by Rosanne Bane
To identify what we’ve abandoned and need to reclaim, we need to look to the wisdom of our emotions. Aimee knew something was wrong because she was afraid to shake her doctor’s hand. She wasn’t just uninterested in shaking hands—her mouth got dry, her palms sweated, and her stomach clenched. To take the first step of identifying and assessing the injury, we need to ask ourselves and seriously ponder questions like:
What am I afraid to write?
What do I believe I could never write? Have I ever tested that assumption?
What do I most regret not writing? When I’m in my eighties, what will I have the most regret about not pursuing?
What do I wish I could write? What would be so wonderful, so cool, so freaking good that I can’t really believe I could write it?
What writers do I admire, even idolize, and what do they have that I wish I had?
When I fantasize, what awards do I imagine myself winning—a Pulitzer, a Newbury, a Hugo, a Pushcart or an O. Henry?
The second step (and the third step and the fourth step and so on) is to practice the skill we want to acquire and to reward ourselves for making, as Taub said, “the first, most modest gesture toward it.” In other words, we shape our writing behavior. We put in the 10,000 hours of practice that Malcolm Gladwell says we need to acquire mastery. And we put in those 10,000 hours by showing up for fifteen minutes at a time and rewarding ourselves for every small step along the way.
Puppies and Teeter-totters: Shaping Behavior
Years ago, I used shaping and rewards to train my puppy Blue to navigate a teeter-totter and other obstacles found in the sport of dog agility. Most of what dogs do in agility training are natural behaviors—running, jumping, climbing—but the teeter-totter is not. The teeter is weighted so that one end stays on the ground. The dog has to run up the board, pause at just the right place where her weight causes the board to tip, and ride the board until the up end touches the ground.
If I had lured Blue into walking the teeter-totter by putting treats in front of her nose to direct her or putting treats on the teeter-totter—in other words, if I had used contingent, if-then rewards—Blue probably would have learned that even though the teeter was scary, it offered rewards. But she would not want to play with the teeter if there weren’t any treats around. Instead, my trainer showed me how I could use rewards to help Blue learn that the teeter-totter was interesting, not scary, and that interacting with it was fun, not work. I praised Blue and gave her treats, but I never asked her to do anything. She initiated all her movements; I just rewarded the ones that were close to a series of behaviors we were looking for (rewarding approximate behaviors).
At first, I clicked the clicker and gave Blue a small treat anytime she looked at the teeter-totter. This made the teeter interesting and a place where good things happened, so Blue started looking for it when we went to class. After several short training sessions, I upped the ante just a little. I continued to click and give Blue a reward anytime she approached the teeter-totter, but stopped giving so many rewards for just looking at the board. When Blue sniffed or touched the teeter, she got extra treats.
I continued to shape the behavior by looking for and rewarding behaviors that were just a little closer to the end result I wanted. My trainer helped me figure out what incremental steps to reward: look at the teeter, approach it, sniff it, touch it with her nose, touch it with her paw, put one paw on it, put two paws on it, stand on it with four paws, walk one step on it, walk several steps, walk to where it tips, tip it, walk the whole length of the board, trot the whole thing. We moved at Blue’s pace; some sessions she might learn three new incremental steps; sometimes she might not try anything new.
I never “corrected” her; there was no “bad” behavior, just behaviors that were rewarded and behaviors that were ignored. Because I wasn’t luring Blue or showing her what to do, she had to discover how to learn. I could see the wheels turning in her head; she was eager to figure out what movement was going to earn the click, praise and treat. She wanted to learn, and not just for the treats. Because the brain releases dopamine when mammals learn something new, it literally feels good to learn. Dogs who have opportunities to discover what pleases their people love training and love to learn.
It took months, but Blue learned to navigate the teeter-totter like a pro. She did it because learning how to do it was fun and interesting (in other words, intrinsically rewarding), not because I demanded it of her or even because I gave her treats to do it (in other words, extrinsically rewarding). Now nine years old, Blue performs the teeter flawlessly in agility classes and trials.
But consider how enthusiastic and confident any dog would be about approaching a wobbly, tipping board if we expected him to perform like an adult when he was just a puppy. Or if the training had been negative, demanding, critical and required instant perfection. Yet that’s how we often treat ourselves.
You can shape your own writing behavior by giving yourself frequent small rewards for incremental steps along the way to a larger goal. Expecting “adult performance” from a writer or a project that’s still in the “puppy” stage is doomed to fail.
