What if you were to stop trying so hard?
When I was growing up, my father and brother seemed to have information directly ported to their brains from some source that had all the academic test and Trivial Pursuit answers. I, on the other hand, would spend hours every night laboring over my homework, dedicating my entire being to the comprehension of topics such as algebra and biology that were non-native to my poetic dream-state. And, it paid off. I excelled in school–even in subjects where I had no foundational ease or even basic understanding. I came to understand that anything that gets enough time and attention is likely to at least push out a little leaf and flower. (Except for map skills, which has always been a barren wasteland no matter how hard I try.)
Because this strategy of extreme performance exertion was so successful, I repeated it in every aspect of my life for many, many years. It has enabled me to create and sustain my own business, buy my own house and even create enough margin to pursue my true calling: writing poems and books and essays and innumerable thank you notes on the side. For the past two and a half years, I have even had the incredible privilege of working from home while raising my son. All great stuff, right? Yes, and…
While it's true that extreme performance mode has contributed to many accomplishments, it has cost me the proper nourishment of a balanced life. But even more significantly, it has reinforced the illusion that if I just work harder, I can fix it — whatever it may be. And this attitude has kept me very busy striving to fix things, some of which were simply were beyond repair. And, paradoxically, by trying so hard to make things better, I would often actually cement what was broken through my persistent attentions.
Let me give you an example. For years and years, I would sit at my desk and push and push and push to figure out how to solve some problem in a piece of writing. Then I'd get up to pour a fresh cup of tea, look for the mail, pet a cat and BAM: the solution presented itself as if it had been waiting all day to reveal itself to me. All it needed was a little breathing room to find its own way. Did this teach me to trust ease? No way. Not for at least a decade. It took me thousands of attempts to force things that weren't solvable by force––and would then simply, mysteriously work themselves out when left alone––for that incredibly stubborn cartoon light bulb to finally make an appearance over my head. Duh, said it's caption. You made this ten times harder than it had to be. Can we stop this silliness, now?
I'm not saying don't work hard. But I am saying that you're not serving yourself, your writing or your readers when you make any part of your writing life harder than it has to be.
What I want you to consider when you get stuck next time, or any time, is this possibility: if it can be fixed quickly and relatively easily, it's fixable. If it can't, move on. By simply ignoring a problem, you may find that it is far simpler to fix a little later. And, if it's never solved, so be it. With all of the time and energy you have freed up in surrendering this particular struggle, you will likely solve at least ten other, far more fixable problems.
Do you know what I'm talking about? Has this happened to you? What have your surprising paradoxes been as you explore the contradictions between hard work and ease?
