been ages since I’d been in my own bed, or had a good nights' sleep. I asked, and they did SO much more than I asked for. I’m still all kerflempt with gratitude. I asked and my tribe said yes and did so much and then they fucking thanked me for asking. I learned that asking isn’t about being a burden. Asking is a kind of opening up. It makes space for people if they want to be a part of something. *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+* *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+* I read Art of Asking and Daring Greatly and Thrive in very close succession ~ now I recommend that combination on a regular basis. The strange territory of asking with grace and receiving with grace has historically been a challenge to navigate. The Art of Asking proved to be useful and resonant tool. Not like a compass, exactly. More like deck prisms on a ship, reflecting light into dark places. Anyhoo. Thank you for all the flowers and donuts and such that are easier now to take.

Anonymous

I am normal. Painstakingly, unimaginatively, normal. At work I manage people, at home I manage people, I always, always, manage... like a grown up. On the outside I'm a fully paid up, shit together grown up but on the inside? Oh man, on the inside I'm waiting to be found out. I'm waiting for the day 'they' call me out and send me home. 'Who the fuck are you to set the agenda?', 'Dd you think paying your bills on time would fool us? Oh you poor, sad, foolish little girl'. I've been going through stuff, you know, stuff that makes you feel like the world should stop, but it just goes right on turning. It's a cliched list with cancer, underage pregnancies, I can even say that my dog did indeed die. Not once have I asked for anything and I was proud of my grown-upness and also monumentally pissed off. Where were my friends? Why did no one look after me like I looked after them? I listened to this book in the car. On the day I realised that the reason I was doing this shit alone was precisely because I had never asked for anything, I pulled over and sobbed like a baby. And then I called my best friend. Amanda Fucking Palmer has shared something special and this book is like oxygen. She sees you, and she mostly thinks you're pretty ok ;)

Anonymous

My last year of college should have been the best. I should have been out having fun with friends and feeling the freedom of being a twenty-something. Instead, I lay in bed, greasy from not showering for days, hungry from not eating enough, battling the worst depression I’d ever experienced. Ever since I was eleven I’d been trying to handle it on my own. That night, though, after ten years of almost continuous struggle, I asked for help. I texted my roommate and best friend, Dragana, to come in and lie with me. After a few minutes of cradling me while I sobbed and handing me tissue after tissue she said, “I knew you weren’t okay, but I didn’t realize it was this bad.” “I don’t know what to do,” I said, my throat raw from crying. “Every time I even think about trying to get help, I have an anxiety attack.” “For now,” Dragana said, “just relax and go to sleep. We’ll call someone in the morning. I’ll help you get help.” So I went to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, I felt weak from not taking care of myself for so long. I could hear Dragana in the living room, and I called out to her. She came in my room and helped me get up and out of bed. Then she found me the phone number of our school’s mental health center. The health center was overloaded and didn’t have room for another patient. I was distraught, but I called my dad and told him what was going on with me. He emailed me a list of local doctors who took my insurance. It took a little while for me to find a therapist who I connect with and didn’t feel afraid of, but when I finally found her I felt a little bit of hope. Once I finally asked for help, no one shamed me or made me feel silly for asking. Instead, they showed me that I was, this whole time, surrounded by people who loved me. When I finally asked for help, everyone offered me donuts. I took every single fucking one and haven’t looked back since.

Sarah Vee
>>549161

Eleanor, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry you had to go through all that. It sounds like you're starting to shake off some seriously bad stuff in your life and I hope you can keep making good progress!

