Last week I wrote about a scholar who does great work, but whose dissertation has not satisfied its reviewers. I am, to some extent, writing about that same or a tangential concern and a related idea that came up in my creative writer’s group. A poet in the group was talking about submitting work to various journals/e-journals and about his recognition of the tension between writing what he wanted to write and writing what would suit the journal/editor. This is a similar tension to that experienced by a scholar who is trying to please an audience that is in some way hostile to their work. To what extent do you change what you say to please the audience? Especially when the audience has power—power to accept or reject your work? This is, in a way, one face of “selling out”: doing work that you don’t really believe in for financial gain.
To speak of “selling out” focuses on a sacrifice of integrity, and that’s not really where I want to go. I think there is a lot more to the dynamic between writer and audience than a simple, clear assumption that pleasing and audience is always a sacrifice of integrity. There is a balance that can be found between (1) writing for yourself and to be true to your own vision and (2) writing to please an audience, especially one that doesn’t want the same things you do. There’s a lot in this dynamic that I’m not going to discuss in this post. I want to focus on just one suggestion: view the task of writing to please a specific (possibly hostile) audience as an exercise in developing your ideas and your skill as a writer.
A scholar—or any writer—should be aiming to write about things that really matter personally. Write about things that you really care about and believe in. If you’re working on something that you care about and believe in, it’s much easier to do the work, and much more satisfying to work, and that generally means that there’s less danger of writer’s block or avoidance.
But what do you really care about? Is that something that can be expressed in only one way? To what extent can you shape your work to suit your audience without sacrificing your own integrity?
It seems to me that any idea can be expressed in many different ways. It seems to me that most really substantive ideas have multiple dimensions that could be discussed in varying proportion to suit varying audiences.
To put this in terms of poetry, one might choose to express some thought—the transient nature of life, for example—in different poetic forms—sonnet, haiku, etc. Each form shapes how the idea is expressed, but none fundamentally change the underlying idea (or at least none need change the underlying idea—but most writers learn as they write, and learning does change ideas).
When writing to an audience that wants something other than what you want—if you really want to write haiku and your audience is expecting or demanding a sonnet, you can say “I’m not going to do it! I write haiku!” That would lead to something of an impasse. What I am suggesting is that you approach such situations saying to yourself, “Maybe I can learn something from the exercise of writing a sonnet. Maybe I can learn something about my ideas and something about the craft of writing that will help me write better haiku in the future.”
Approach such situations is as an exercise—opportunities to stretch your communicative repertoire. If you don’t want to write what the other person wants to read, and if you think of the task in those terms, you can easily feel resentment for having to work on something that you don’t want to work on. If you say “can I choose words that will satisfy my critical reviewer and also stay true to my purpose?”, then your challenge may not be flavored with resentment—and that’s worth a lot (especially if you are one of those people for whom resentment fuels procrastination).
There is a lot that can be done to shape a presentation of your ideas without sacrificing them or your integrity. Let’s set aside extreme cases where you are called upon to make a statement that directly contradicts your beliefs—if the editor at the journal wants a poem on a subject you don’t want to write about, don’t write it. If your professor wants you to say “Marx was right about everything” and you don’t agree, don’t write it. But if you’re not being forced to a direct contradiction of your beliefs, then look for the challenge of writing your own ideas in a way that will reach the difficult audience. Look for the opportunity to develop your skill as a writer and the opportunity to find a new way to express a familiar idea.
You may need to (temporarily) abandon the ways in which you have previously tried to write about your work. This can be frustrating and difficult, but it can be a great learning experience for a writer—both in terms of developing a greater discursive repertoire and skill as a writer.
Looking for new ways to communicate and old idea doesn’t change the underlying purposes, the underlying quality, or the underlying value of the work. It doesn’t stop the underlying message from being shared with others in other forms. What it does do is stretch the scholar/writer’s ability to bridge communicative and intellectual gaps.
There is a problem in trying to write in a way that reaches people with whom you have fundamental disagreements—trying to write in their language often requires adopting some of the conceptual structures that they use. This makes the exercise in trying to write across these communicative gaps quite difficult while still remaining true to your own vision. But, if you remember to think of the exercise as an exercise—an attempt to develop the ability to write/speak to disparate audiences—then these dangers are challenges to be surmounted, rather than causes to abandon your beliefs.
