I was watching the Tour de France on TV and at one point there was some discussion of when it was most efficient to work the hardest. The speaker--whose qualifications I forget--said that the riders got the most benefit by working the hardest when the situation was most difficult--riding uphill or into a headwind.
I was thinking about whether this has a parallel for writers. Are we going to get the most benefit by working the hardest when things are not going well? Or are we going to get the most benefit by resting a bit when things are going poorly, and then working hard when things start to flow?
We can't do wind tunnel tests to determine this.
I could argue both ways. A dissertation isn't a bike race, so the metaphor is obviously not going to translate without some difficulties.
A couple of days ago, I wrote about the curtain of misery; and I think that working hardest when the difficulty is greatest is liable to create the greatest pain when working--you'll be putting in the most effort at exactly that time the work is the least promising.
On the other hand, if you're stuck--if you're discouraged, frustrated, then that might be a moment when you can gain the greatest value from the work because, for one, you need to keep working consistently, even through difficulty, to finish a dissertation; and for two, it is often the case that the moment of frustration and difficulty is the moment at which the greatest change and growth comes. My yoga teacher was recently talking about how at the moment of difficulty something beautiful is waiting to burst out into growth.
I listed this post under the headings of consistency, persistence, and momentum. I don't think that there is a clear answer to what tactic is going to work best on writing a dissertation. The dissertation writing journey and progress through it are not so easily measured as speed and energy output are. But I do think that generally we want to be consistent in working, and persistent in the face of difficulties because there is momentum to projects and to writing: by keeping the project alive and moving in your mind, and on paper, you increase the ease with which you can work on it, and you keep your mind and body in the rhythm and habit of working on the project and thinking about the ideas.
When is the best time to work the hardest? I don't have an answer to that. It partly depends on you and what works best for you. But, in the long run, it is the tortoise that you should emulate: stick at it in a regular pace. What is key is to keep the progress and the writing piling up.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Misery and Choice
We often make ourselves miserable.
I was reading through a book on writing dissertations--David Sternberg's How to Complete and Survive a Doctoral Dissertation--and it struck me how much of a presumption he was making about misery.
In general, I thought the book had a lot of good suggestions, for all that parts of it are quite dated (it was published almost 30 years ago). But the emphasis on what a trauma the dissertation process is seems to me over the top. For example he says “American Society is not aware, excepting personal acquaintance of particular ABDs, of the almost larger-than-life trials, fortitude, despair, courage and even heroics experienced in writing a doctoral dissertation.” Forgive me for saying, but I don't take this seriously. And I am quite familiar with the despair of the dissertation writer, having spent six years as an ABD doctoral candidate.
I refer to the work of Viktor Frankl, and his notion that we can find meaning even in our suffering, and that this meaning supports us. Frankl survived the Nazi concentration camps. Compared to that, writing a dissertation is an absolute blessing.
If you're actually writing a dissertation, chances are you have options in your life. Chances are you're not worrying where you're going to get your next meal. Chances are you're not worrying about where you're going to sleep tomorrow night. And chances are that you can get a job if you need one. Now in that context, it may take a huge commitment of effort and will to wrie an entire dissertation. And it may strain you--even push you towards the limits of what you had accomplished in the past. But do those things make the writing heroic? Is it the kind of situation in which despair is appropriate?
I think not. Obviously we have emotional reactions. Obviously, if we have worked hard and our work is rejected, or even rejected harshly, that is terribly difficult to handle. But this is a matter of choice. We can choose to continue, or we can choose to leave the dissertation behind. We are not condemned to writing our dissertation.
On the first level, then, I think it's important for the dissertation writer who is concerned with the agony of writing to remember that this is a choice to work on the dissertation. If it is making you miserable, and if writing the dissertation condemns you to years of writing misery, then why do it? And if you have a good answer as to why to do it, then can't you try to focus on the good things that you'll get out of the effort that you think is miserable?
