Pride and the Failing Writer

Since I decided to write the Great Jewish American Novel, my imagination has been perky and optimistic. Despite the fact that I contribute to it sporadically, my ego has swelled, envisioning swift and eager acceptance by a somewhat established publishing house, glowing reviews (with the occasional glower from closet anti-Semites), resulting in a hearty best-seller. Not akin to The Da Vinci Code—I am reasonable—but I will receive a check with a couple of zeros, at least. 

But my cocky self-assurance began to slide backward into the realm of reality after Sporadic Intelligence encouraged me to send a piece to Mishpacha Magazine (I only know how to write about Jews), and I had been greeted with steadfast silence. (No worries, SI, I'm glad that I did.)

Now the question: If they failed to recognize my genius, then why should anyone else? 

With another kick in the kidneys, enter "Failure Is Our Muse," by Stephen Marche. Example followed by example of great writers who died penniless and hungry, of great classics that were gobbled up only for the benefit of the estate, the grand composers of language dying while wallowing in their own unpaid bills and squalor.

Failure is big right now — a subject of commencement speeches and business conferences like FailCon, at which triumphant entrepreneurs detail all their ideas that went bust. But businessmen are only amateurs at failure, just getting used to the notion. Writers are the real professionals.

Three hundred thousand books are published in the United States every year. A few hundred, at most, could be called financial or creative successes. The majority of books by successful writers are failures. The majority of writers are failures. And then there are the would-be writers, those who have failed to be writers in the first place, a category which, if you believe what people tell you at parties, constitutes the bulk of the species.

Oh. 

This news is quite disconcerting, especially since I consider myself more pragmatic capitalist as opposed to starving artist. I don't like to expend copious amounts of energy for naught. Only recently I broke myself of the sedentary habit of only tackling a flight of steps unless there is more than one task at the top that requires doing.

Writers don’t fail like ordinary people. They fail in their bones. They fail even when they triumph. Bernard Malamud took the 1959 National Book Award for his short story collection “The Magic Barrel”; he left the check on the dais, and when he arrived at the dinner in his honor, the organizers had forgotten to set a place for him.

Ouch. I gotta say, I don't have that much tolerance for belittlement. 

Marche concludes with the blah blah blah of don't stop  trying:

If there are to be any claims to greatness, they are to be found only in the scope of the failure and persistence in the face of it. That persistence may be the one truly writerly virtue, a salvation indistinguishable from stupidity. To keep going, despite everything. To keep bellying up to the cosmic irrelevance. To keep failing.

Well. It would appear I have found humility before I have even begun. 

Jinx

"Sorry, what was your name again?" I asked, with a sinking feeling of dread.  It was one of those situations where I—stupidly—took the shadchan's word for it, sans profile. She had told me of his Hebrew name; however, when he called, he had identified himself by his secular nickname. 

"Stormtrooper!" he repeated cheerfully. 

Oh, shoot. I had initially looked forward to this date, but I now expected the worst. An internal Pollyanna voice continued to chirp sweet nothings, but my high hopes had nose-dived. 

You see, this isn't the first Stormtrooper I've gone out with. 

There was the original Stormtrooper, who had initially wooed me tender then opted for emotional abuse, at which point I gave the sociopath ye old heave-ho. 

Then there was Stormtrooper II, who casually tossed me out of the bar he had selected after 45 minutes of conversation, claiming an appointment. 

And here was Stormtrooper III. Ergo the Imperial March. 

Well, he wasn't of epic-villain proportions . . . but I would rather have not spent an evening listening to how awesome his friend's wife is.

Not any Tom, Harry, or Dick then . . . 

Do It To Do It

A number of years ago I heard Rabbi Mordechai Becher speak. He was explaining that while we know the reasons for some of the commandments, the reasons themselves should not be the motivation for fulfilling the mitzvah. 

"We aren't supposed to eat the gid ha'nasheh, right?" he said. "Why? Because Yaakov Avinu wrestled with the malach and his sciatic nerve was damaged. But that is not the reason why I don't the gid ha'nasheh. I don't eat the gid ha'nasheh because Hashem said not to eat the gid ha'nasheh." 

I thought of this shiur when I read the article "The Secret to Effective Motivation" by Amy Wrzesniewski and Barry Schwartz. Sticking with something and seeing it through is based on two types of motivations, internal and instrumental. 

