It's only week two and I've already failed on my Resolutions.
But you know what, that doesn't meant that it's over! If you give up after one mess up, you're never going to accomplish your goals!
And I do have a legitimate excuse.
I had to move this week/end.
The landlords kicked us out for renovations, so we had to get out and get out we did.
Guys. Don't ever move. It's not worth it.
And because of the move, this post is probably going to be a little lame. It's a reblog. We had to read this article in English and I think it's absolutely brilliant and worth the read. I think there are more than a few of you that will really be able to connect with the author and take his advice to heart.
"Be Wrong As Fast As You Can"
by Hugo Lindgren, for the New York Times, January 4 2013
Here’s a partial,
redacted-for-the-sake-of-my-dignity list of stuff I once aspired to write but
never did: a “Mamma Mia!”-esque rock opera called “Bastards of Young,” based on
the songs of the Replacements. A sitcom set in Brooklyn that inverts “I Love
Lucy,” so that the wife plays the stable, amiable breadwinner while her lovable
loon of a husband hatches ridiculous schemes, often involving the production of
artisanal goods. A thriller about the ultimate rogue trader who concocts a
single, diabolical transaction to blow up the financial system. An HBO show,
called “Upstate,” about a burned-out corporate raider who returns to his
hometown outside Buffalo to save his father’s failing liquor store and ends up
trying to rescue the whole town from the double scourge of unemployment and
alcoholism. Too depressing? How about this: A reality show in which retired
hockey greats like Wayne Gretzky and Mark Messier compete against each other
coaching teams of — ready for the deal clincher? — inner-city kids who’ve never
been on ice skates.
If you had the time, believe me, I could flesh
out these ideas for you, explain their origins, describe in fine detail my
vision of the characters and plots and how it would all coalesce into something
awesome.
Or not. For at least 25 years, I’ve been serial
daydreaming like this, recording hundreds of ideas in a sequence of little
notebooks that I have carried around and then stacked in a shoe box in my
closet, a personal encyclopedia of undone to-do’s. Sometimes, when I’m
searching for something in my closet and I see the box, I have a flashback to
my first-grade report card: “Hugo has the gift of a rich, active imagination,
but needs to work on his follow-through skills.”
My situation, I know, is not unique. Who doesn’t
have big plans they never get around to acting on? Everybody swaps ideas with
his friends about the excellent TV show they’d make or the groundbreaking movie
they’d write. And a couple of my grand schemes got an inch or two off the
ground — an agent lunch, a pitch meeting, a trip to L.A., a flurry of e-mail
filled with exclamation points — though never much higher than that. And along
the way, I also became editor of the magazine you are now reading, so it’s not
as if I became mired exclusively in a world of delusional ambition. It’s just
that for way too long, I held on to the fantasy of a completely different
professional life, and I can’t help wondering why certain creative endeavors
just seemed impossible to make happen.
I know, writers have been complaining for eons
about the weight of their burden, and it’s not attractive. But I’ve been around
it long enough to know that writing anything good that’s longer than a paragraph
isn’t easy for anybody, except for maybe J. J. Abrams. You can’t explain how
people do it. Some of the most successful screenwriters, novelists, television
producers and rock-opera librettists I know are about a hundred times lazier
than I am. They take long afternoon naps, play lots of pickup basketball and
appear to accomplish little or nothing for months at a time. And let me tell
you, their ideas do not all crackle with scintillating originality.
So what am I missing? What is that elusive thing
that turns some people’s daydreams into their next novel for F.S.G.?
#
Earlier in my professional life, as I began to
do all right as an editor, I naïvely discounted it as something I never
intended to stick with. A respectable occupation, I thought, while preparing
myself for the Masterwork of Spectacular Brilliance that would eventually
define me.
One of my pet theories about why I could never
actually produce anything of brilliance was that I was cursed with a
comfortable existence. What might have been my creative prime was spent in New
York City in the 1990s, a flush time for the young and college-educated.
Magazine-editor jobs paid O.K. and were relatively easy to get, especially
compared with now. Maybe I would’ve been better off in the 1970s, when a young
person with ambitions like mine had to take a hard job as a means to his
artistic ends. Would such sacrifice, I wondered, have sharpened my desire to
make it as a writer?
All you have to do is read Mark Jacobson’s
classic New York magazine depiction of cabdrivers in the 1970s to know that’s a
joke. The story is about nighttime cabbies who aspired to be actors or poets or
playwrights. Jacobson was one of them. His original plan was to drive three
nights a week, write three nights a week and party one night a week. But as he
watched his fellow drivers get sucked in to the working life, he realized how
the daily grind slowly robbed them of their dreams.
“The Big Fear,” Jacobson writes, “is that times
will get so hard that you’ll have to drive five or six nights a week instead of
three. The Big Fear is that your play, the one that’s only one draft away from
a possible showcase, will stay in your drawer. The Big Fear is thinking about
all the poor stiff civil servants who have been sorting letters at the post
office ever since the last Depression and all the great plays they could have
produced. The Big Fear is that, after 20 years of schooling, they’ll put you on
the day shift. The Big Fear is you’re becoming a cabdriver.”