There's a second level: we can choose whether or not to be miserable. I think this is the ultimate lesson of Frankl's story: he had every right to be miserable--real physical hardship, pain, emotional loss, separation from family, fear of death--but he claims that he chose something else. He argues that we always have the power to choose how we respond--by creating meaning, we mediate and shape our responses. In a way, it's almost as simple as saying that if you sit down to write telling yourself how miserable it is, then it will be miserable; and if you sit down telling yourself it will be rewarding, then it may well be rewarding.
I was reading through a book on writing dissertations--David Sternberg's How to Complete and Survive a Doctoral Dissertation--and it struck me how much of a presumption he was making about misery.
In general, I thought the book had a lot of good suggestions, for all that parts of it are quite dated (it was published almost 30 years ago). But the emphasis on what a trauma the dissertation process is seems to me over the top. For example he says “American Society is not aware, excepting personal acquaintance of particular ABDs, of the almost larger-than-life trials, fortitude, despair, courage and even heroics experienced in writing a doctoral dissertation.” Forgive me for saying, but I don't take this seriously. And I am quite familiar with the despair of the dissertation writer, having spent six years as an ABD doctoral candidate.
I refer to the work of Viktor Frankl, and his notion that we can find meaning even in our suffering, and that this meaning supports us. Frankl survived the Nazi concentration camps. Compared to that, writing a dissertation is an absolute blessing.
If you're actually writing a dissertation, chances are you have options in your life. Chances are you're not worrying where you're going to get your next meal. Chances are you're not worrying about where you're going to sleep tomorrow night. And chances are that you can get a job if you need one. Now in that context, it may take a huge commitment of effort and will to wrie an entire dissertation. And it may strain you--even push you towards the limits of what you had accomplished in the past. But do those things make the writing heroic? Is it the kind of situation in which despair is appropriate?
I think not. Obviously we have emotional reactions. Obviously, if we have worked hard and our work is rejected, or even rejected harshly, that is terribly difficult to handle. But this is a matter of choice. We can choose to continue, or we can choose to leave the dissertation behind. We are not condemned to writing our dissertation.
On the first level, then, I think it's important for the dissertation writer who is concerned with the agony of writing to remember that this is a choice to work on the dissertation. If it is making you miserable, and if writing the dissertation condemns you to years of writing misery, then why do it? And if you have a good answer as to why to do it, then can't you try to focus on the good things that you'll get out of the effort that you think is miserable?
There's a second level: we can choose whether or not to be miserable. I think this is the ultimate lesson of Frankl's story: he had every right to be miserable--real physical hardship, pain, emotional loss, separation from family, fear of death--but he claims that he chose something else. He argues that we always have the power to choose how we respond--by creating meaning, we mediate and shape our responses. In a way, it's almost as simple as saying that if you sit down to write telling yourself how miserable it is, then it will be miserable; and if you sit down telling yourself it will be rewarding, then it may well be rewarding.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Curtains of Misery
I was talking with a writer who spoke about her work as if it were nothing but misery to work on her dissertation. And yet this same writer had had some very good responses to her ideas at some panel discussions and in interactions with scholars that she respected. It was as if her entering the place of study, she was draped with a curtain of misery that hung over the project.
I believe that we can change how we interact with our situations and our adversities. This is the main premise of Viktor Frankl's Logotherapy. It is a basic premise behind cognitive behavioral therapy and behind Neuro-Linguistic programming. Indeed, it is the basic premise behind many sorts of therapy: therapy by definition attempts to relieve a disorder--physiotherapy changes how our bodies respond (for example our leg might have to re-learn how to bear weight); psychotherapy changes how we respond. The question is whether we can effect such changes on our own. Frankl clearly believes we can.
I believe that one major cause that we get caught under the curtains of misery is that we lose touch with a sense of purpose. If we no longer believe that our work is meaningful--if we are asking ourselves "what am I doing this for anyway?", then we are likely to be miserable. If our work is meaningless, then we might as well be retyping a telephone book into the computer. If the work is meaningless, what's the difference? If the work serves no purpose it is no more than drudgery (perhaps worse--at least as a drudge you're doing something practical).