Showing posts with label procrastination. Show all posts
Showing posts with label procrastination. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Stuckness and Persistence
I preach persistence a lot. It's important to be able to push through difficulties to get beyond them. But that doesn't mean that one wants to be blindly persistent at all times.
I was talking recently with a writer who was stuck, and not writing. In our meeting, I was stressing the importance of trying to write, and of starting to write. He wanted a method by which he could organize his collection of articles. "There are many different ways to organize materials," I said, "but none is definitive. What's important is to start writing." This answer was unsatisfactory to him, and he insisted on talking about how to organize his articles. I told him that had never seen a book on writing dissertations that talked about how to organize the research materials, and that every book on writing dissertations that I have seen talks about how important it is to start writing, and how starting writing begins a learning process that allows you to organize your thoughts and your ideas about material. This too was unsatisfactory. "I want a simple solution to organizing my material," he insisted.
A week later he wrote to me. "I'm still stuck. I haven't been able to organize my material, so I haven't written." I suggested again trying to start writing--however imperfect that writing might be. Again that suggestion was dismissed.
I know that everyone has a different way of working, and I recognize that having well-organized research at your fingertips can be helpful. But I also recognize that if you're stuck, trying something new can be very effective and very useful to helping move forward.
Albert Einstein reputedly defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. If you keep working on a project and you keep getting stuck on a specific task, isn't it worth trying to approach that project from a different perspective? Doesn't it make sense to try a new angle from which to look at the project?
Persistence need not manifest as blind repetition of the same attempt. That may be simply stubbornness. We need to be able to learn and adapt--which are, in fact, some of the primary characteristics of basic intelligence--to be able to learn and adapt.
Edison was persistent, but he also knew that he had to try something new each time. Each failed lightbulb was a way not to do things. Maybe the tasks and methods of writing that lead you into stuckness are ways not to write.
When you're learning to play a musical instrument, or when you're trying to master an athletic skill, blind repetition is often necessary, and the repetition will lead to different results: you just get better and better at the skill you're trying to develop, if you're practicing diligently and your muscles and brain start to wire together new skills. The body learns to perform an action more smoothly and easily. I was giving a friend a guitar lesson yesterday, and I was stressing the importance of playing a given chord change over and over until the motions became smooth and even. With practicing a guitar, this works: playing the chords over and over, leads to different results over time; the practice leads our playing to become smoother and more facile. If repetition is leading to different results and you can feel those differences, then it hardly fits Einstein's definition of insanity, because the change comes, and so it is reasonable to expect--at least for a while--that doing the same thing over and over again will lead to different results.
But then again, those learning curves have their terminus as well. One does not infinitely improve as a musician or athlete, and the practices and exercises that get one to a given level of skill will not necessarily take one beyond that level.
A summary of my thoughts: persistence is important, but one needs to differentiate between persistence that is building skill and ability--useful practice and repetition--and persistence that is stubbornness--an unproductive practice in which one is stuck and not developing. One needs to be persistent, but one also needs to be able to change the angle by which a given project is approached, so that one is learning and adapting, rather than simply trying the same thing again and again, expecting different results.
I was talking recently with a writer who was stuck, and not writing. In our meeting, I was stressing the importance of trying to write, and of starting to write. He wanted a method by which he could organize his collection of articles. "There are many different ways to organize materials," I said, "but none is definitive. What's important is to start writing." This answer was unsatisfactory to him, and he insisted on talking about how to organize his articles. I told him that had never seen a book on writing dissertations that talked about how to organize the research materials, and that every book on writing dissertations that I have seen talks about how important it is to start writing, and how starting writing begins a learning process that allows you to organize your thoughts and your ideas about material. This too was unsatisfactory. "I want a simple solution to organizing my material," he insisted.
A week later he wrote to me. "I'm still stuck. I haven't been able to organize my material, so I haven't written." I suggested again trying to start writing--however imperfect that writing might be. Again that suggestion was dismissed.