Anonymous

The Art of Asking came in one day, last November by post. A friend in New York had sent me a belated birthday present. I took a picture of me holding the book and sent it with a thank you note to me friend. I wrote a poem called "Thank you, Paul" about what happened. But this came natural. I loved HIM. It's harder with strangers. Especially when asking for help. With anything. Rejection or being laughed at made me unable to communicate with people I would see every morning at the local coffee shop. I sat in my corner, reading my big, English, book, then writing in a frenzy for an hour or two. It became a "thing". It took me 2 years, but nearly halfway through the book I dared reaching out over the counter, hold out my hand and say: "Hi, I'm Ronița. What's your name?". The baristas were more than happy to, finally, have an excuse to ask me questions about who I was and what I was doing there every goddamn day. It also applied for "The Regulars" (yes, we EXIST!). Customers of all ages, with dogs, no dogs, kids or singles…I learned each of their names and grew fond of my new-found community. Sometimes we would exchange secret "Oh, I'm so sleepy" glances, or I would get an extra croissant with my coffee. Sometimes I had money to tip the baristas, most times I didn't. They never minded. Sometimes other customers would give me the rest of the money I needed to buy a small cup if I was short on cash. I never asked. They just offered and I, eventually, learned how to receive their acts of kindness for what it was - love. And love must be repaid in love. We talk everyday. 8 a.m. No need to say the order. They're already waiting. Some early bird grabs a chair and we discuss politics, life, society, how things "should have been in post-communist Romania", art, money. We all hate what that word has done to us. We're all in the same boat and we have each other's back. And bike, if need be :) So, thank you, Amanda. We couldn't have done it without you!

Anonymous

After two kidney transplants, seven years of dialysis, Lupus, and Addisons disease, I finally thought I was "ok". One day last July coming home from my corporate job as a corporate drone I got stuck in corporate life rush hour traffic. I was at the tail end of a very long stall where everyone including myself was at a complete stop. The last thing I said was "Everything is awesome" before a distracted driver drove into the back of my jeep at 60 mph. I flipped, rolled, and rode roof to road into a car an then another and another. A four car pile up on the I4 in front of the Amphitheater. My life quite literally flashed before my eyes and the seconds of that accident took an indescribable amount of time. I was hanging upside down from my seat belt covered in glass and blood when I came to. Two off duty firemen cut me out of my seat belt and pulled me out of my jeep as it was leaking gas. That accident wrecked my life in every way possible. I lost my job, my SUV was totaled, I had brain damage, multiple injuries, and was told I would likely never walk normal again. During my recovery, I read The Art of Asking. I cried and highlighted and cried some more. The Art of Asking showed me that the accident was necessary. I wasn't actually happy with my life pre-accident and I wasn't actually ok. I read and re-read the book. It became my lifeline. I followed the guidelines and simply started to ask for what I wanted. Ask the Universe, ask my boyfriend, ask my family, ask my doctors, but most of all, ask myself. I went into the Art of asking a crippled sick person with a mediocre existence. I emerged from The Art of Asking as the truest healthiest form of myself I have ever been. I no longer feel guilt to ask for what I need. I no longer feel ashamed to have needs. My "crowd" has always been there, all I had to do was ask. It's been almost a year since my accident. After 10 months of physical therapy I can walk. I can even run. I now have my dream job, my dream house, and a better car. None of those material things are even the point though. What the Art of Asking did for me, was make it ok to be myself. I am now living the life I wanted, and quite simply, because I learned The Art of Asking.

Anonymous

Amanda, I've never been able to freely ask for help. I genuinely remember a moment in elementary school when I couldn't even ask my teacher for something as basic as a new pencil. (I must have sat at my desk like an idiot for the rest of class, looking helpless and feeling sorry for myself.) I've always felt I should be totally self-sufficient; admitting I needed help meant admitting weakness. Fast-forward almost 20 years and I still can't ask for help, not even when I'm alone in my apartment, a married ex-pat 4,000 miles from home, contemplating suicide. I've been to a therapist and I still can't pick up the phone and call Samaritans - to do so would be admitting weakness, and I was still pretending to be strong, even when I wanted to bleed out. I've spent the past year in a self-destructive cycle. I've ruined my marriage by having an affair, I've destroyed my self-respect by favoring lust over love, I've given in again and again until I reached a point where my own reflection filled me with disgust. Out of shame, I isolated myself until I reached my breaking point. When I hated myself this much, how could anyone love me? While I was going through all this, I was reading your book. You were the one voice I that got through to me at a time when I was desperately afraid to reach out to anyone, for fear of being judged. So many of your struggles resembled my own - your fear of rejection, your shame, your need to remain independent and your internal struggle with letting Neil help. Throughout all this, I'd never asked my husband for help. You taught me how to. That it was okay to. You've changed my life, Amanda. You showed me how to accept myself, and accept help - and the inherent love that comes along with it. Thank you. I love you.