Of course writing a dissertation is hard. But it ought not be viewed as hardship. Realistically, if you are writing a dissertation you are knocking on the door of a social elite--stories of PhDs driving taxis notwithstanding, I'd be happy to bet that the average PhD makes more than the average non-PhD, even presuming that the richest people don't have PhDs. It is a tremendous opportunity. And yet it is so often a hardship, too.
I am not denying the emotional strains faced by the dissertation writer, but there are two sides to every story. I know that the writer I mentioned at the beginning of this post faced/faces very real stress; what seems most important to me is finding a way to reliever her--and those like her--of the stress, or at least of a great deal of it. I know that for her a large part of the stress stems from the moments where she is saying to herself: "my material doesn't really matter"; if I respond to that statement by saying "but what Dr. X who asked you to co-write a book chapter," I can hear her mood shift. It reminds her that there is a meaning that she herself sees.
I'm not of the opinion that we should base our own beliefs on whether other people approve of those beliefs. But I am of the opinion that we can learn a lot from other people, and if someone I respect thinks something is important, that's a very good justification for me to explore whether I want to take that thing seriously, too.
Anyway, the short of this is that the better we develop a sense of purpose--especially one that is in alignment with our deep emotions, beliefs and values--the more that we are able throw off the curtains of misery and remember that our work--whatever its difficulties--is valuable.
I believe that we can change how we interact with our situations and our adversities. This is the main premise of Viktor Frankl's Logotherapy. It is a basic premise behind cognitive behavioral therapy and behind Neuro-Linguistic programming. Indeed, it is the basic premise behind many sorts of therapy: therapy by definition attempts to relieve a disorder--physiotherapy changes how our bodies respond (for example our leg might have to re-learn how to bear weight); psychotherapy changes how we respond. The question is whether we can effect such changes on our own. Frankl clearly believes we can.
I believe that one major cause that we get caught under the curtains of misery is that we lose touch with a sense of purpose. If we no longer believe that our work is meaningful--if we are asking ourselves "what am I doing this for anyway?", then we are likely to be miserable. If our work is meaningless, then we might as well be retyping a telephone book into the computer. If the work is meaningless, what's the difference? If the work serves no purpose it is no more than drudgery (perhaps worse--at least as a drudge you're doing something practical).
Of course writing a dissertation is hard. But it ought not be viewed as hardship. Realistically, if you are writing a dissertation you are knocking on the door of a social elite--stories of PhDs driving taxis notwithstanding, I'd be happy to bet that the average PhD makes more than the average non-PhD, even presuming that the richest people don't have PhDs. It is a tremendous opportunity. And yet it is so often a hardship, too.
I am not denying the emotional strains faced by the dissertation writer, but there are two sides to every story. I know that the writer I mentioned at the beginning of this post faced/faces very real stress; what seems most important to me is finding a way to reliever her--and those like her--of the stress, or at least of a great deal of it. I know that for her a large part of the stress stems from the moments where she is saying to herself: "my material doesn't really matter"; if I respond to that statement by saying "but what Dr. X who asked you to co-write a book chapter," I can hear her mood shift. It reminds her that there is a meaning that she herself sees.
I'm not of the opinion that we should base our own beliefs on whether other people approve of those beliefs. But I am of the opinion that we can learn a lot from other people, and if someone I respect thinks something is important, that's a very good justification for me to explore whether I want to take that thing seriously, too.
Anyway, the short of this is that the better we develop a sense of purpose--especially one that is in alignment with our deep emotions, beliefs and values--the more that we are able throw off the curtains of misery and remember that our work--whatever its difficulties--is valuable.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Construction of Meaning and Imagination
I was just thinking about phlogiston and the aether and vacuum..among other ideas.
The imagination that was required to come up with these ideas is, to me, stunning.
If what we do is make up stories as a natural part of how we understand the world, then coming up with ideas like these seems to me beyond the imaginative efforts of a Tolkein or an Asimov.
Some ideas seem like they would come up logically eventually: I can see how an idea like infinity would arise through some logical debate.
