Enter the Malignant Narcissist - OMG X 10

Over two and a half decades, Algonkian workshops and conference events have been subjected to at least a dozen very memorable and quite malignant narcissists, each one thin-skinned, childish, and predictably vindictive whenever confirmation of their greatness was not forthcoming.

Below we meet one nightmarish example and then we proceed to examine alternative ways to defang their relentless ilk, techniques engineered to dilute their power enough to ensure future events will be less disrupted. And make no mistake, a determined and ego-wounded narcissist can wreck a workshop. Truly, they are the bane of writing teachers and workshop leaders alike.

by Michael Neff

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A Case of Manga in Monterey

Six years ago while immersed in the radiant dawn of mid-April in Pacific Grove, California, I met with one writer from my assigned retreat group beside a charming outdoor fire pit at a local motel on the Monterey Peninsula. A mature woman from San Luis Obispo, Constance arrived at the retreat with a beginner draft of her very first novel, a rather long YA fantasy. Prior to arrival, I'd reviewed her "sell sheet" wherein she'd jotted down her synopsis, pitch, hook line, comps, tag, and various other elements relevant to utilization by agents and publishers who might wish to adequately understand her premise and plot, as well as the novel's market potential--rather like a query letter, but more complex, and also a great developmental tool for stimulating workshop discussion, i.e., if no plot is present in the sell sheet then 99.9 times out of 100 it's not in the novel either.  

When she sat down with me all was cordial. I foresaw no immediate future meltdown. And why would I? She discussed her work, "pitched" the story to me, and as her editor of the moment, I asked appropriate questions designed to help me understand. What I learned, however, squared with my earlier assessment. First, her novel was way too long for a breakout YA fantasy (158,000 words), and second, her plot, as it presented itself, interwove confusingly with no less than four distinct stories (or what appeared as such). 

This condition was not atypical for neophyte writers. I'd seen it dozens of times over the years, and my duty was clear. Between the story lines, there existed one very interesting tale. I informed her of this fact and told her if we could focus on that particular aspect of the current novel and flesh it out that we'd also solve the problem of the manuscript being way too long.

What happened next was totally unexpected, and in fact, rather bizarre. 

Such a condition was not atypical for neophyte writers. I'd seen it dozens of times over the years, and my duty was clear.

Her eyes began to quiver and water. Yes, quiver, like a Manga-animated character. Both surprised and baffled, I immediately tried to calm her and reassure her that various degrees of plot misfires were typical for new writers. I told her we would work together and make the story as competitive and publishable as it needed to be. And wasn't this why she came to the retreat in the first place? To get feedback and improve her work?

Apparently not. 

To my further astonishment, without another word she rose from her chair, turned, and walked away. Just like that. We'd met for no more than 15 minutes. In that small space of time, and despite my reassurances and sound advice, she quite literally had transmogrified into a state of fuming rage, though I did not fully understand the extent of it at the time. 

Later, after meeting with several other writers--all of whom were enthused and eager to edit--I wrote Constance an email apologizing if perhaps I seemed too gruff or inappropriate in any way, and reassured her once more that her best interests were my priority. Regardless, I heard nothing back, at least, not that afternoon. Little did I realize that the ash fall from Vesuvius had already begun and eruption was scheduled for the following day.

Upon meeting with my writers in town the next morning by 9:30 AM, I was informed that Constance had been seen parked with her husband on the main street in downtown Pacific Grove around 8 AM. And what were they doing? The two of them were on the lookout to intercept any writers she recognized as belonging to the retreat. And why? So she could talk them into demanding their "retreat fees be returned at once!" After all, the event was obviously a fraud because the faculty were incompetent and cruel. Well, it didn't work so well for Constance. The writers she managed to lasso refused to go along with her righteous rebellion, and, understandably, were both surprised and irritated by her behavior--mostly because their own experiences at the retreat were opposed to hers. 

She quite literally had transmogrified into a state of fuming rage...  Little did I realize that the ash fall from Vesuvius had already begun and eruption was scheduled for the following day.

 
No surprise there.

Irritated by this absurd turn of events, I hoped that the agitated Constance--who by this time was beyond redemption--would discover a way to magically teleport herself back to San Luis Obispo, and without further ado. But no, it was not going to be that simple, my foolish optimism notwithstanding. By mid-afternoon that day I'd received no less than seven emails from her, each of them portraying indisputable evidence of a truly unhinged and self-deluded personality. Though futile, I attempted to answer with rational responses. For example, "Why would I invite you to this retreat simply for the purpose of sabotaging your career?" However appeals to sense and logic made zero difference.

No surprise there either.

According to Constance, I'd schemed to wreck her novel, contrived reasons to trash it, failed to praise her prose, and was plainly a fraud who didn't understand good work when I saw it--unlike her writer's group at home who knew without doubt that she was a talented writer nearing publication. On top of that, her sputtering spouse, Cleon (not a writer), also began writing me, stressing the same themes plus calling me various names. Was I really a "Denebian Slime Devil?" The man knew his Star Trek, but the mounting drama of their self-victimization was off the scale, even comical. Finally, by early evening, the Folie à deux mattered not, and in the wee hours of morning, bereft of further destructive options, Constance and Cleon fled Monterey never to be heard from again.