I know that everyone has a different way of working, and I recognize that having well-organized research at your fingertips can be helpful. But I also recognize that if you're stuck, trying something new can be very effective and very useful to helping move forward.
Albert Einstein reputedly defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. If you keep working on a project and you keep getting stuck on a specific task, isn't it worth trying to approach that project from a different perspective? Doesn't it make sense to try a new angle from which to look at the project?
Persistence need not manifest as blind repetition of the same attempt. That may be simply stubbornness. We need to be able to learn and adapt--which are, in fact, some of the primary characteristics of basic intelligence--to be able to learn and adapt.
Edison was persistent, but he also knew that he had to try something new each time. Each failed lightbulb was a way not to do things. Maybe the tasks and methods of writing that lead you into stuckness are ways not to write.
When you're learning to play a musical instrument, or when you're trying to master an athletic skill, blind repetition is often necessary, and the repetition will lead to different results: you just get better and better at the skill you're trying to develop, if you're practicing diligently and your muscles and brain start to wire together new skills. The body learns to perform an action more smoothly and easily. I was giving a friend a guitar lesson yesterday, and I was stressing the importance of playing a given chord change over and over until the motions became smooth and even. With practicing a guitar, this works: playing the chords over and over, leads to different results over time; the practice leads our playing to become smoother and more facile. If repetition is leading to different results and you can feel those differences, then it hardly fits Einstein's definition of insanity, because the change comes, and so it is reasonable to expect--at least for a while--that doing the same thing over and over again will lead to different results.
But then again, those learning curves have their terminus as well. One does not infinitely improve as a musician or athlete, and the practices and exercises that get one to a given level of skill will not necessarily take one beyond that level.
A summary of my thoughts: persistence is important, but one needs to differentiate between persistence that is building skill and ability--useful practice and repetition--and persistence that is stubbornness--an unproductive practice in which one is stuck and not developing. One needs to be persistent, but one also needs to be able to change the angle by which a given project is approached, so that one is learning and adapting, rather than simply trying the same thing again and again, expecting different results.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Start Writing; Stop researching
One of the classic procrastination patterns is the "I haven't gotten my research done" ploy.
It's a trap; it's deceptive, comforting, perhaps--"If I just read this book and those articles, then I'll be ready to write; If I can just organize my research materials, then I'll be ready"--ah, that bright and shining future, where you know enough to start writing!
It's a trap. It's a painful, unproductive pattern.
The hard part about writing--which is also the valuable part about writing--is the part that's not like reading. The hard part about writing is in making something that works. It is in organizing your thought. The hard part about reading is in trying to observe what is there. It's completely different.
Writing is like speaking: it comes from inside your head.
And that means that you have to expend energy to organize your thoughts. And to find words to represent those thoughts to share with another person. We struggle with this all the time; there are a whole slew of stock phrases that relate to this precise struggle--"I'm speechless; I couldn't find the words; there aren't words to describe..." and so on. The battle with writing is to find your own words. It won't happen while you're looking at other people's writing.
Imagine:
In the dead of night, you're woken by strangers who pull a hood over your head, bind you hand and foot, and take you away.
When they take the hood off your head and the bindings off your wrists, you're seated at a desk with a pen and a pad of paper.
"Describe your dissertation project in 350 words (give or take 50), or you'll never see your family again," they say.
What do you do? It's obvious what you do, and realistically it takes you a couple of hours at most because it just doesn't take that long to write if you focus on it.
The knowledge is already inside your head. You studied for years to get to the point where you're being permitted to propose a dissertation. Use that knowledge. Trust yourself. Put away the freakin' books an articles and trust that you learned something from all that reading you've been doing.
Imagine:
You're home for Thanksgiving and a subject related to your topic comes up. Maybe you're writing about something--anything really: history, physics, engineering, designing musical instruments, raising pets, making crepes; it doesn't really matter what--and something related comes up in conversation. Don't you know relatively a lot about your subject? At least compared to the non-specialist?
You've got to write. Writing is like teaching: it forces you to learn again and in greater depth, the subject you have been studying. When you read, and when you learn, you can rely on intuition and ideas for which you have found no expression yet. When you write, you have to struggle to make explicit the intuitions that have previously guided you.
