Tag: mindset

What Exactly Are You Afraid Of?

I’ve been talking to friends lately about why it’s so hard to share the difficult parts. That is, why it’s so much easier to write a blog post about some happy-smiley writing tips, but when I spend two or three weeks that turn into two or three months not working on my novel, I go radio-silent, too.

Part One is it doesn’t seem like there’s anything worth saying. Does it help for me to share the things I’m struggling with? Aren’t we all struggling with things, and who am I to project my lot into the world, as though strangers on the internet give a fuck?

Part Two is the opposite, and equally unthinkable: if I project my weaknesses, if i reveal my soft underbelly, won’t I be found wanting? Especially in comparison to my heroes. You know the ones, the people who are doing the thing I want to be doing. We don’t even have to go lofty like Stephen King or Hemingway—that would be too obvious. Even Chris Fox.

I mean, Chris has talked about depression, and I appreciated that. But like everyone he mostly talks about his successes, and your brain gravitates to those and forgets about the failures he shared, and pretty soon the only failures you think about are your own, and why would you want to share those?

Then again, why not? Maybe they help one other person. Just one. Maybe the whole world rejects you, and more likely no one even notices you exist, but there’s just one person who sees this frustrated blog post, this admission that I’m flailing my arms in open air and I haven’t a fucking clue where I’m going to land, and they go, Thank Christ—because I feel the same way, and I thought I was the only one.

That might be a stupid story I tell myself as I spill my guts all over the floor, there to be humiliated or annihilated (which is worse?) But maybe it isn’t. And, most likely of all… it doesn’t even matter.

And if it doesn’t matter you might as well do it.

That’s Part Three.

I was talking to a friend of mine recently about the human condition. I summed it up like this, because I was a beer in and just in that kind of mood:

You are an accident that will soon be corrected.

From the perspective of the universe, I mean. I’m not trying to be an asshole.

But, think about it: In a hundred years, the likelihood is that no one alive will know you even existed. In two hundred years, that’s just about a certainty.

You can either think about things like this and hang your head and stare at the floor or you can take heart in the understanding that your life is not so epic and important that you must be paralyzed by shocking panic fear whenever you conceive of creating anything.

Instead, you can just create the thing, because

a) it doesn’t matter whether you do or not, and

b) you’re driven to, regardless

My witticism about you being an accident was in response to my friend saying that entropy always wins. In the end, all human effort is futile.

I chewed on all this for a few days, and then a thought struck me as I was walking down the street: Sure, entropy always wins, but humans seem driven to create order from chaos even though we know it’s futile.

That being the case, you might as well create order out of chaos, because what’s the alternative? You’re wired how you’re wired. Entropy wins anyway, you’re driven to create, so… create.

Looking at it this way, there’s literally nothing better you could do with your time.

I want to apologize for these morbid ways of picturing our lot in life, but frankly I don’t find them morbid—in the sense of being depressing—they help me out. Because when I get heavy, the heaviness almost always seems to come from being too attached to my identity.

To worrying about what everyone else will think about me.

To being “found out”, never mind as what.

Something deep in my brain believes with religious fervour if I am found to be flawed, if I disappoint, if I am not enough… then I will be flung into empty space, there to drift and die an infinity of deaths. In the cold, all alone.

That’s ridiculous. Not to mention melodramatic. If someone doesn’t like me, I guess they could shoot me in the face, and that’d suck. But what’s far more likely is… nothing. Maybe someone says something unkind to me on the internet? Or in real life?

Compared to the inevitability of entropy, doesn’t that seem like a stupid thing to worry about?

Maybe this is too Zen for you, I don’t know. And now I’m probably misrepresenting what Zen is, for that matter.

Worry, worry, worry. Or I could just hit Publish.

And then, at least, I will have made something. And then I’ll have imposed a little order, in the littlest way, for a little, little while.

You might say: nothing matters, so what’s the point? But instead you could say: nothing matters, so what do you really have to be afraid of?

I’m afraid it will somehow harm me if I share the struggle. The bad stuff.

The just-not-giving-a-shit about the thing I keep saying and thinking I care so much about.

The way I just want to sleep in at the beginning of the day and play Skyrim at the end, which doesn’t leave any time to work on my draft.

The relationships I get into and then (I convince myself) they take all my time and attention, and then they end and my time and attention goes into medicating away the bad feelings with the aforementioned sleeping in and video games.

See? Does telling you that help? I have no idea. Does it hurt?

Not as much as I was afraid it would.

Focus.

Follow One Course Until Success.

I know. I know.

