One Thought

It’s now been over five months since I left my job.  The time has flown by.  Though I’m happy with what I’ve accomplished in the past five months, I’m also puzzled by how quickly time has passed.  My memory is a blur.

My last update was over two months ago, and enough’s changed since then that I think it’s time for another one.  I’m in a different place mentally than I was a few months ago.  My perspective is becoming more realistic and my direction more clear.  After five months of unemployment, the giddy thrill of waking up and thinking “I’m not working, I can do whatever I want!” has worn off.  I now feel more of a need to justify what I’m doing and to know where I’m headed.  I’m also more aware of the downsides of unemployment.

This change is good in many ways.  When I first left my job, I remember looking forward to getting past the initial rush.  It’s easier to see things clearly when you’re in a stable(r) emotional state.  I’ve grown accustomed to the routine of waking up each day and having free reign of my time.  It’s an odd lifestyle at first, but you get used to it.  After five months, I feel I’ve proven I have the self-discipline necessary to organize my own time.  That’s nice to know.

The bad parts of unemployment are also becoming more clear.  I’m not surprised that unemployment has downsides–I did anticipate them, after all–but there’s nothing like firsthand experience to drive them home.  When you leave a job, your problems don’t go away.  Some of them diminish, of course, but others expand.  And new ones can appear from thin air.

Let’s look at the problems in more detail.  These are the problems of employment:

1. Your work schedule is (mostly) outside your control.  You have to wake up earlier than you’d like.  You have to commute to a workplace.  You’re expected to stay for some minimum amount of time regardless of how productive you are or how much work there is to be done.
2. You have to work with people you don’t like.  Maybe you can avoid them, and maybe you can’t.  These people can make your job unpleasant and difficult.
3. Your job saps much of the time and energy you could be devoting to your outside interests.  As a result, it can be hard to be productive outside work.  Your interests may fall to the wayside.
4. You have to do something that is employable to be employed.  Many creative pursuits (like art, music, and writing) aren’t, in general, employable.  You can make money doing them, but not usually in the context of being an employee.  You’ll likely have to compromise your creative ideals to be employable.  Your work may be boring or unfulfilling as a result.
5. You can take only minimal credit for what you do.  In general, any work you do when employed bears the company’s name, not yours.  Your work is owned by the company.

Of course, not every employee experiences all of these problems.  And some employees are perfectly happy doing what they do.  For the ones who aren’t happy and would love to quit, I’d like to give an accurate picture of unemployment.  It’s definitely not all rosy.  There’s the obvious money issue: you have no income, at least at first.  You may have to live more cheaply than you did while you were working.  Beyond money, these are the problems of unemployment:

1. Your life becomes less stable.  The highs become higher and the lows lower.  The future becomes less clear.  You don’t have a paycheck to fall back on if all else fails.
2. You have to face the reality of what it’s like to follow your dreams.  Doing what you’ve always wanted is not always fun and definitely not always easy.  Some days you feel bored and uninspired.  It can be odd to be doing exactly what you’d like to be doing and to still feel bored and uninspired.  You have to get used to feeling that way sometimes.
3. You come face to face with meaning- and purpose-of-life type questions.  It’s much easier to ignore these questions when your purpose is provided ready-made by a job.  Having full control of how you spend your time can be a weighty responsibility.  The pull of nihilism becomes stronger.
4. You have to take responsibility for your happiness.  Don’t like what you’re doing?  It’s your own fault!  Don’t like who you’re spending your time with?  Do something about it!  You can no longer blame your job for your problems.
5. Others will resent you.  When you stop working, some people with jobs will feel you aren’t “one of them” any more.  They may begin to treat you differently.  They may try to make you feel guilty for not working.  (I’ll save my analysis of their motivations for another time.)
6. Your self-confidence may diminish.  If you’re leaving a job and striking out on your own, you have to prove yourself all over again.  This is especially true if your new pursuits differ from your job responsibilities, but it’s true even if they’re similar — you lose any reputation you had at your job when you leave.  You also lose any leadership role you may have had.  It takes time for self-confidence to return.
7. You lose the community you had while employed.  When you have a job, your coworkers are always there to talk to.  You always have someone to chat with about the projects you’re working on.  When you’re unemployed, you have to create your social life yourself.  You have to find others with similar interests.  You have to sell yourself and put your work out there.