If you do some writing, that doesn't preclude doing more reading later. But if you say "I can't write until I'm done reading," then writing is precluded until you're "done."
It's a trap; it's deceptive, comforting, perhaps--"If I just read this book and those articles, then I'll be ready to write; If I can just organize my research materials, then I'll be ready"--ah, that bright and shining future, where you know enough to start writing!
It's a trap. It's a painful, unproductive pattern.
The hard part about writing--which is also the valuable part about writing--is the part that's not like reading. The hard part about writing is in making something that works. It is in organizing your thought. The hard part about reading is in trying to observe what is there. It's completely different.
Writing is like speaking: it comes from inside your head.
And that means that you have to expend energy to organize your thoughts. And to find words to represent those thoughts to share with another person. We struggle with this all the time; there are a whole slew of stock phrases that relate to this precise struggle--"I'm speechless; I couldn't find the words; there aren't words to describe..." and so on. The battle with writing is to find your own words. It won't happen while you're looking at other people's writing.
Imagine:
In the dead of night, you're woken by strangers who pull a hood over your head, bind you hand and foot, and take you away.
When they take the hood off your head and the bindings off your wrists, you're seated at a desk with a pen and a pad of paper.
"Describe your dissertation project in 350 words (give or take 50), or you'll never see your family again," they say.
What do you do? It's obvious what you do, and realistically it takes you a couple of hours at most because it just doesn't take that long to write if you focus on it.
The knowledge is already inside your head. You studied for years to get to the point where you're being permitted to propose a dissertation. Use that knowledge. Trust yourself. Put away the freakin' books an articles and trust that you learned something from all that reading you've been doing.
Imagine:
You're home for Thanksgiving and a subject related to your topic comes up. Maybe you're writing about something--anything really: history, physics, engineering, designing musical instruments, raising pets, making crepes; it doesn't really matter what--and something related comes up in conversation. Don't you know relatively a lot about your subject? At least compared to the non-specialist?
You've got to write. Writing is like teaching: it forces you to learn again and in greater depth, the subject you have been studying. When you read, and when you learn, you can rely on intuition and ideas for which you have found no expression yet. When you write, you have to struggle to make explicit the intuitions that have previously guided you.
If you do some writing, that doesn't preclude doing more reading later. But if you say "I can't write until I'm done reading," then writing is precluded until you're "done."
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
House Cleaning Analogy (2)
This is a brief follow up to what I was writing yesterday--taken from an e-mail exchange with a writer (who is probably going to read this blog entry--so thanks for being smart and interesting--you know who you are).
You say "all I ever wanted was to be proud of the work I complete". What if you said, instead, "what I want is to be proud that I completed my work (work which many who begin don't finish, and which most who aspire to will never even qualify to begin)."? What if you could take pride in completing an awkward draft on schedule?
I have this as a follow up on the house cleaning analogy, because I think it's the same principle: we need to be able to do what we can in the time allotted and be proud of having done our best. One neat thing about being proud of doing our best, is that if we work hard, then we have something to be proud of--regardless of what others say. If we depend on the product of our effort turning out well, then we are much more at the mercy of outside circumstances, and much more vulnerable to the complaints/criticisms of others.
You say "all I ever wanted was to be proud of the work I complete". What if you said, instead, "what I want is to be proud that I completed my work (work which many who begin don't finish, and which most who aspire to will never even qualify to begin)."? What if you could take pride in completing an awkward draft on schedule?
I have this as a follow up on the house cleaning analogy, because I think it's the same principle: we need to be able to do what we can in the time allotted and be proud of having done our best. One neat thing about being proud of doing our best, is that if we work hard, then we have something to be proud of--regardless of what others say. If we depend on the product of our effort turning out well, then we are much more at the mercy of outside circumstances, and much more vulnerable to the complaints/criticisms of others.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
House Cleaning Analogy
Suppose that your home was a mess and you had one hour before a visitor arrived--a visitor that you wished very much to impress? You might start planning an excuse for the mess, but chances are you would also be frantically cleaning as quickly as possible, trying to present the best face possible. You would not let the fact that you didn't have time to clean everything perfectly stop you from trying to at least present a decent appearance.