But let’s roll with it. I was listening to seanwes podcast 425: Put in Your 10 Years: The Long Game again, and thinking about this. I started drafting this novel right about at the beginning of 2019. I spent the couple months before that planning. So even though I’ve “wanted to be a writer” in some sense of the word for maybe twenty years, I’ve really only been focused on that goal for under a year.

Under one year. That doesn’t depress me, it emboldens me. Because imagine where I’ll be in two years, five, ten, if I let myself be pulled, pulled by my goal. I was thinking about something today that I wrote about earlier, why don’t I let myself be obsessed with my goal, to a totally unreasonable extent?

Look up images of my fantasy writer’s cabin and print them out and tape them to the wall.

Not stop fantasizing and start doing, but fantasize and do and keep the fantasies burning hot enough to pull me through the doing because I have to make them a reality.

Let’s have ten years of that, and then see where I am.

I turn thirty-seven in two days. In a decade I’ll be pushing fifty, still only halfway through this game.

Sean quoting John Maxwell in that podcast episode:

“I changed my question from ‘How long will it take?’ to ‘How far can I go?’”

I feel that way. So even when I get frustrated—where’s my writing habit gone?? Why haven’t I been posting on this blog??—I don’t feel defeated. Because I’m not stopping, and if I’m not stopping then I can’t fail, I can only run into setback after setback on the eventual road to success.

“But what if you never get to success?”

This question is a trap you’re setting for yourself, to talk yourself out of trying. To talk yourself into giving up.

If you don’t strive for some big dream, guaranteed you’ll die without achieving it. If you do strive, you may achieve it or you may not.

The trick you play is to convince yourself that you’ll feel worse if you try and fail than if you don’t try (guaranteeing you’ll fail).

I played this trick on myself all the time, especially in university, where I’d procrastinate on assignments, even legitimately interesting ones, until I didn’t have enough time to do them properly, and then, at least, the bad grades were because I “ran out of time” instead of because “I’m not good enough”. That argument doesn’t make any sense, but I think it’s what was driving my behaviour.

Sometimes it still does drive my behaviour. That, or something like it—why else do I still wait ’til the last minute? And when there’s no last minute, like with this novel, which has no real deadline, why I stop working on it time and again?

I keep tricking myself. Isn’t it frustrating, to trick yourself again and again even though you’re pretty sure you know all your tricks?

But it doesn’t matter, really. Because I’m not giving up.

Unstable Variables

From The Psychology of Prediction · Collaborative Fund

There are stories of Tiger Woods hitting 1,000 balls at the range without a break. And of Jason Williams practicing dribbling for hours on end without ever shooting a ball.

That’s how you become an expert. That’s how you get amazing results.

At least in some fields. In fields with stable variables like golf, where the rules and objectives don’t change – the correlation between effort and skill is obvious. But it breaks down in fields where outcomes can overwhelmingly be tied to one or two tail events that change over time.

Finance is one of those fields.

And so is publishing.

This excerpt made me think of something my coach Joe said—Joe, who has published something like dozens of novels, edited collections, etc., etc. He’s seen and done most of the things around “being a novelist” that I would like to do. And we were talking about the emotional rollercoaster of doing this job, and he said the publishing world doesn’t make sense. In short, your outcome is not a straightforward function of the effort you input.

And that’s crazy-making.

Writing and publishing fiction is not a game with stable variables.

What does that mean?

It means that success is not guaranteed, for any given definition of success. Assuming that what you want is to put a book, a story, out into the world that will be loved by its readers, and then, even further, that said love will translate into monetary reward for you, it doesn’t matter how hard you try, you might not get it.

The thing to realize is that isn’t an indictment of you. Maybe it means you’re not good at writing a compelling novel. Start there, look into that. But it could also be that you wrote a pretty good book that doesn’t have a market right now. It could be that, even though the first four books in your series found an audience, book five doesn’t land for some reason. If you’re beholden to a publisher1, that adds a whole other set of unstable variables.

Perhaps for our emotional well-being we need to redefine success—or be very careful and deliberate what definition of success we’ll allow our ego to twine its gleaming black tentacles around.

I’m working on my first novel, and I believe I’ve eliminated any lingering bits of my imagination that picture this one, first book achieving any kind of substantial success in terms of audience or profit. Instead, where my imagination goes is the point in the future where I’ve written three, six, a dozen novels, and the business that is steadily growing around the entire body of work.

But effort correlates with outcomes in so many fields that it’s hard to accept situations where it doesn’t. So it’s natural to assume that effort put into a forecast should increase its accuracy. That can bring the worst of both worlds: high confidence in model with low, or no, foresight.