Internal is when the act itself directly leads to the desired result; instrumental means that through the act, a desired result can come into being. I can no longer stand living in a pigsty so I clean my room: internal motivation. If I clean my room then my parents will let me shop again: instrumental motivation. 

Apparently, according to the data, those who were internally motivated were more successful in West Point, whereas those instrumentally motivated flunked out. And, if they were powered by both internal and instrumental motives, they also failed.

Interesting, huh? 

The implications of this finding are significant. Whenever a person performs a task well, there are typically both internal and instrumental consequences. A conscientious student learns (internal) and gets good grades (instrumental). A skilled doctor cures patients (internal) and makes a good living (instrumental). But just because activities can have both internal and instrumental consequences does not mean that the people who thrive in these activities have both internal and instrumental motives.

Our study suggests that efforts should be made to structure activities so that instrumental consequences do not become motives. Helping people focus on the meaning and impact of their work, rather than on, say, the financial returns it will bring, may be the best way to improve not only the quality of their work but also — counterintuitive though it may seem — their financial success.

While our actions can have internal and instrumental results, what leads to success is focus on the former, not the latter.  

It made me also think of the ending statement of Koheles: "The end of the matter, all having been heard: fear God, and keep His commandments; for this is the whole man." 

 

Do the mitzvos because you are supposed to do the mitzvos. Not because one day, hopefully in the distant future, you will stand on the day of judgement. But simply because they are supposed to be done.   

Battle of the Bulge: Patience, Young Grasshopper

I was once asked what my weight-maintenance system is. 

I explained to her my first step, which is to eat only healthy. 

"OK," she said, "So the first week you go healthy, then—" 

"No," I cut in. "For the first year." 

With recent research showing how the overweight who diet eventually get at least some of the weight back, I had an epiphany. 

Rome wasn't built in a day; weight gain occurs gradually over time. Nor was Rome destroyed in a day, come to think of it; it's unrealistic to expect, when planning on losing a considerable amount of weight, that it should disappear all at once. 

When it comes to overhauling eating habits, one has to give the body time to adjust to this new way of life: healthy food, mealtimes, less sugar, and portion sizes. But not all at once; lasting triumph can be found in gradual stages. 

Teaching oneself to crave good foods is a major step. One day I decided to only eat well, and it took me at least a year to purge myself of less-than-noble desires. I don't eat a piece of cake consisting mostly of margarine by a kiddush because, now, it is actually loathsome to me. I can feel my body becoming sluggish and unhappy. Really. 

When the day came that I found I hungered for an apple rather than chips, I moved on to strict mealtimes. I used to eat all day, all the time; life was once big snackfest. I erected clear, distinct mealtimes.

Yes, it was hard. But I discovered the joy of hunger. Soon, I didn't want to eat unless I was hungry, when beforehand I would wander to the fridge every time I was bored. I realized what fun it is to eat a meal on an empty stomach. It tastes better.

Then, after a couple of years of that, I cut out daily sugar. Again, to get myself not to crave something sweet (that wasn't a fruit) after meals required serious overhaul. No more daily chocolate or cake, 

The stomach virus that inspired cutting down portion sizes was not just a battle, but a full-out offensive. Nor can I—yet—triumphantly crow my victory. My current weakness is when dining out, removed from the safety of my household parameters; the lovely and insistent hostess always manages to serve my oil-ridden favorites. Oy, Shabbos meals. 

Expecting to do all this at once will just lead to failure. The body will be in shock, and not willing to accept it; the mind will be so befuddled that it will lapse into magical thinking. 

Don't bite off more than can be chewed (pun intended). The same strategies when it comes to acquiring good middos—slow and steady—apply here. 

Pretty Good is Perfect

Following my niece's bas mitzvah, I crawled, exhausted and danced-out, into the back seat. My other two nieces (cousins to the birthday girl) were coming home with my folks and me.

It's not a far drive; 15 to 20 minutes, tops. But as soon as the music chimed on with the start of the car, the niece at my side began to squirm, twisting around and rummaging through the pile of CDs in the back window. Her elbows, of course, managed to dig its way into my liver. 

"Sit back," I snapped. I was tired, sweaty, ate too much, and I had cut my foot. 

"But I don't like the music that's on," she grumbled sullenly. 

"It's a FIFTEEN MINUTE DRIVE!" I roared.

"But I don't liiiiiike it," she continued to whine. 

"Mammelah," Ma said sharply from the driver's seat, "life isn't perfect. It's 'just' pretty good."