Or evolution: that seems not too impossible: one sees groups of similar creatures and tells a story of how they all came from a similar source--it is especially plausible if you already know of breeding of animals and how traits can be strengthened from generation to generation (and I think we can say safely that 19th century England knew about animal breeding). It would take some imagination to come up with the idea of evolution, but the elements are there in experience.
But what about vacuum or the aether? These are ideas that I can hardly even attempt to explain. They both play key roles in various stories about the very nature of existence. But they are so far abstracted from experience that my imagination does not take me to such places easily.
Phlogiston is another one: the substance that is contained in elements that burned. Somehow this works with the four classical elements--earth, air, water, and fire--but how is phlogiston different from fire? I don't know. I haven't tried to explain it. I have a story that explains combustion--something about release of energy from carbon bonds and recombination with oxygen--I don't think about combustion much, so I don't need a very detailed story. But think about how the mind is stretching when it tries to explain fire by adding a new element to a list of elements that already has "fire" as one of the elements.
Hopefully we don't need to use quite so much imagination in the construction of our meaning for our own work. Much easier to imagine a complete world filled with creatures that resemble humans, and also other mythical creatures, than to imagine a completely new element. Hopefully it's easier still to imagine significance for your own work.
I think perhaps one of the greatest battles that I fought was with the internal voice that said to me "no one is going to care about this abstruse philosophical question you're studying, even if it is important." Partly I battled the voice by telling myself that the idea mattered even if it didn't reach anyone else (an odd position for one who believes that knowledge is fundamentally instrumental, but who ever said I was consistent?). The sense that your own work is important is crucial. A great shame is that so many people start out on dissertations (or at least start graduate programs) with a sense that they are in school to help the world, and they somehow get out of touch with that initial sense of purpose. If you can reconnect with the things that are meaningful for you, and you can imagine a path by which your research can tie into the initial passion that drove you, then you can work from a place of emotional strength--one where your emotions are not conflicted (or at least not as conflicted).
I also gained a measure of strength by reframing the project and finding meaning in my ability to overcome obstacles and successfully complete a project that--by the end--had swelled into a work of over 300 pages. No one may ever read that book again (and given that I needed a proofreader, I'm not sure that bothers me), but that matters not at all because I finished it.
I've been thinking a lot about how the stories we tell about our lives can help or hinder us. Those stories are construction of meaning. On the simplest level this may be just a matter of what we focus on: do we focus on the good things or the bad? On what we have or what we want? This may also be a matter of the difference between constructing a story in which things are connected and a story in which things are disconnected.
And then there are the different levels of meaning that we construct. What if we are seeking the thread that ties a whole work together--a thread that we sense is there, but can't quite tease out--and while we seek that thread we are telling ourselves a story like "I'll never find the thread"? If that story about our inadequacy is dragging us down emotionally, will it cut into the hours we would have worked if we were telling ourselves some other story--like "I'm sure I'll find it if I keep working," or even "I'll keep trying to find this thread, but if I can't find it, I'll go and work on another project because I'm not letting one setback stop me"? I don't know whether it's true, but here's the story I construct: being depressed takes away energy, and so if you tell yourself you're going to fail, you'll have less energy, ergo, you'll work less and therefore have less likelihood of success.
Somehow I slipped into full self-help/power-of-positive-thinking mode. I didn't really mean to--but the power of our imaginations and our construction of meaning led me into it.
The imagination that was required to come up with these ideas is, to me, stunning.
If what we do is make up stories as a natural part of how we understand the world, then coming up with ideas like these seems to me beyond the imaginative efforts of a Tolkein or an Asimov.
Some ideas seem like they would come up logically eventually: I can see how an idea like infinity would arise through some logical debate.
Or evolution: that seems not too impossible: one sees groups of similar creatures and tells a story of how they all came from a similar source--it is especially plausible if you already know of breeding of animals and how traits can be strengthened from generation to generation (and I think we can say safely that 19th century England knew about animal breeding). It would take some imagination to come up with the idea of evolution, but the elements are there in experience.