He’s talking about financial forecasts, but we can see the same thing in novel-writing: it’s the idea that this one book we’ve been working on for ages will be our masterpiece. I don’t know about you, but, like I’ve said, I haven’t even shipped a novel yet; the idea of a masterpiece, if it enters into my imagination, is off in the future somewhere. We need to earn the right to think in terms of masterpiece, or we have to earn the right to even think about a book’s likelihood of success. When you haven’t done anything yet, how do you make a prediction? Better not to predict, and just to act and then observe. But even later, when you find yourself in a position to predict how a book might perform—I’ve seen it all, kid—remember that the publishing game doesn’t have stable variables: if what looks like a perfect shot somehow doesn’t make it to the hole, I guess you have to just shrug it off… and take another shot.

  1. As opposed to the market directly, which appears to be the case when publishing independently. ↩︎

Don’t Call It a Comeback

I ain’t been here for years… but someday, I will have been. Straight up: here’s how many words I’ve thrown at my draft in the last sixty-seven days:

67 Days of Word Count

Not many. Why not? It’s not like I broke my arm skiing and I haven’t been able to type. The habit just… slips away, and next thing you know winter’s over and, if you’re lucky, it isn’t six years hence.

I gotta admit the truth: I might have dropped this novel like I’ve dropped most other projects except this time I’ve got a secret weapon: someone else, whose word on writing novels I trust.

I’ve got a coach. We have a one-hour call every two weeks. Doesn’t sound like much, but it makes a difference.

It makes a big difference to know, for real, that it’s not just me, that it’s not, “maybe I’m just not cut out for this writing thing”. Here’s a guy who’s published dozens of novels, telling me how he goes through the same slumps I do. And the trick is to make it a slump, not a capitulation. I’ve tried ways of doing that… they weren’t working.

So here’s what has been working, for the last five days: My coach said, look, every day by 8 PM we have to send each other at least 100 words of the project we’re working on. So far, that level of accountability is working for me where lesser forms failed. Knowing I would need to send Joe an email at 8 owning up to not writing even a mere 100 words today keeps me from spending the rest of the evening playing Stardew Valley, or cooking, or taking a nice walk before the sun sets. I can still do all those things, but I’ve gotta do some writing first.

My brain provides all the standard objections, among them: but I’ll never get the novel done 100 words at a time!

No. You’ll never get the novel done if you keep talking yourself out of ever writing it. If you write 100 words a day it might take a year or two to finish your novel but you’ll finish it. This is the trick: to let that impatience drive you to actually do stuff, instead of drive you away from doing stuff.

Like everything else I talk about here, I can describe that trick but I’m still trying to learn it. Maybe you are, too. Got something else that works to break the slump? I want to hear it. Easiest way right now is, shoot me a DM on Instagram: @djjacobsonauthor – I’ll read whatever I get, and respond whenever I can.

A Week is Not a Lot of Time

A blink and it’s Monday night again, and you’re supposed to have published a post on your blog. In fact, by now we were supposed to have a queue of content so we don’t have to decide at 10 p.m. on Monday, do I post to my blog or do I go to sleep? Right? But you lower your head and the week flies by. A week is not a lot of time.

When you start getting impatient with yourself, that’s worth remembering.

It sucks to let a whole year go by without working on your novel. But if a week goes by, if six weeks go by and you haven’t thrown any words at the draft, it doesn’t mean you’re dead in the water. Doesn’t mean you don’t have what it takes to create the work that you love. A week is not a lot of time. I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to seize that week. To do everything you can to be as productive as possible. I’m saying that if a week goes by and you don’t get anything done, here’s a radical suggestion:

The right thing to do is not to whip yourself.

It’s not to curse yourself. Especially not at that low-volume, almost subconscious level where you say, “Goddammit, I thought you were better than this by now.” Don’t do that. I’m done doing that.

When I catch my inner monologue going to that place, I’m going to reel him back in, and not with my hands around his throat. I’m going to maybe give him a gentle hug and, with my arm around his shoulder, say, “Come this way. Let’s go back to a happier place. This isn’t, after all, such a big fucking deal.”

I go back and I read my journal sometimes, the entries I made a couple of years ago, and I’m such a ball of angst. I mean there were times when I was going through things that were legitimately stressful, but those aside my overall attitude towards my desire to write and lack of action was so negative.

That journal sure contains a lot of the exhausting mental activity of beating myself up. Treating myself like there’s the good part of me and the bad part, and the good part is at war with the bad. Maybe that sort of militaristic fantasy works for some people, but I tried it for a long time and I’ll level with you: It did not result in the production of a great deal of work.