My big fear, of course, was that I was becoming
an editor. I won’t lie. For a long time, I considered this an unacceptable
outcome. I don’t know if anyone ever told me, “Those who can’t write, edit,” or
if I made that up on my own, but that little aphorism haunted me. Meanwhile, my
grandiose writing projects were all going nowhere for the same tedious reason.
The minute I tried to commit them to paper, or otherwise turn them into
something tangible, my imagination coughed and sputtered like the cheap Renault
convertible my girlfriend drove in college. I’d write a bit of dialogue using
that miraculous software that automatically formats it into a screenplay for
you, and I’d be instantly paralyzed from the neck up. Here was incontrovertible
evidence that I wasn’t half as good as I imagined myself to be. The voices I
heard so clearly and powerfully in my head became inert and alien on the page.
I was surprised by how mortally embarrassed you can be by writing something
nobody else will ever read. Even looking back over those one- sentence descriptions
of TV ideas in the first paragraph of this essay, I am humbled by how
inadequately they convey the vividness they had as I conjured them. It’s like
hearing a recording of my own voice. That can’t be how I sound. Oh, but it is.
#
I recently saw a Charlie Rose interview with
John Lasseter, a founder of Pixar, about the creative process behind his
movies. Pixar’s in-house theory is: Be wrong as fast as you can. Mistakes are
an inevitable part of the creative process, so get right down to it and start making
them. Even great ideas are wrecked on the road to fruition and then have to be
painstakingly reconstructed. “Every Pixar film was the worst motion picture
ever made at one time or another,” Lasseter said. “People don’t believe that,
but it’s true. But we don’t give up on the films.”
Hugely successful people tend to say
self-deprecating stuff like this when they go on “Charlie Rose.” But I heard
something quite genuine in Lasseter’s remarks, an acknowledgment of just how
deep into the muck of mediocrity a creative project can sink as it takes those
first vulnerable steps from luxurious abstraction to unforgiving reality.
I could never forge through this. My confidence
always collapsed under the weight of my withering self-criticism. I couldn’t
bear the awfulness and keep going. Even as I’m writing this essay, I have to
stop myself from scrolling back to previous parts and banging my forehead
against the keyboard as I see how short I’ve fallen of my expectations. My mind
goes uncontrollably to whether it might be better to scrap the whole thing and
write a different Riff — like, I’ve got a few stray ideas in my notebook here
about the glassy office tower they’re building next door to where I live and
how it obliterates what’s left of the spirit of Greenwich Village. Or about
this ’80s band called Talk Talk that started out making bland pop hits like
Duran Duran but then rejected fame and made a couple of crazy, weird, beautiful
records until mysteriously vanishing. That Riff will practically write itself, I
just know it.
A promiscuous imagination like this is dangerous
for writers. As an editor, I can see that clearly. I know that the next
brilliant brainstorm is never going to be the one that will just write itself,
any more than the last one did. Ideas, in a sense, are overrated. Of course,
you need good ones, but at this point in our supersaturated culture, precious
few are so novel that nobody else has ever thought of them before. It’s really
about where you take the idea, and how committed you are to solving the endless
problems that come up in the execution. The more I experienced this frustration
firsthand, the more I came to appreciate how naturally suited I am to the job I
used to think I never wanted to have when I grew up. Magazines give me a healthy,
satisfying amount of creative license, as well as a very defined
responsibility. Journalism keeps my imagination from flying off into the ether.
At the core of everything is reporting, a real event. And editing allows me to
collaborate with people whose talents make up for my weaknesses, especially
writers who don’t seize up at the sight of a blinking cursor.
At the same time, the protracted period of
realizing all this has been necessary. Struggling with my own creative process
has helped me appreciate the difficulties that others go through, while
fighting to subdue my own self-criticism has left me open to the possibilities
of fledgling ideas that look wobbly out of the gate. Daydreams, weirdly enough,
have made me a better editor.
Plus, if I’d understood this all perfectly when
I started out, embraced editing right from the beginning, I’d be ready to move
on to something else now. Like maybe I’d open a civilized sports bar that
served only bourbon and sold vintage Pendleton shirts —
But now I must contend with my editor for this
story, who just stopped by my office to see when I’ll stop beating my head
against the keyboard so he can get this to the copy desk. There’s no chance of
backing out now. He insisted it wasn’t as dreadful as I feared, gave me good
advice on how to end it, and also remarked that my reality-show idea is not
bad, but does it have to be about hockey? Well, no, I said, suddenly diverted
into fantasy land, the conceit could be broader, maybe about how to coach
amateurs more generally, so that the competition changed season to season —
badminton, bobsledding, roller derby, square dancing. Rock operas!
We had a laugh and then got back to work.