Suppose you went to take an exam. And in that exam you had to answer questions that you had never seen before. What would you do? You would do your best to answer, right? Presumably, if you're writing a dissertation, you managed to answer exam questions quite successfully many times over the course of years.
What if you treated your dissertation, or pieces of your dissertation, in a similar fashion? What if you wrote them in an attempt to put together a complete piece in the time you have allotted for that?
Of course, one problem with the dissertation is the distant future. When you have only one hour, or three, before the hammer comes down, it's easier to maintain focus. The dissertation is months, maybe even years away. This distant horizon is problematic--it allows one to choose to defer the effort required to write. Or perhaps it allows one to defer the fear associated with writing. And thus we have procrastination.
But I think this is something that we want to work around, and that we can change our relationship. It is a matter, I think, of looking at the writing itself as an exploration--an attempt.
Suppose one sets a task--perhaps that task is to write an abstract, perhaps it is to write an introduction to a chapter, or to write a section of a chapter--we can call that task X. One then has a choice about how to approach that task. One choice might be to say "X must be accomplished perfectly." This choice, obviously, is the perfectionist approach that is so strongly related to procrastination (see, e.g., Fiore, The Now Habit). Another choice would be to say "I will attempt to complete X in a set time; I will cover all the parts of X, even if there are some imperfections." I would suggest this choice is basically the course of action we choose in the tight moments, when feedback will be immediate and it is obviously better to do what we can in the allotted time than to do nothing.
One thing about this approach for the writer is that writing itself is a process of learning, so if we decide to take the "exam" approach, and we generate a poor draft in a short time, we still have generated something to work with, and we have learned from the process. And then we simply try again. If we expect and plan on the iteration--the revision of our work--then it becomes much more sensible and reasonable to choose to try to put something down--even if that something is going to be problematic.
When we enter our house and it's a mess, and a visitor is coming, we know what to do to try to make the house look right. We know that we're striving for appearances. We may stuff things into closets where they don't belong, but we're trying to satisfy an image.
When we sit down to an exam that asks an essay question, we know that we want to try to create and organized and coherent answer to the question--who hasn't had a professor suggest outlining exam essays during the exam? We may not have time to pull together a really coherent essay--perhaps we have a new insight in the process of writing--but we do our best to generate a coherent whole. We do our best in the time allotted to create a piece that works.
What if we were to sit down and allot ourselves a set time--say 90 minutes--to accomplish a difficult task--like writing an abstract or writing a two-page section of a chapter, or writing an outline for a chapter or a chapter section? Could we then generate a draft of a coherent whole in that time? I believe that if you have passed essay exams in a college career, then you can generate an appropriate draft. That draft might not be very good, but it would be complete.
The problem with this pair of analogies is that both have a strong streak of negative reinforcement: in both of the analogies, there is near-immediate feedback, and potential for unwanted negative feedback. With the dissertation, there is no fear of immediate feedback from anyone (except, possibly, yourself). On the one hand, I think it a long-term mistake to set up patterns based on negative reinforcement, because such situations can create resentment and fear. On the other hand I like to use these analogies, because they point out the matter of choice: one can choose to act to create an imperfect solution. And that ability exists even when the immediate negative feedback does not loom.
This perspective--this recognition of our ability to choose to write an imperfect draft, and our ability to use that draft to learn and refine our work--seems to me to be crucial for those of us who fear that we cannot write well enough, or that we have not entirely worked out some aspects, or even some of the larger issues. If there is something that we don't think we can articulate, then that is precisely the time to choose to write something imperfect. By writing the imperfect draft, we can look back at our work and learn from it--we can start to get a better idea of what it is that we have not figured out.
The short version of this: choose to write, even if the result is imperfect. The benefits of having written will justify the creation of a draft that needs to be revised.
Suppose you went to take an exam. And in that exam you had to answer questions that you had never seen before. What would you do? You would do your best to answer, right? Presumably, if you're writing a dissertation, you managed to answer exam questions quite successfully many times over the course of years.
What if you treated your dissertation, or pieces of your dissertation, in a similar fashion? What if you wrote them in an attempt to put together a complete piece in the time you have allotted for that?