Instead, it resulted in the production of a great deal of stress and feeling bad and probably acting like a fucking nutjobtortured artist towards the people close to me a lot of the time.

It didn’t help. And I’m done being mad at that guy; past me, and present, who’s sitting here right now weeks into a slump of not writing his novel. I’m done kicking my own ass. I know I’m going to go back and write it. I’m working on ways to bring myself back. (I’m just going to tell you as a sidebar that having a coach to encourage you certainly helps.) But the big change for me is my own attitude towards myself—my own mindset.

Listen: you are too precious to yourself to mentally punch yourself in the face over and over again. Your life is too precious to treat yourself like shit. And I’m going to just take a wild guess that treating yourself that way is not getting your novel written. It might not be hip to talk about loving yourself. Or to use the word “hip”, for that matter, sorry, Millennials1. But you only get this one life and maybe you’ll create your art and maybe you won’t (but I think you probably will). Just don’t beat yourself and curse yourself like you’d never do to anyone else you cared about while you’re making it. No art is worth that.

And I am more and more inclined to think that operating from a position of loving yourself is the only thing that’s really going to get that art made in the first place.

  1. Come to think of it, it’s probably hipper to talk about loving yourself now than it was when “hip” was a hip word. The future is confusing. ↩︎

When the Levee Breaks

Look, I’m gonna be straight with you: it’s been a bad couple weeks for writing the novel.

The lack of numbers speak for themselves. We could spend a thousand words right here delving into the reasons why I’m not writing right now, and I daresay that’d be ironic—spilling ink on analysis instead of on writing. Not today. Today I’m just setting this assertion down:

I’m still here.

You know what? I’ve still written more novel in the last couple months than in the last seven years. And the thing is, this time? I know I’ll be back. Two weeks, three weeks? That ain’t nothing looking back on the dozen novels that’ll pop up on my shelf over the next couple years.

I never had the attitude to say that with confidence before. Now I do. I might write some novel tomorrow, I hope so, and it’s possible that I won’t. But I’ll be back, see? I’m cut out for this thing, and I know that in a way I never used to. Maybe it’s just that my writing coach told me so—in fact, that’s probably a big part of it—but that’s fine. I’ll take the mindset where I can beg, borrow, or steal it.

Because if I’ve learned anything over the past year or two? Since I decided to take this writing thing for serious again?

It’s all a head game. All of it. Always.

That’s about all I have to say tonight. Not much of a blog post, but a necessary one; at the very least, necessary for me, right now.

And I know it’ll be necessary for the Dan of six months or two years or two decades from now that needs reassurance that stumbling off the path isn’t a header over the edge of a cliff; it’s just a stumble.

And if there’s a version of Dan with another name that comes across this at just the right time? That’s even better.

You stepped off the path? I feel you. It’s fine. Just step back on.

Next time perhaps I’ll share what I have been doing to coax my uncooperative self back into line. But one thing at a time.

Delilah Dawson on Finding the Time to Write

I’ve been loving the “Ten Things” bursts of writing advice Delilah S. Dawson posts on Twitter. This one, on Finding the Time to Write, grabbed me by the lapels and shook, so let’s talk about it. All quotations below are her words, from the linked thread1.

  1. My best tip first: DON’T LET YOUR WRITING PROCESS GET PRECIOUS. By which I mean that you don’t want to get too caught up in a ritual– at this time, drinking this coffee, in this chair. Make it so that you can write anywhere, laptop or pad. Keep your process nimble, not rigid.

Like all writing advice, the ritual thing is mutually exclusive: some folks say, have a ritual, always write in the same place or at the same time or using the same device… but doesn’t the above directly contradict that?

So which one is RIGHT?

Well, there is no right. All that matters is you get the words in, I’m pretty sure that’s Delilah’s point. Note she doesn’t say “don’t have a ritual, throw out your lucky t-shirt”, she says don’t get too caught up in your ritual.

It’s one thing to have a lucky t-shirt, but if you can’t work on your novel because it’s in the wash, you’re screwed.

I suspect that when authors talk about their rituals they’re not to be taken too literally: yes, when all the pieces are in place, Stephen Pressfield does all the stuff he describes in the The War of Art, but I would guess he probably types a couple hundred words into his phone now and again.

And whether he does or not, look: I want to embrace both worldviews. I am happy to have a ritual, it works well for me2. But after reading this thread, you know what? I was sitting in a pub waiting for my friends to show up, and instead of scrolling Twitter I opened Ulysses and just started writing.

Fast and messy. And there’s an extra 150 words by the time my mate showed up. That felt great.