But what about vacuum or the aether? These are ideas that I can hardly even attempt to explain. They both play key roles in various stories about the very nature of existence. But they are so far abstracted from experience that my imagination does not take me to such places easily.
Phlogiston is another one: the substance that is contained in elements that burned. Somehow this works with the four classical elements--earth, air, water, and fire--but how is phlogiston different from fire? I don't know. I haven't tried to explain it. I have a story that explains combustion--something about release of energy from carbon bonds and recombination with oxygen--I don't think about combustion much, so I don't need a very detailed story. But think about how the mind is stretching when it tries to explain fire by adding a new element to a list of elements that already has "fire" as one of the elements.
Hopefully we don't need to use quite so much imagination in the construction of our meaning for our own work. Much easier to imagine a complete world filled with creatures that resemble humans, and also other mythical creatures, than to imagine a completely new element. Hopefully it's easier still to imagine significance for your own work.
I think perhaps one of the greatest battles that I fought was with the internal voice that said to me "no one is going to care about this abstruse philosophical question you're studying, even if it is important." Partly I battled the voice by telling myself that the idea mattered even if it didn't reach anyone else (an odd position for one who believes that knowledge is fundamentally instrumental, but who ever said I was consistent?). The sense that your own work is important is crucial. A great shame is that so many people start out on dissertations (or at least start graduate programs) with a sense that they are in school to help the world, and they somehow get out of touch with that initial sense of purpose. If you can reconnect with the things that are meaningful for you, and you can imagine a path by which your research can tie into the initial passion that drove you, then you can work from a place of emotional strength--one where your emotions are not conflicted (or at least not as conflicted).
I also gained a measure of strength by reframing the project and finding meaning in my ability to overcome obstacles and successfully complete a project that--by the end--had swelled into a work of over 300 pages. No one may ever read that book again (and given that I needed a proofreader, I'm not sure that bothers me), but that matters not at all because I finished it.
I've been thinking a lot about how the stories we tell about our lives can help or hinder us. Those stories are construction of meaning. On the simplest level this may be just a matter of what we focus on: do we focus on the good things or the bad? On what we have or what we want? This may also be a matter of the difference between constructing a story in which things are connected and a story in which things are disconnected.
And then there are the different levels of meaning that we construct. What if we are seeking the thread that ties a whole work together--a thread that we sense is there, but can't quite tease out--and while we seek that thread we are telling ourselves a story like "I'll never find the thread"? If that story about our inadequacy is dragging us down emotionally, will it cut into the hours we would have worked if we were telling ourselves some other story--like "I'm sure I'll find it if I keep working," or even "I'll keep trying to find this thread, but if I can't find it, I'll go and work on another project because I'm not letting one setback stop me"? I don't know whether it's true, but here's the story I construct: being depressed takes away energy, and so if you tell yourself you're going to fail, you'll have less energy, ergo, you'll work less and therefore have less likelihood of success.
Somehow I slipped into full self-help/power-of-positive-thinking mode. I didn't really mean to--but the power of our imaginations and our construction of meaning led me into it.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Trusting Yourself
I was talking with a friend, a guitarist, and we were discussing his music. Mostly I like his music, but I think that he doesn't stay with his ideas long enough--I think he's got good idea that just need to be given more time in their expression. I suggested this to him and he said (paraphrase) "well, yeah, I should develop the ideas more but, I can't."
I think a lot of us are like this as writers: we have an idea and we give up on the idea saying "I can't develop this idea more."
But for my friend the guitarist, and for many of us as writers, the problem is that we don't stay with the idea long enough. We don't work it and rework it. Instead we play the wrong note, or we lose track of our place in the progression, and having hit that first failure we say "I blew it; this ain't gonna work." But a lot of time it's really that we didn't trust our ability to push through the place of difficulty. It's not that we need to do anything different; we just need to stick with what we are doing longer. We need to trust in our abilities.