Of course, one problem with the dissertation is the distant future. When you have only one hour, or three, before the hammer comes down, it's easier to maintain focus. The dissertation is months, maybe even years away. This distant horizon is problematic--it allows one to choose to defer the effort required to write. Or perhaps it allows one to defer the fear associated with writing. And thus we have procrastination.
But I think this is something that we want to work around, and that we can change our relationship. It is a matter, I think, of looking at the writing itself as an exploration--an attempt.
Suppose one sets a task--perhaps that task is to write an abstract, perhaps it is to write an introduction to a chapter, or to write a section of a chapter--we can call that task X. One then has a choice about how to approach that task. One choice might be to say "X must be accomplished perfectly." This choice, obviously, is the perfectionist approach that is so strongly related to procrastination (see, e.g., Fiore, The Now Habit). Another choice would be to say "I will attempt to complete X in a set time; I will cover all the parts of X, even if there are some imperfections." I would suggest this choice is basically the course of action we choose in the tight moments, when feedback will be immediate and it is obviously better to do what we can in the allotted time than to do nothing.
One thing about this approach for the writer is that writing itself is a process of learning, so if we decide to take the "exam" approach, and we generate a poor draft in a short time, we still have generated something to work with, and we have learned from the process. And then we simply try again. If we expect and plan on the iteration--the revision of our work--then it becomes much more sensible and reasonable to choose to try to put something down--even if that something is going to be problematic.
When we enter our house and it's a mess, and a visitor is coming, we know what to do to try to make the house look right. We know that we're striving for appearances. We may stuff things into closets where they don't belong, but we're trying to satisfy an image.
When we sit down to an exam that asks an essay question, we know that we want to try to create and organized and coherent answer to the question--who hasn't had a professor suggest outlining exam essays during the exam? We may not have time to pull together a really coherent essay--perhaps we have a new insight in the process of writing--but we do our best to generate a coherent whole. We do our best in the time allotted to create a piece that works.
What if we were to sit down and allot ourselves a set time--say 90 minutes--to accomplish a difficult task--like writing an abstract or writing a two-page section of a chapter, or writing an outline for a chapter or a chapter section? Could we then generate a draft of a coherent whole in that time? I believe that if you have passed essay exams in a college career, then you can generate an appropriate draft. That draft might not be very good, but it would be complete.
The problem with this pair of analogies is that both have a strong streak of negative reinforcement: in both of the analogies, there is near-immediate feedback, and potential for unwanted negative feedback. With the dissertation, there is no fear of immediate feedback from anyone (except, possibly, yourself). On the one hand, I think it a long-term mistake to set up patterns based on negative reinforcement, because such situations can create resentment and fear. On the other hand I like to use these analogies, because they point out the matter of choice: one can choose to act to create an imperfect solution. And that ability exists even when the immediate negative feedback does not loom.
This perspective--this recognition of our ability to choose to write an imperfect draft, and our ability to use that draft to learn and refine our work--seems to me to be crucial for those of us who fear that we cannot write well enough, or that we have not entirely worked out some aspects, or even some of the larger issues. If there is something that we don't think we can articulate, then that is precisely the time to choose to write something imperfect. By writing the imperfect draft, we can look back at our work and learn from it--we can start to get a better idea of what it is that we have not figured out.
The short version of this: choose to write, even if the result is imperfect. The benefits of having written will justify the creation of a draft that needs to be revised.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Self-Fulfilling Prophecy
For the writer, I think the expectation of a bad outcome is something of a self-fulfilling prophecy. It is, at least, if we allow the expectation of a bad outcome to keep us from working and from circulating our work.
Writing is meant to be shared. If we are unwilling to share our written work (or if we produce no written work), then we fail as writers more surely than we could possibly fail by handing in a poor draft. At least when the deadline comes, if you have turned in nothing, you have no chance of your work being accepted; if you have something written, you have a chance--however slim you may believe that chance to be.
If you believe the outcome will be bad, you almost guarantee the bad outcome. This is often true in interpersonal dynamics--whether interviewing, presenting work, or even dating--if you show a lack of confidence, the audience will expect problems; if you show confidence, you're often well received.