Anonymous

Literally just the other day I was at band practice with my a new band I recently joined and we were discussing different aspects of our performance.... Costumes, anecdotes, etc. Then the conversation came up about what to do for the songs that not everyone was involved in (we have so many songs that not all instrumental parts are needed for all songs, and we have a singer and a screamer who do not always work on the same songs together). What would we do? Just stand on stage looking awkward? I suggested the idea that whoever isn't doing something onstage should go down into the audience and pass the hat. My guitarist looked at me with a wide eyed grin and said "Yeah, of course! Great idea!" My drummer looked at me and says "I don't really want to do that... It feels too much like begging". I told him to hold that thought while I ran inside to grab my autographed hard-copy of Amanda's book: The Art Of Asking (which I had just taken back from our guitarist who LOVED IT, hence his enthusiasm for my aforementioned comment). I came back outside and whacked the drummer over the head with it and said "Read this. It'll change your life. More importantly, it'll fix your attitude". He texted me this morning and all he said was "Everything makes sense now! This IS Fair!" See, he had been used to playing music on street corners begging for scraps of food simply because he didn't know how to ASK for help. When we play music and present our art to people, it is no longer begging. It is all in how you ask. -Kirsty Irwin AKA KJ Belter from the band "The Smokey Mirror" P.S. Thank you Amanda for writing this book and not only teaching me to feel worthy, but also helping me explain it to other people through your amazing book. &lt;3

Anonymous

EDIT: I tried to cut this down but it's still way too long. It helped to share this anyway. When I edited this I lost the two up-votes but thank you to those who read it and voted ❤️ The Art of Asking has not only reminded me the importance of asking but also brought to mind instances in my life where asking has saved me. As a little kid I was painfully shy. Easily embarrassed. Terrified of doing or saying something wrong. Not asking the right questions. My father used "smacking" to punish me and my sister, even though we weren't badly behaved. This is why I was afraid to ask and I became a self-loathing perfectionist. As time went on I would drink until I passed out, I allowed myself to be raped, I self-harmed, I developed an eating disorder...all of these ingredients were poured in my secret blender which fed my feelings of worthlessness and barely kept me alive. All I wanted was to be seen. To be seen as more than an "emo kid", a "desperate fuck" or a "skinny bitch" but I was sitting on that nail and it didn't hurt enough yet. When I was nineteen, weighing about 5st (31kg) and popping laxatives like candy, I wanted to die. I was still living at home with my mum and I saw that she was in more pain than me. I phoned my grandfather; the kindest man I've ever known and I asked to stay with him for a while. He said yes. He didn't ask why or for how long. My grandparents lived on a farm where I had spent some of my most carefree days. I knew I wouldn't end my life in a place that was full of so many happy memories. A few months later I was admitted to an eating disorder ward; narrowly avoiding being sectioned. Actually I was admitted twice and was on the ward for over a year in total. It was hell but I met beautiful, intelligent, brave people. I was overwhelmed with empathy and understanding. I fell in love. I was real and I was seen. But, like I said, it was hell. I was stripped of my dignity. I was watched while I showered, while I pissed, while I slept. But the main challenge was that I had to ask for EVERYTHING. Can I go to the bathroom? Can I go to the garden for a cigarette? Can I have a pair of scissors? Can I see my mum this evening? These were the hardest things to ask for because 90% of the time the answer was "NO". This meant I had to be everything I had learnt not to be. I was loud, angry and completely defiant. Even to the point where I lit a cigarette in front of the shocked ward manager who had previously dismissed me. When I read The Art of Asking for the first time, as soon as I read the words: "PLEASE. BELIEVE ME. I'M REAL." I felt the contents of my blender explode and hit me. This was what I had been feeling. This was what I had wanted to scream at everyone who had bullied me, laughed at me and ignored me. In April 2015, 17 months after I was discharged from my second admission, I got these words tattooed across my arm. To remind me that I matter, to remind others that I matter and to let everyone know that it's okay to ask.