Sometimes I think of this situation in terms of two binary variables:
whether we trust ourselves (yes or no)
and
whether we have the ability we need (yes or no)
What combination of these variables will lead to success? There are 4 possibilities:
1. obviously, if we don't have trust and we don't have ability, we're not too likely to succeed.
2. If we don't have ability but we do believe, our chances are better, but still....
3. If we do have ability, but we don't believe, then we have some chance, but we're also likely to hold ourself back.
and
4. If we do have ability and we trust that ability, then we are most likely to succeed.
What is important to note here is that whether or not we have the ability we need, our chance of getting a good outcome is improved by trusting ourself, while there is no increase in risk.
OK, there is a simplification operating here, and there are situations where our risks increase by (unjustly) believing about ourself. But here's the question: are there any situations in which a dissertation writer benefits by doubting his or her ability to do the work? And if there are no such situations, or if those situations are rare, isn't it worth acting on the assumption that your abilities will be up to the effort?
I think a lot of us are like this as writers: we have an idea and we give up on the idea saying "I can't develop this idea more."
But for my friend the guitarist, and for many of us as writers, the problem is that we don't stay with the idea long enough. We don't work it and rework it. Instead we play the wrong note, or we lose track of our place in the progression, and having hit that first failure we say "I blew it; this ain't gonna work." But a lot of time it's really that we didn't trust our ability to push through the place of difficulty. It's not that we need to do anything different; we just need to stick with what we are doing longer. We need to trust in our abilities.
Sometimes I think of this situation in terms of two binary variables:
whether we trust ourselves (yes or no)
and
whether we have the ability we need (yes or no)
What combination of these variables will lead to success? There are 4 possibilities:
1. obviously, if we don't have trust and we don't have ability, we're not too likely to succeed.
2. If we don't have ability but we do believe, our chances are better, but still....
3. If we do have ability, but we don't believe, then we have some chance, but we're also likely to hold ourself back.
and
4. If we do have ability and we trust that ability, then we are most likely to succeed.
What is important to note here is that whether or not we have the ability we need, our chance of getting a good outcome is improved by trusting ourself, while there is no increase in risk.
OK, there is a simplification operating here, and there are situations where our risks increase by (unjustly) believing about ourself. But here's the question: are there any situations in which a dissertation writer benefits by doubting his or her ability to do the work? And if there are no such situations, or if those situations are rare, isn't it worth acting on the assumption that your abilities will be up to the effort?
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Ups and Downs
We want to be working from a place where we care about our work. Writing is a far cry from digging ditches. If we have let our experience of the dissertation become interpreted primarily as meaningless pain, that's no good. It doesn't help us get our work done, either.
This emotional involvement comes with it some difficulties, however. We are going to have ups and downs. Some days the work will go well and we'll feel good. Other days we will be facing difficulties and maybe feeling like quitting.
We want to be able to find a place of balance, where we are not caught in a whip-sawing of emotion. That in itself is exhausting. It's tiring enough to face the frustration of the project, and to have doubts about our ability to finish. If we have to experience severe ups and downs it may be even worse. Having our elation stripped away time after time may be more tiring than just having to face a constant battle.
If we can find a place of balance, we will not be so prone to the swings of emotion, and in particular we may be able to keep ourselves from going into the highly unproductive down swings.
I've been working with a writer who wants to quit every other day. And on the days that quitting isn't the plan it's enthusiastic work: go! go! go! I find it exhausting. Every time I try to respond to the question of whether or not to quit (a question I can't answer for the writer), What I get back is "I'm not quitting; I'm working again and I want help with _____." And every time I try to give help with _____, I get back "I'm quitting." The only way I can keep working with the writer is to keep reminding myself that the ups and downs are emotional and that I have the ability to retain my emotional balance even while those around me are losing their heads. But my difficulty is surely less than the writer's: this is a situation that is extremely difficult for the writer--the vacillation and the emotional swings are both cause and symptom of the difficulty this writer faces.
As a writer you have to keep your head about your work. You have to be able to see its strengths and weaknesses. The same piece of work will often garner praise from one corner and derision from another. It behooves the writer to let both those ups and downs pass in order to keep an eye on the balance of the work.