Shape-shifting
I know people are more complicated than dogs, but it really is possible to shape your own behavior. When my friend Julie Theobald joined The Marsh, an upscale health club in a suburb of Minneapolis, several months went by without her actually going to the club. Julie realized that if she was paying so much for dues, she might as well go. She started by telling herself that all she had to do was drive to The Marsh. After she drove there and then drove home a couple of times, Julie thought, “Well, since I’m driving there, I might as well go in.” So she drove to The Marsh, parked her car, went inside and then went home again. After a while Julie thought, “Well, since I’m inside, I might as well check out the locker room.” Then it was several days of, “Well, since I’m in the locker room, I might as well put on my swimsuit.” This was followed by a week or so of, “Well, since I have my suit on, I may as well sit in the hot tub for a few minutes.” After a several visits of, “Since I have my swimsuit on and I’m warmed up from the hot tub, I might as well get in the pool for five minutes and see what the water aerobics class is like,” Julie stayed in class longer and longer. Eventually she acquired a sustainable habit of working out for an hour and a half several times a week.
If Julie had thought, “I’m paying all this money; I’d better get my lazy butt off the couch and get over to The Marsh and work out for two hours,” she probably would have just canceled her membership. Instead, she shaped her behavior by rewarding herself (with positive self-talk and a sense of accomplishment) and slowly upping the ante just a little bit.
Eileen Peterson shaped her writing behavior with a four-step method posted on her office wall:
Show up in office.
Turn on computer.
Open writing file.
Write one sentence.
Eileen gives herself a small reward for completing each of these four steps. Most days, those four steps are all it takes to get her started writing. Eileen rewards herself for the routine, mechanical steps to get her past the initial inertia; then the intrinsic motivation takes over and she’s on her way.
CHALLENGE: TRAINING SCHEDULE
Julie Theobald had an intuitive knack for upping the ante just right; she didn’t make the next challenge so big or go to the next step so fast that she wanted to quit, and she didn’t stop challenging herself until she’d reached her ultimate goal. You can try shaping your writing behavior by the seat of your pants, but I found in training Blue and in training myself that it really helps to know in advance what incremental steps I’m looking for and what rewards I’m going to give.
I encourage you to set up a “training schedule” for your writing that breaks a project into incremental stages and clarifies what “approximate behaviors”
you want to recognize and reward. Identify in advance what small rewards you’ll give yourself for daily actions (like showing up and putting in Product Time), what medium rewards you’ll get for intermediate stages (like completing a chapter), and what large rewards you earn for major accomplishments (like completing a draft or revision of an entire manuscript).
INSIDE THE WRITER’S BRAIN: MIX ’EM UP
Research by Dr. Wolfram Schultz shows that unpredictable rewards are three to four times more exciting to dopamine neurons than predictable rewards.17
It’s physically impossible to surprise yourself enough to, say, tickle yourself, but you can apply random numbers to help you surprise yourself with rewards. Create a numbered list of twenty-five small rewards, twenty-five medium rewards, and twenty-five large rewards in advance. After you’ve put in your time or achieved a milestone, decide what size reward is appropriate for your effort. Then pick a number out of a hat or use a random generator for the numbers 1 through 25 (you can find random number generators on the Internet) to select the specific reward you get.
Not only does this keep these rewards from becoming contingent, if-then rewards, it allows you to benefit from exciting dopamine neurons in your anterior cingulate in anticipation of a reward and still get maximum excitement from keeping the rewards mysterious.
Because studies show that altruism activates the reward centers of the brain and that, for some people, giving to others is more rewarding than receiving cash rewards themselves, it makes brain sense to include donations to your favorite charities and causes in your lists of twenty-five rewards.18
INQUIRY
“What was the best reward I ever received? What made that so special? How could I replicate that in my writing?”
8
WHY IS IT SO HARD TO WRITE, REVISITED
Anti–success Story
For some writers, it’s a whisper of self-doubt: “You’re probably not good enough,” or, “What if you just don’t have what it takes?” or, “Who’s going to want to read what I write? Maybe I should just give up.”
For some writers, it’s a roar of criticism and abuse: “That’s a stupid way to start a sentence,” or, “This will never make sense,” or, “This is boring, melodramatic, awkward, too far out there,” or, “I must be stupid to even try to get my writing into the world.”
For some writers, it’s false advice that promises shelter, but delivers stagnation: “This piece isn’t ready to go out; hold on to it for a while,” or, “There’s no point in entering that contest or applying for a grant; I won’t win anyway,” or, “Save yourself the pain of rejection.”
For some writers, it’s a collection of excuses and reasons to delay: “There’s not enough time today,” or, “I’m not inspired,” or, “I need to pick up the kids, stop at the store, do the laundry and the cleaning, and walk the dog first.”
For some writers, it’s less-than-conscious beliefs and behaviors that make it harder to write: losing computer files, getting minor injuries and illnesses, cluttering your work space with other distractions, picking a fight with your partner, or picking one person after another who isn’t worthy of being in a relationship with you.
For some writers, it’s self-destructive behaviors that range from occasional overindulgence that leaves them too tired, bloated or hungover to write the next day, to full-fledged addictions: Raymond Chandler, Dorothy Parker, Jack Kerouac and Stephen King are just a few writers noted for being alcoholics/drug addicts or recovering alcoholics/drug addicts.