It is true to some extent in presenting written work: often people present the work along with a long list of the problems they still see, with no comment on the good things they have accomplished--they're so sure the reader will see the problems that they want the reader to know that they've seen the problem, too. But this can backfire, especially if you see problems that your reader wouldn't have.
The old adage "you can't win if you don't play", is kind of true and kind of annoyingly simplistic. But the outcome of not playing is often exactly like the outcome of losing, except perhaps in the expenditure of energy. But that's not really a loss, is it? What good is it to be well rested, but still have the dissertation waiting to be written?
I suppose there is the fear that if one does try, one might be ridiculed for one's efforts, whereas the person who shows nothing, is not ridiculed. Of course, if you fear ridicule, you might also fear the ridicule of never finishing. Is it really worse to be known as the person who went for it and failed than it is to be known as the person who never went for it?
Chance always plays a role; it's always possible that one will find a winning lottery ticket on the street. But barring random chance, I feel like pessimism is a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Getting things to work out right may be more difficult, but I believe that the optimistic mind also creates a self-fulfilling prophecy. Confidence helps one perform better. Optimism and confidence also make the moment more enjoyable. If you can maintain optimism during a project, even if it doesn't work out, the act of working on the project may not seem so onerous, because it is an act filled with hope.
For my part, I have to work to keep an optimistic mindset, and it often slips away. Nonetheless, I believe that work in trying to be optimistic and in practicing believing in myself, is worth the effort.
Writing is meant to be shared. If we are unwilling to share our written work (or if we produce no written work), then we fail as writers more surely than we could possibly fail by handing in a poor draft. At least when the deadline comes, if you have turned in nothing, you have no chance of your work being accepted; if you have something written, you have a chance--however slim you may believe that chance to be.
If you believe the outcome will be bad, you almost guarantee the bad outcome. This is often true in interpersonal dynamics--whether interviewing, presenting work, or even dating--if you show a lack of confidence, the audience will expect problems; if you show confidence, you're often well received.
It is true to some extent in presenting written work: often people present the work along with a long list of the problems they still see, with no comment on the good things they have accomplished--they're so sure the reader will see the problems that they want the reader to know that they've seen the problem, too. But this can backfire, especially if you see problems that your reader wouldn't have.
The old adage "you can't win if you don't play", is kind of true and kind of annoyingly simplistic. But the outcome of not playing is often exactly like the outcome of losing, except perhaps in the expenditure of energy. But that's not really a loss, is it? What good is it to be well rested, but still have the dissertation waiting to be written?
I suppose there is the fear that if one does try, one might be ridiculed for one's efforts, whereas the person who shows nothing, is not ridiculed. Of course, if you fear ridicule, you might also fear the ridicule of never finishing. Is it really worse to be known as the person who went for it and failed than it is to be known as the person who never went for it?
Chance always plays a role; it's always possible that one will find a winning lottery ticket on the street. But barring random chance, I feel like pessimism is a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Getting things to work out right may be more difficult, but I believe that the optimistic mind also creates a self-fulfilling prophecy. Confidence helps one perform better. Optimism and confidence also make the moment more enjoyable. If you can maintain optimism during a project, even if it doesn't work out, the act of working on the project may not seem so onerous, because it is an act filled with hope.
For my part, I have to work to keep an optimistic mindset, and it often slips away. Nonetheless, I believe that work in trying to be optimistic and in practicing believing in myself, is worth the effort.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Procrastination
I don't get many comments on the blog, so every one is kind of exciting.
I got a comment this morning (thanks!) that started me thinking.
"Hi, Dave,
I'm new to your blog and just wanted to let you know that I find your words insightful and even uplifting. Not that I'm promising to go work on my dissertation or anything...heh."
Now compliments are nice, but it's that final sentence that really struck me, just because it made me think of a book I'm currently reading: The Now Habit by Neil Fiore. I am something of a consumer of mass market psychology and self-help, which is what Fiore's book feels like to me. Fiore basically says that procrastination can often be ascribed to a sense that you're not doing a task because you want to, but rather because you feel as if someone expects you to do it. I've only read a third of the book, but as far as I can tell, the basic premise is that we get over procrastination by choosing what we will do--by feeling like we are making a choice and doing what we think we should do for our own benefit--not because someone told us to, but because we decided to.
