I’m on the literary road again, with the first chapter of the first draft of the sequel to “WitchKids” now complete. Unlike last time, though, I won’t be blogging the book chapter by chapter. eventually the first quarter of it will end online, but not until I’ve properly polished the thing up. Why? Because the first draft is going to stink. Guaranteed. Pee-yew. Even if I could avoid it being awful, I”m not going to, because that’s a part of the process.

The first draft is the discovery draft, where I stumble through the story I have outlined in my head and on sheets of paper taped to the wall, and I find all of the details and plot points that I haven’t planned for. I can’t stop to consider how to make the story better because it’s not really done yet. After the first draft, the story will exist, albeit in a sad and repugnantly awkward state, and then I can go back in with a hacksaw and a pair of pliers to bully it into some kind of readable shape.

It’s a strange position to be in, creating something that you have already labeled as crap, but I have to convince myself that finishing a chapter of crap is much, much better than finishing a chapter of nothing at all. To add to the ego cost, I’m all too aware that the work I’m doing now will bring me and the family exactly zero dollars for the forseeable future. It’s hard to proudly proclaim “guess what honey-I spent the whole day not earning money!” but I guess this is where artistic determination comes in to play. I have to strap on my blinders and barrel ahead with this, because it’s what I’m good at (the writing, not the barreling ahead with things.)

Another thing that I’ve discovered over the last week or so: it’s hard work being a beginner at anything. And, it’s overwhelmingly offensive to your self-esteem to be  beginner at a bunch of things at the same time, sucking simultaneously at a variety of tasks.  Between trying desperately to schedule political meetings across the greater Toronto Area with very little success, to recognizing my deficiency in writing query letters (something you need to be good at to earn money as a freelance writer), to my fledgling career as a self-publishing author, to my parenting skills being pushed past their limits by a bull-headed 3-year-old, I ran right out of believe-in-myself-juice and had to hide under some blankets for a day.  Now that I want to try to achieve new and interesting things, I’m realizing the vast ocean of knowledge that I don’t have. My theory is that I just have to ignore most of my ignorance and keep at it. Eventually I’ll either pick up everything I need to know through experience, or I’ll get so good at ignoring my lack of knowledge that it won’t hinder me at all.

Here’s another interesting term: “Hedging your bet”. It means betting against your main gamble, to limit your risk. That way, if your original bet fails, you recover some of the money from those other bets. Generally, it also means that you’re refusing to fully commit to one idea, to avoid being wrong.

My life used to be entirely governed by bet-hedging. To lessen the risk of looking foolish when doing anything new or strange, I’d do it in a half-assed manner. this was supposed to broadcast to everyone “hey, I already know that I look ridiculous so there’s no need for you to point it out”. It was a kind of pre-emptive strike designed to deter criticism.

I was perpetually in a state of fear, expecting a torrent of negative feedback to come hurtling at me even though, in retrospect, there was never any such salvo sent my way. It’s strange that I’ve been so brittle to criticism when I’ve received so little of it: let’s chalk it up to the chasm of low self-esteem that I have almost entirely escaped from. And, as an interesting side-effect, now that I acknowledge that I may be somewhat of an interesting and compelling person with real potential, I kind of want to do a good job at things. And this means that I have to stop hedging my bets.

Here’s a recent example of partial commitment that I witnessed at the medical scool last week. I was working as a practice patient for the first year med students, and they were practicing their interview skills on me.  This particular patient had a migraine that was exacerbated by light, so I shielded my eyes and feigned great distress when put under a bright light. The student proceeded with the interview, but never made any attempt to change the lighting level of the room. When he called a time-out to discuss strategy with his fellow students, they brought up the light, and he replied “I didn’t know that I was allowed to turn the lights down”. They then suggested that he pretend to turn the lights down (evidently none of them felt empowered enough to just dim the lights. Way to think inside the box, guys). His response to the suggestion of pretending was “I thought this was medical school, not acting school”. This young, would’be doctor, was only partially committed to the exercise. Yes, it was all pretend. I wasn’t really suffering from a migraine, we were sittiin in a classrom, not a doctor’s office, and there were students and teacher in the room. He could have chosen to accept the artificiality of the situation and act as if it were all real, but he didn’t, and I think he missed the opportunity to learn a little bit more from the scenario.

If I have to go back to an old proverb (and it seems like I always do) it would be : “If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing well”. If you have decided that you’re going to take part in an activity, any activity, then commit to it. Put an honest, enthusiastic effort into it, no matter how silly it will make you look. If you can’t do it like you mean it, then sit this one out and try again when your courage wells up again.

I know that I spend a lot of time here, postulating wildly unsupported speculations and theories. It’s fun and I will keep doing it. But, I have a piece of genuine, 100% certain to be correct, advice:

Do different things.

Yes, it’s underwhelming at first, but give me a moment to explain. Our strongest evolutionary ability, our trump card in the face of adversity, is our ability to adapt.  The variety of situations and challenges that we can suddenly rise to overcome is astounding: we went to space, for example.

And that adaptability is issued to each and every person at birth. The trick is, you won’t have any idea on what you can accomplish, or what you’re gifted at doing, until you get into the mix and experiment.

Over the last 30+ years, the popular culture ideal of life has been one of routine and predictability: decades spent in the job you were trained to do, with no alarming changes of course. And for many people, they will end up in that position. Fine, if that’s what you’re good at. But don’t settle into that rut without a doing a little personal exploration first. The thing you’re great at may not be anything that you have studied or practiced or planned to do at all.

I could give you a long list of examples , people who have followed their curiosity and ended up in a much different place than they expected, but I will focus on one remarkable fellow: Dr. Adrian Owen.  Dr. Owen started his academic career in psychology. Psychology led to psychiatry, which led to neuroscience, which led to a meeting with a woman named Kate. (Kate’s story). Because Adrian followed his curiosity, he found this woman. He connected to her, and he saved her from unending silence. Now, Dr. Owen is the Canada Excellence Research Chair (CERC) in Cognitive Neuroscience and Imaging at UWO, working with his team to expand our understanding of human brain function and awareness.