Over the many years, one begins to notice distinct patterns in the behavior of malignant workshop narcissists. Constance began her transmogrification as noted above, but in group environments the malignant nearly always initiates secession from the union by overtly arguing and sniping at faculty, usually the workshop leader, in an attempt to discredit them. After all, the righteous MN has had enough and it's time to set things straight! They're essentially reclaiming dominion and reasserting their flawlessness. It usually takes up to 48 hours before this first symptom occurs, and when it does, it comes on suddenly. You rarely expect it because narcissists can appear normal, even pleasant at first. There also exists a subgroup who are careful to not openly carp and snipe, rather, they evolve into the phase below, saving their salvos of snark for later in the evening when the faculty are absent.

I'd schemed to wreck her novel, contrived reasons to trash it, failed to praise her prose, and was plainly a fraud who didn't understand good work when I saw it--unlike her writer's group at home who knew without doubt that she was a talented writer nearing publication.

Next phase, the true malignant always works behind the scenes to recruit co-conspirators. Not being in a group, Constance resorted to collaring writers on the street, and it didn't work. Most of the time, thankfully, the narcissist cannot persuade others to rebel in any meaningful way, however, just the fact of their incessant complaining creates a disturbing circumstance for everyone concerned. If need be, they will attempt to bully fellow workshoppers into joining in the revolution. A plan is made and by the following morning, the taint of disruption is in the air. This all might sound ridiculous to the average person, and yes, there is a degree of absurdity to the circumstance, but we've had the misfortune of experiencing it in an unforgettable way.  

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Pulling the Fangs of the Malignant Narcissist 

If you're a workshop leader or teacher, you'll find several techniques below for softening or disallowing the narcissist blow (including the dreaded X LIST), and for strengthening the resolve of the majority of normal writers should they discover themselves being recruited.  

As follows:

1. Consider emailing this article ahead of the event. If nothing else, it provides writers with a reference point regarding Phase I and II modus operandi symptoms. It also places the potential narcissist on notice that their antics will be recognized for what they are by everyone present. Feel free if necessary to copy and paste directly into your email.

2. Email also a copy of the now famous Thin Skin Test.

3. Prior to the event, inform the writers that narcissism and negativity will not be tolerated. It isn't fair to the other writers and serves no productive purpose. If appropriate, inform them that narcissists who disrupt will be escorted from the event. 

4. Don't play the narcissist game during the actual event. As soon as you verify to yourself that a Phase I eruption is in progress, call a break, and talk to the narcissist outside the circle of the group, but in plain sight. 

5. Inform the entire group that a designated question and comment period will be forthcoming. In this way you can most likely channel the narcissist into a specific time slot wherein you can involve other writers in productive discussions that will dilute the agenda of the narcissist.

6. If you have an assistant or fellow faculty member, make certain they support you. The narcissist will always be hesitant to take on two as opposed to a single workshop leader.

7. Begin critique by first reviewing "positive" aspects of the writer's project. This will inject positivity into any potential narcissist and thereby serve to delay, if not prevent, appearances of negative behavior.

8. Finally, the X LIST. There exists a very large email list and certain social media accounts wherein survivors post the identities and activities of really terrible narcissist writers, thus warning others against dealing with them. It isn't foolproof, however, who wants to be known nationwide as the biggest threat with a dark narcissist heart?

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Workshops or classes that operate in MFA fashion dilute the narcissists quite effectively because critique falls to members of the group, thus hampering the ability of the narcissist to target while also providing soothing balm in the form of ill-thought critiques accompanied by the loud sounds of back slapping.

But if you're doing your job as a workshop leader or teacher, you need to give your students honest critique on every level, even if it might sting for a minute.

Otherwise you are doing them a great disservice.

We had another case years before this wherein the MN charged into other writer's pitch sessions in New York and demanded to be heard. It didn't work out so well for her. The editors were stunned.

Fantastic article. You nailed the narcissist persona perfectly. They are indeed malignent and will infect any relationship that does not offer them the laurel wreath of wonderfulness.  Seems like they are breeding because I don't remember havng met so many in the last few years. Ironically one of the characters in my current project is, in fact, a toxic narcisscist. I will say they do make for meaty materail.

Thanks agin for publishing the article, it just might save some one not familiar with this disorder from devastation.

Some years ago, a lecturer from the Bethesda Writers' Center gave the best advice I've ever heard for wannabe writers on seeking publication: "You are the rule, not the exception." 

To become a good writer, not even a great one, you must put your ego aside and accept your critiques. You may not agree with them all, but they will all have a ring of truth. Art is always subjective and exposing your artistic creation, be it painting, drawing, poetry or your novel is a raw experience, not unlike picking thistle with your bare hands. Every writer is a work in progress and the great ones seem to have a visceral connection to life and have developed a honest way of translating this to prose. This occurs through trial and error and writing and re-writing until it's palatable. The critics aren't always right, but chances are they see something you don't.