My niece fell into petulant silence, but a few minutes later she was cheerfully singing along to the next song. All she had to do was sit still for a little bit. 

A week later (I've had this post saved a wee bit too long) Rabbi Pruzansky echoed that statement. 

  

It's so sad to see perfectionists mired in the web of their own making. Nothing ever goes well; it could always have gone better. Slight, meaningless details that did not go smoothly yet did not alter the grand effect are focused and picked at. 

Oh dear, I feel Frozen coming on. "Let it go, let it goooooooo . . ."

Goose/Gander

"Can I have your information?" 

Sure, sure. 

"And a picture?" 

Yes, I gave up the picture fight many years ago. 

"More than one picture?" 

Teeth somewhat gritted now.

"First let me pass this on this profile, and I'll get back to you."

Peaceful silence for a week. Then a text: 

"Hi, when would be a good time for me to call?" 

Come say what now? 

Pray tell, good sir, who are you?

In matters such as these, it is best to unleash the Tatty. Shadchanim are usually very fearful of the Tatty. 

"Oh, of course she has a right to see his information!" she conceded. 

No, really? 

I hate games. 

Guest Post: Luke Has Been Thinking Too Much

It seems that the “Original Sin” parallels the sin/repent process. After Chava is pushed by the serpent, she then convinces Adam to eat from the “Tree of Knowledge”. Then when Hashem questions them, they both pass the buck instead of fessing up. 

Since they were being questioned, it can be seen that they were being given the opportunity to repent. Instead, Adam says, “It was the woman that you gave me.” All he had to do was say, “I have sinned” and the matter would have been settled. The world was never intended to be a Utopia, by virtue of the fact that man was given fee will. We can make mistakes, but we have to own up to them.

Adam was a “Kafoi Tov”, a denier of good. Every single problem we have as a people is a direct result of being “a denier of good”. We think that by slaughtering a couple of animals and whispering a couple of incantations, we will save or souls, instead provoking the thought that these actions were designed to do. In reality, treating our fellow human beings with respect is the most important thing that one can do. Adam not only sinned against God, he also threw his wife under the bus.

Every Yom Kippur we go through the process that Adam failed to complete, by admitting our sins. However, there is no true repentance without righting the wrongs against our fellow man.

Enhance, Not Eclipse

I try not to attack "looks" head on—I'm quite chicken—but I will tentatively cluck my objections to the current craze of aqua eyeliner. 

 

Makeup is about enhancement, about taking what God gave you and making it go bang-pow-boom. 

Eyes are thankfully colored, and we are blessed with lashes, although some of us have more lustrous framework than others. Ergo, we make 'em blacker, so the iris hue is intensified. Lips are usually in the pink family, so we make 'em pinker, so they pop. We add a healthy flush of pink to the cheeks, fake sculpted cheekbones with bronzer and highlighter. We pluck and trim a chicer shape to straggly brows. 

But aqua liner sits uncomfortably on the face, not quite sure what it is doing there. The job of makeup isn't to call attention to the cosmetic itself, but for the admirable work it does in bringing out our natural best. I don't see the beautiful eyes when there is aqua liner; I only see the liner itself.

What makes it further perplexing is that aqua liner tends to be devoid of accompaniment: slashes of disconcerting blue on an otherwise bare, unpainted face. Look, if you are gonna go aqua, you gotta do everything else, too! 

(I'm still not crazy about it, but at least she went all out, right?)

Now, here is Karlie Kloss with a gray-brown-black based smoky eye: 

Via instyle.co.uk

 Whoo, look at those peepers! Now we're talkin'!

I can wander the aisles in a drugstore like any other warm-blooded gal and find myself looking longingly at a cheerful turquoise eyeshadow, but then I remind myself that I don't want my eyes to be upstaged, I want them to be the star of the show. 

Bore Thyself

"Go lie down and read," I ordered my niece, so I could put the baby to bed. 

"I don't want to read," she pouted. 

"So play." I jerked my head at her corner shrine of Littlest Pet Shop critters. 

"I don't want to play," she sulked. 

"So be bored," I commanded. 

She had no answer to this. 

I swept out of the room, doomed infant on my hip. 

It was in a 60 Minutes interview with Malcolm Gladwell that I learned this scrumptious detail from his mother, Joyce, a psychotherapist. Gladwell said, "I thought I had a fabulous childhood . . . when I would sometimes get bored and my mother would say, 'It's important to be bored. You're giving your brain a rest.'" 