Which brings us to,

  1. Stop thinking you need 4 hours to get anything done. Start thinking in doable chunks. Let’s say you aim for 1000 words a day, about an hour of writing. Do a page in the morning, a page at lunch, two pages at night. BOOM. Totally doable. Those little bits add up!

I’m not good at acting like writing books is my job. I don’t sit at my desk for hours at a time; I get up early, write for 20-40 minutes, and then go have breakfast.

After that, most of the day runs away with itself. I’ve had a hard time putting the writing at the forefront: that is, fitting the rest of the day in around writing as opposed to slipping a little writing into my day.

It’s frustrating. But this tip reminds me I am still getting somewhere: I’m 12,000 words into the draft in about two weeks; I wish it was even more, but that’s still much, much, much better than I’ve ever done except that one time I did NaNoWriMo: and the output of that frenzied month never went anywhere.

This time it feels more sustainable: if I have to go get a job again in a few months, so be it, as long as I’m up at 6 and writing before breakfast, this book will get done.

  1. Make writing A PRIORITY. When you’re just starting out, it can be hard to treat writing like a job– like it’s important. I was insecure about it, too. Telling family you need time and they need to respect it for what feels like a hobby is hard. THIS IS ART. ART IS IMPORTANT.

This. Fundamentally, this is what I grapple with the most.

It’s one of those cases of “I know I want to do this… so why aren’t I?” I don’t know about you, but I’ve hit a lot of such roadblocks over the years. Here’s a thing I want to do… but somehow I spent the whole day doing other stuff instead.

What’s going on here? One part is, just wanting to do stuff doesn’t seem sufficient if

  1. Doing something else is easier, or
  2. You have the habit of doing something else (a special case of 1.), and
  3. It’s not totally clear what to do next, or
  4. Something about the thing you want to do threatens your identity

That last one, which Delilah touches on in the quoted tweet above, is at the heart of it. It’s subtle, cryptic, it’s this thing we know is there but it disappears when we turn to look, it slips thorugh our fingers when we grasp for it.

It’s that thing Stephen Pressfield called The Resistance: The part of you that doesn’t want to change.

Is this just me? It’s hard to give myself over to my obsession with writing, with storytelling—it’s hard to take it as seriously as I want to take it. I want to be like a monk at this stuff: I really do want writing to be the axis the rest of my life orbits around. But it’s like this: I had a job, and tried to fit pleasant things around the job. Writing was one of them. Right now, I don’t have a job, bless me, so I just do pleasant things and try to fit writing around them.

But writing must become the job. It isn’t easy to flip that switch just because those words are capitalized in a tweet, even if I know they’re true, which I do. Maybe the secret is in that word priority. Delilah says “treat writing as a priority”, and the correct way to think about “priority”3 is that you can’t have A priority, you can only have THE priority: the priority is the one thing that can’t be allowed to die.

The core of it is focus. You focus on your priority. Once you’ve done that, you focus on whatever thing is the next priority. If you want to write but you have pick your kid up from school, picking your kid up is the priority. But once you’ve done so, then writing is your priority, and you shut the office door. Or put your headphones in, or whatever it takes.

So far the most effective way to make writing the prioriity for me is to do it first. But I want to go beyond that: I don’t want the production I can do in a day to be constrained to how long I can wait before breakfast, I don’t want to lose a day of writing just because I slept in until 8.

I want to reach the point where I spend a nice 3-hour block of time in a day working on the book; I’m sure I won’t be typing the whole time, god forbid, but I’ll be focused on the work like it’s a job.

When I was a software developer I was rarely focused on writing code for more than maybe 20-40 minutes at a time. Your mind wanders, you need to pee, you want a coffee, you want to chat. That’s fine as long as you come back and find some more time to be focused.

Bless the writer: frankly it’s a bit harder to get back into the headspace of a complex piece of software and working on it requires more complicated tools: I never got any coding done on the train or in the bar. We have it a little easier in that regard, that’s something to rejoice about.

I’ll keep working towards the point where I treat bookwritin’ like a full-time job so that it can be my full-time job. I’m not sure how to get there, yet, but Delilah’s tips took me a step further along the path.

  1. I haven’t used the cute little twitter-embed widget, because frankly I don’t trust Twitter not to fuck it up; either to not exist anymore in five years, or to, I don’t know, decide they need to start injecting ads into other people’s websites via that mechanism. For that matter, I assume it already carries tracking functionality… forget it. So I’ve just quoted and attributed the words themselves, which are the important bit. ↩
  2. I hope it does eventually, anyway, it’s a work in progress. ↩
  3. Chris fox just did a video about this topic ↩