This basic premise is one that I believe in, and one I believe I have mentioned in previous posts. We get the work done when we're doing it because we think we will make our situation better for doing it.
The kind author of the comment, of course, has no connection with me or commitment to me--no promise, and even if she/he did promise, I have no way of enforcing that promise. But that final sentence can be read as revealing the whole dynamic of procrastination as Fiore describes it: there is work that isn't getting done, and there is an author who is resisting, and who is referencing an outside authority of sorts.
Only of sorts, of course, because I am pretty much an anti-authority figure. I want everybody to work from a core of personal beliefs--including a belief that working on the project is a good thing.
It's better if one also believes that working on the project is not painful or agonizing in anyway, but that can be a slightly harder belief to come by. But it comes easier if you start thinking about the choice that you're making and the good outcomes that come out of making that choice and engaging with the project.
I'm not big on saying things like "you should be working harder; promise me you'll work harder." I'm more likely to say "do something that promotes your health--physical or mental, or better both. Do something that you think is important. Do something that helps give you better future prospects so you can live a better life." I figure if an author can't figure out how the dissertation relates to at least one of those three questions, then probably that author ought not be bothering with the dissertation anyway.
I'd like to suggest that every author try to have fun with their work. Explore the possibilities; look for the things that interest you and the things that you care about. See if you can rediscover the enthusiasm that directed you to the topic in the first place.
If you're only doing it because someone else expects it of you, then you're setting up a dynamic that will lead to procrastination (at least in procrastination as described by Fiore).
Thanks again for the comment! I hope that you had a good day, doing whatever you did.
I got a comment this morning (thanks!) that started me thinking.
"Hi, Dave,
I'm new to your blog and just wanted to let you know that I find your words insightful and even uplifting. Not that I'm promising to go work on my dissertation or anything...heh."
Now compliments are nice, but it's that final sentence that really struck me, just because it made me think of a book I'm currently reading: The Now Habit by Neil Fiore. I am something of a consumer of mass market psychology and self-help, which is what Fiore's book feels like to me. Fiore basically says that procrastination can often be ascribed to a sense that you're not doing a task because you want to, but rather because you feel as if someone expects you to do it. I've only read a third of the book, but as far as I can tell, the basic premise is that we get over procrastination by choosing what we will do--by feeling like we are making a choice and doing what we think we should do for our own benefit--not because someone told us to, but because we decided to.
This basic premise is one that I believe in, and one I believe I have mentioned in previous posts. We get the work done when we're doing it because we think we will make our situation better for doing it.
The kind author of the comment, of course, has no connection with me or commitment to me--no promise, and even if she/he did promise, I have no way of enforcing that promise. But that final sentence can be read as revealing the whole dynamic of procrastination as Fiore describes it: there is work that isn't getting done, and there is an author who is resisting, and who is referencing an outside authority of sorts.
Only of sorts, of course, because I am pretty much an anti-authority figure. I want everybody to work from a core of personal beliefs--including a belief that working on the project is a good thing.
It's better if one also believes that working on the project is not painful or agonizing in anyway, but that can be a slightly harder belief to come by. But it comes easier if you start thinking about the choice that you're making and the good outcomes that come out of making that choice and engaging with the project.
I'm not big on saying things like "you should be working harder; promise me you'll work harder." I'm more likely to say "do something that promotes your health--physical or mental, or better both. Do something that you think is important. Do something that helps give you better future prospects so you can live a better life." I figure if an author can't figure out how the dissertation relates to at least one of those three questions, then probably that author ought not be bothering with the dissertation anyway.
I'd like to suggest that every author try to have fun with their work. Explore the possibilities; look for the things that interest you and the things that you care about. See if you can rediscover the enthusiasm that directed you to the topic in the first place.
If you're only doing it because someone else expects it of you, then you're setting up a dynamic that will lead to procrastination (at least in procrastination as described by Fiore).
Thanks again for the comment! I hope that you had a good day, doing whatever you did.
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