It is not the end of the world to be bored. If anything, we should be bored more often. Children (and adults) do not have to be entertained every single solitary second of their waking lives. 

Gaston could have applied himself to more intellectual fare. 

What I find amazing about boredom is how it is considered wasteful, yet it is often the root of enlightenment. Supposedly Newton had his epiphany while spacing out under a tree, Archimedes while wallowing in his bath. It is in those unstimulated moments that brilliance is born. 

But boredom is still feared and vilified. Weekly, the Sunday Book Review places a question to two writers, and one week was "What Are the Last Literary Taboos?" According to James Parker, it is boredom. An author must never, ever bore his audience. He would be lynched. 

So there we have it. In the forest clearing, the totems are all tipped over. Obscenity, Blasphemy, Profanity, those huge archaic figures — impious hands have pulled them down, and their faces stare out sideways in baffled fury. All with their mystery drained, their ancient powers canceled. All but one, that is. A gray shape, sitting on an upturned popcorn bucket, with a finger up his nose. He looks like somebody waiting for a piano tuner to arrive, to tune a piano he doesn’t own. He is Boringness, last of the taboos, and the villagers won’t touch him.

After tucking the stunned and horrified baby in his crib, I returned to my niece, who was sitting in her bed furrowed of brow, but unscathed. 

I hope she had some edifying thoughts.     

Purpose of Prayer

We have to beg the Ribono Shel Olam, as we say every day in Maariv, "Vesakeinu be'eitza tovah milfnecha. Set us right with good counsel from before you." We have to beg the Ribono Shel Olam to give us the wisdom to deal with these problems and to direct us to effective sources of counsel and guidance. Parents have to cry out to the Ribono Shel Olam, "This is my future, and this is what we're here for. Nothing else matters. Help us!"

Rav Yechezkel Abramsky zatzal, the great gaon and tzaddik, once walked into the apartment of the Brisker Rav in Yerushalayim and saw him and his children sitting around the table. The Rav was saying a dvar Torah, and his children were listening intently, their faces shining.

Later, Rav Abramsky asked the Brisker Rav, "What is the secret of your chinuch? How were you zocheh that every single child walks faithfully in your footsteps?"

"My secret in chinuch?" said the Rav. "Tehillim mit treren." Tehillim with tears.

That is the way to bring up children. Tehillim with tears. This potent combination gives us an awareness of how to protect our children our children from harmful influences. From this, we gain the sensitivity to understand how to speak to them, when to rebuke and when not to rebuke. From this, we gain the siyata dishmaya to inspire them to want to walk in the footsteps of their parents. And from this, the Ribono Shel Olam directly inspires them with yiras shamayim. — With Hearts Full of Love, HoRav Matisyahu Salomon 

I used to think that davening was about demanding a certain result from Hashem, but when I comprehended my, well, weenie-ness in the Great Cosmic Scheme of Things, I felt rather cowed. Who am I to insist, to dictate, to tantrum to the Ultimate Watchmaker? 

Additionally, my laundry list recital I rarely felt good, merely unhappy with what I still didn't have, and what the others I asked for still didn't have. How long can a person bang on the door before deciding to resort to jimmying open the window? 

A change of perspective was needed, and the above segment helped. 

It's not about hoping for different circumstances, it's about asking that while I'm in this situation, I make the best possible choices to bring about the best possible outcome. We have bechira, after all, and our choices do matter. 

It's when we succumb to habit as opposed to make conscious choices that we mess things up. Once we are davening for awareness, we are aware. 

In the Nusach S'fard Shmoneh Esrei, there is a Yehi Ratzon inserted in Elokei Nitzor: "V'shelo echos hayom v'shelo achisecha." That I do not become angry today, and that I do not anger You.

I've been saying this since childhood, but I wasn't aware that I was until I finally took a glance at the English. Now, if I remember, I am aware when I feel anger, and try every which way to prevent it from its crippling hold. Did Hashem prevent my anger? Well, in awareness I asked Him that I shouldn't get angry, and in turn, because I was aware because of the request, I made a point to keep fury at bay. 

But He is the one who lets the reminder pop into my head.

Davening isn't about shoving every single thing in Hashem's hands and saying, "You take care of this, and this, and this . . . I'll be in the mall." 

There is a lot of stuff I can't control; that I leave with Him. But the stuff I can? My reactions, my words, my outlook? That's me. I just need to be aware and choose.