This emotional involvement comes with it some difficulties, however. We are going to have ups and downs. Some days the work will go well and we'll feel good. Other days we will be facing difficulties and maybe feeling like quitting.
We want to be able to find a place of balance, where we are not caught in a whip-sawing of emotion. That in itself is exhausting. It's tiring enough to face the frustration of the project, and to have doubts about our ability to finish. If we have to experience severe ups and downs it may be even worse. Having our elation stripped away time after time may be more tiring than just having to face a constant battle.
If we can find a place of balance, we will not be so prone to the swings of emotion, and in particular we may be able to keep ourselves from going into the highly unproductive down swings.
I've been working with a writer who wants to quit every other day. And on the days that quitting isn't the plan it's enthusiastic work: go! go! go! I find it exhausting. Every time I try to respond to the question of whether or not to quit (a question I can't answer for the writer), What I get back is "I'm not quitting; I'm working again and I want help with _____." And every time I try to give help with _____, I get back "I'm quitting." The only way I can keep working with the writer is to keep reminding myself that the ups and downs are emotional and that I have the ability to retain my emotional balance even while those around me are losing their heads. But my difficulty is surely less than the writer's: this is a situation that is extremely difficult for the writer--the vacillation and the emotional swings are both cause and symptom of the difficulty this writer faces.
As a writer you have to keep your head about your work. You have to be able to see its strengths and weaknesses. The same piece of work will often garner praise from one corner and derision from another. It behooves the writer to let both those ups and downs pass in order to keep an eye on the balance of the work.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Frustration
The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley. Or something like that. I hope Robert Burns isn't rolling in his grave. Our best efforts often go for naught. Which may be an explanation for why Edison said that genius was 99% perspiration: he had to try and fail so many times before his success.
Some problems are just not going to work out, and that's a matter of trial and error. You may, for example, work hard for days or weeks over a draft that just doesn't work out and may not even give you a lot of help as to what could be done better. That's purely hypothetical, of course; I wouldn't want to suggest that I had ever experienced anything of the sort today.
You try and try and try again. Your patience is tested. You get frustrated. Angry. A sense of failure wells up in your stomach, and the bile in your throat like you ate something rotten that's about to very seriously disagree with you. All this, and it's not your doing anyway. It's not like you're not smart and hard working and honest and diligent; it's just that the chips haven't fallen into place. It's possible they never will, and you'll have to move on to a new project or a completely new approach. Some efforts you just have to abandon and stop throwing good money after bad. Some projects will wreak havoc on your emotions unless you can maintain a good emotional distance from the project.
If the project falls through, it falls through. Sometimes we're gonna be frustrated and we'll just have to pick ourselves up off the ground and stick at it. In such situations it is beneficial to keep emotionally distant from the event: a setback is not an indicator of a person's worth. A setback is better viewed as an opportunity to learn more about how to reach your goal.
Some problems are just not going to work out, and that's a matter of trial and error. You may, for example, work hard for days or weeks over a draft that just doesn't work out and may not even give you a lot of help as to what could be done better. That's purely hypothetical, of course; I wouldn't want to suggest that I had ever experienced anything of the sort today.
You try and try and try again. Your patience is tested. You get frustrated. Angry. A sense of failure wells up in your stomach, and the bile in your throat like you ate something rotten that's about to very seriously disagree with you. All this, and it's not your doing anyway. It's not like you're not smart and hard working and honest and diligent; it's just that the chips haven't fallen into place. It's possible they never will, and you'll have to move on to a new project or a completely new approach. Some efforts you just have to abandon and stop throwing good money after bad. Some projects will wreak havoc on your emotions unless you can maintain a good emotional distance from the project.
If the project falls through, it falls through. Sometimes we're gonna be frustrated and we'll just have to pick ourselves up off the ground and stick at it. In such situations it is beneficial to keep emotionally distant from the event: a setback is not an indicator of a person's worth. A setback is better viewed as an opportunity to learn more about how to reach your goal.
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