“It” is the Saboteur, and it’s determined to make writing as difficult as possible for every writer. But it is not undefeatable—you can learn strategies to fight the Saboteur. And it’s not all bad news—if you weren’t creative, the Saboteur wouldn’t bother to fight you. By the end of this chapter, you will have reasons and ways to celebrate the fact that you’re lucky—and smart—enough to face the Saboteur’s challenges.
The Saboteur May or May Not Be Your Inner Critic
Don’t mistake the Inner Critic for the Saboteur. Although the Inner Critic can be a painful part of the Saboteur, it’s not the only part or even the most significant aspect of this dangerous archetype. And the Inner Critic is not necessarily the Saboteur. We must distinguish between two types of Inner Critic: the discerning critic and the damaging critic, a.k.a. the Saboteur.
The discerning critic accepts the writing as it is and appreciates what it can be. This acceptance allows a discerning writer to evaluate her or his work honestly and make effective changes. Discernment without judgment reveals possibilities that allow you to improve the current work and to develop the craft skills to keep growing as a writer. The damaging critic, on the other hand, makes preliminary judgments and sweeping generalizations that completely and irrevocably damn the writing and the writer without ever truly seeing and understanding the writing and its potential.
Judgment never serves a writer. Judgment poisons your ability to discern what’s working in your writing and what you can do to improve it. Judgment precludes possibilities. Judgment is the tool of the Saboteur.
Psychological Origins of the Saboteur
Everyone has a Saboteur. According to Caroline Myss, author of Sacred Contracts, the Saboteur is one of the four powerful archetypes that are present in all of us. Myss says the Saboteur “reflects your fears of taking responsibility for yourself and what you create.”1
Although some psychotherapists, like Francis Welter,2 suggest the Saboteur (what he calls the Predator Archetype) serves the purpose of challenging us to transform, in my years of teaching and coaching, I’ve found nothing redeeming in the Saboteur itself. The Saboteur is a part of us that takes perverse delight in torturing us and engaging in self-destruction. It is a warped piece of another archetype that does have a purpose: the Inner Destroyer.
In Dancing in the Dragon’s Den, I discuss how creation and destruction are opposite ends of the same pendulum. They are the poles of the life-force continuum. You cannot create without destroying. As Pablo Picasso says, “Every act of creation is first of all an act of destruction.”
All of us express both the Creator archetype and the Destroyer archetype. We are both creative and destructive. Yet our Western tradition polarizes creativity as good and destruction as bad, despite the fact that this isn’t necessarily so.
It is possible—and more than possible, necessary—to find healthy, life-affirming ways to express destructive energy. I’ve learned the hard way that if I want a good crop of carrots, I have to actually destroy the majority of the carrot seeds that sprout. And if I want good writing, I have to sprout lots of ideas and images, transplant them into sentences, and then prune many of those sentences.
But we are enculturated to the idea that destruction is wrong. As long as we believe destruction is bad, we put destruction in the shadow, which Carl Jung defined as “the person we have no wish to be,” in other words, the traits, beliefs and behaviors we deny are part of us. We try to ignore the destructive energy that runs through us, that runs through all living creatures. Instead of finding healthy ways to consciously release destructive energy, we repress it, so it comes out sideways in unhealthy, unconscious ways. We break something. We get sick or injure ourselves. We are hypercritical of our creativity, ourselves or others. We have accidents. We engage in addictions or other forms of self-destruction.
When we deny our capacity for destruction, we limit our capacity for creativity. We also create and feed the Saboteur.
Carl Jung said the shadow is 90 percent gold. In other words, the vast majority of what we’ve put into the shadow and try to ignore and repress is actually treasure. It’s not nearly as bad as we fear. It is our creative and spiritual potential. It is the fullness of our humanity that will allow us to feel compassion for ourselves and others if only we can find a way to acknowledge our shadow.
The Saboteur is part of that othe
r 10 percent that is apparently beyond redemption. When we deny our capacity for destruction and push it into the shadow, it turns and twists back on us. An appropriate urge to destroy that is part of the cycle becomes self-destruction in ways that are not healthy or life-affirming. Disowned and disrespected, part of the Destroyer becomes the Saboteur.
INSIDE THE WRITER’S BRAIN: PHYSIOLOGICAL ORIGINS OF THE SABOTEUR
In My Stroke of Insight, brain scientist and stroke survivor Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor writes, “I whole-heartedly believe that 99.999 percent of the cells in my brain and body want me to happy, healthy and successful. A tiny portion of the story-teller [part of the brain], however, does not seem to be unconditionally attached to my joy, and is excellent at exploring thought patterns that have the potential to really derail my feeling of inner peace.”3
Taylor theorizes that a collection of neurons in the language centers of the left hemisphere is the origin of negative thought patterns and negative emotions of jealousy, fear and rage. This sounds very much like the self-destructive behaviors that arise from what I call the Saboteur. Taylor suggests that the “negative story-teller” is at most the size of a peanut and observes that it was a relief when this part of her brain was silenced by the stroke.4