Heidi: O Captain, My Captain

I have been thinking lately about metaphors of creativity, specifically of an artist being the captain of a craft she sails across a sea. I like the idea of setting out, alone, across the vastness of that expanse, of setting out from one shore and landing on a new one, possibly unplanned. And while you may have crew from time to time and friends in port, largely it is the artist struggling to control the uncontrollable, making meaning from chaos. I love the metaphor in part, I think, because all you have to do to be an artist is to get a ship and sail it. I can build it, borrow it, buy it—but once I'm out there on the ocean, it's mine. It changes with my journey—sometimes deliberately, refit to weather a storm or navigate a passage or sail in different waters.

It's not enough, of course, to just have a ship. I have to know what I'm doing. I've had to study a lot of techniques and honed skills. I've also made a study of the ocean of creativity itself, trying to understand it. I want to know the mysticism of the force I sail upon, to understand its soul. But even with as many years I've spent working with this ship, sometimes I do little more than sit across from it as it lies beached on its side, and I wonder why the hell I thought I could sail it, and I'm tempted to just go get drunk. I've worried about my choice of destinations and worried how long it will take me to get there, whether or not the time I'd projected was feasible, or if it was the right way. I have gone far out to sea only to turn back again and worried the whole time what that meant. I have spent a great deal of time wondering what every move I make means.

I have come to think that the most important part of being an artist is to shut off that worry, to spend as little time as possible staring at the bottom of my hull wondering about the worth of my decisions.

One of my favorite stories of the Napoleonic Wars is the build-up to the Battle of Trafalgar, the story of Lord Admiral Nelson and Admiral Villeneuve. Villeneuve had recently risen to the top of French command, and he knew Nelson's reputation well. He knew it so well, in fact, that despite several blunders on Nelson's part, Villeneuve was convinced that Nelson was too clever for him, that this was all part of some secret plan, and he didn't seize his advantage. His fears consumed him to the point that he threw away these tactical openings time and again, and ultimately Nelson and Great Britain won.

Nelson made a career out of bravery and gusto—he was clever and cunning, but largely he was brave. What an amazing inner compass he must have had to take the risks he did, so consistently sailing—often literally—into the face of danger and not just escaping, but winning. And as he won time and time and again, he built a mythical persona to work in harmony with the compass; even when his risks took him the wrong way or the weather worked against him, his reputation provided cover for error and allowed him time to regroup and ultimately win.


I love the story of the Battle of Trafalgar also because it ends with Nelson's death. While he wasn't wild about the idea of failure and worked like hell to turn the situation to victory, Nelson did accept the risks, and I suspect he always knew the price for full victory could be his own life, and he was fine with that. Though some days it feels like it, I don't think story will kill me. I do, however, know it can change me, and that sometimes is frightening enough. I may do more than just end up on the wrong continent with vegetation I'd never expected. I might be different when I arrive, never able to go back again. Even if that change is ultimately good, it can be frightening to realize story is so powerful it can change me, unearthing in us things I don't want to see, exposing vulnerabilities I hadn't wanted to acknowledge, let alone share.

I think the change is worth the risk. Though Nelson ultimately lost his life in battle, his actions achieved a glorious victory for his country, one many argue has never been surpassed. Villeneuve, though he lived awhile longer, eventually died as well, and he has gone down in history largely as the man who was too afraid to win. The whole point of creating, be it writing or any other art, is to create. To sail the ship and see what we can do with it. To make something. Nelson sailed to win a war, but while I know he loved Britain and believed in his cause, I think it was the art of the thing that held him captive. I think he was an artist at what he did, and he knew it. He didn't apologize for it or worry what other people thought. He just honed his skills and let them fly.

I want that courage, that confidence. I want to find my compass and use it, to be a Nelson in my own journey. I want to know myself so well that even when I fumble, I can turn a mistake into an advantage, and a loss into a victory. But I don’t want to fear. I want to look back at my journey and smile at my fumbles and silly mistakes, not realize all the places where I could have succeeded if I'd just let go and trusted my compass.

That struggle to overcome the fear, I think, is the real battle—and like Nelson, I intend to win.

Ellen

I'm reading a great book right now called "Prisoner of Trebekistan," written by "Jeopardy!" champion and comedian Bob Harris. It's fascinating and compelling for many reasons, even if you don't really care about "Jeopardy." And it sparked some thoughts in me about the nature of success and failure and the expectations that can help lead to either -- or in my case, both.

One of the neurological premises that Bob talks about in the book is that we have neural pathways in our brains, and with reinforcement over time, these pathways can become immovable superhighways, entrenched ruts. Any thought/action pairing that you habitually return to is one of your neural ruts, and -- here's the vicious cycle part -- every time you return to it you make it stronger. And the stronger it gets, the harder it is for your brain to accept that any other path even EXISTS. It knows the path it has, and it likes it, because by using that path you have not yet died. You've survived, and since your brain is ultimately and intensely concerned with your survival, it wants to stick with what's been working.

I realized while reading that this is why it's so hard for me to believe in ideas that run counter to my habits. Like people who say they ENJOY eating steamed vegetables and get a GOOD feeling from jogging. I nod, but inside my brain is going, "yeah, right." I find it seriously difficult to believe they mean it, because my neural ruts are protesting, going -- that's not what WE know. Stick with what WE know: vegetables are blah, and jogging hurts your boobs. So my efforts to eat healthy and exercise continually fail. I'm fighting a battle with well-fortified, lifelong neural ruts, and I keep caving in.

Meanwhile, I have other neural ruts that help me out all the time. I live in awe of deadlines, for instance, and I almost never miss them. Even when they seem impossible, even when I start at the very last minute (which is often), I find a way to meet them, and I turn in work that is at or above acceptable standards. Even writing that, as I just did, reinforces the idea in my mind that I DON'T MISS DEADLINES. The neural rut just got a smidge deeper, which means next time I'll have a smidge more power to meet the next deadline -- because I don't believe I'm a deadline-misser. I can't see myself that way. The thought creates the action which creates the reality, over and over. (Whoa, deep.)

So, my personal neural ruts make me fail at some things (healthy diet/exercise) and succeed in others (turning in work on time). They're a curse and a blessing. I got to thinking about how that applies to my writing. And in that area, my neural ruts have, predictably, both helped and hurt me.

On the one hand, I have always been a reward-motivated achiever, so I believed in and accepted the idea that I could get published. That was the reward dangling out there in the distance, and I wanted it, so I worked for it, all the while mentally referencing other things I'd achieved as reinforcement (reminding myself of my success rut). And it worked -- I sold a book.

On the other hand, my self-esteem is precarious (which is why I chase the rewards in the first place), so I constantly fear failure and tend to avoid things that I'm not SURE I can do. And the longer I try to do this writing thing, the more I realize how hard it is, to do it right, to get better at it. So I avoid sitting down and doing it, and -- again, the kicker -- EVERY TIME I avoid it, I reinforce the idea that it's too hard for me.

But then the reward/success rut kicks in and pushes me back to it (you can DO this, you did X and X and X, right?) so I sit down and try. And then the fear/failure rut kicks back (this is HARD, you're going to screw it up!) and I get up and go away. It's the battle of the neural pathways, and I'm just the poor schmoe stuck in the middle darting back and forth like a shooting gallery duck.

There's got to be a way out, a third door, something I can do to escape the cycle. But finding that route involves carving out a new, tiny trail in my neural network, and at the moment ... I can't seem to find my machete.