Many of the problems of unemployment are not really “problems,” per se, but rather challenges to be faced.  I welcome these challenges — I’m glad I’m facing the questions of the meaning and purpose of my life head on.  I’m glad I’m forced to accept responsibility for my own happiness.  I’m glad I have to define my own future.  I’m glad I have to seek my own community.  

These challenges do cause stress.  The temptation to return to a life of greater immediate certainty is sometimes strong.  But I’d rather live as a conscious, independent person than hide from them.  It’s too easy to ignore these challenges when your life is consumed by a job and easy solutions are provided for you.  Not every employed person does ignore them, but many do.  I certainly saw this tendency in myself when I was employed.

My direction, while still vague, is becoming more clear.  I’m learning a lot by following my interests and seeing where they take me.  I’ve found I enjoy some things less than I thought I would and other things much more.  Though I could have made some of these discoveries while still employed, unemployment is dramatically speeding up the process.  I’ll get into specifics in a future update.

In a previous essay I described my ideal person.  Such a person is fully-realized: she knows what she wants and is pursuing it, she knows who she is and is happy being that way.  Being fully-realized isn’t easy: I’m not fully-realized yet, but I’m working on it.

In this essay, I’m going to address one part of being fully-realized: knowing what you want.  Knowing what you want is both trivially simple and profoundly complex.  The answer lies within us, but it’s often difficult to find.

The answer is important.  If you don’t know what you want, it’s hard to pursue any path with vigor.  A person who doesn’t know what she wants may lead a pleasant life, but she’s unlikely to lead a fulfilling one.

What We Want

So, then… what do we want?  Put simply, we want what makes us happy.

For the purposes of this essay, I’m going to distinguish between two kinds of happiness: short-term happiness and long-term happiness.  We are short-term happy when we like what we are doing right now.  Short-term happiness is in the moment and without thought for the future.

We are long-term happy when we are happy with the direction we feel we are headed.  Though we feel both short- and long-term happiness in the present, their content is distinct: long-term happiness is about the future rather than the present.  Long-term happiness is about goals, plans, and predictions.  We are long-term happy when we project ourselves into the future and imagine ourselves to be happy there.

We have corresponding short-term and long-term wants.  We short-term want what makes us short-term happy, and we long-term want what makes us long-term happy.  (I use the awkward phrasing to emphasize that long-term wants point toward the future; they are not necessarily experienced over a long time-period, as “want long-term” would imply.)

Our short- and long-term wants can sometimes conflict.  A long-term want may require actions in the present that make us short-term unhappy.  Many days I short-term want to stay in bed rather than go to the gym, but I long-term want to stay in shape.  The long-term want usually wins out, but that’s not always the case.

To know what you want, you must know what you want both short- and long-term.  You must also reconcile your short- and your long-term wants.  Though there can be–and probably will be–some conflict between them, the conflict must be small.  You don’t know what you want if you have long-term goal you hate pursuing in the short-term.  When you know what you want, you are both short- and long-term happy.  Your wants must, for the most part, align.

Short-Term Wants

Finding what you want short-term is relatively straightforward.  Trial-and-error is a common strategy — and since short-term happiness is immediate, it’s also an effective one.  Trial-and-error works in part because it’s a “dumb” strategy: it makes no assumptions about what you’ll like doing.  It’s hard to know in advance what things will make you happy and what things won’t.  You need to try them and see how you feel.

For finding short-term wants, I recommend the throw-things-at-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks approach.  Try as many activities as you can.  Place priority on the ones that seem most appealing, of course, but try even ones that sound unappealing.

Think you don’t like dancing?  Give it a fair shot anyway.  Fear may be clouding your judgment.  It’s hard to know before you’ve tried something whether fear or real dislike is turning you away from it.  Facing fears is worth the trouble: we often fear most what would make us most happy.

Long-Term Wants

Knowing what you want long-term is more difficult.  Since long-term wants are about the future, they are, by necessity, predictive.  You can know what you want right now by trying things and seeing how they make you feel, but you can’t do the same to find how you’ll feel ten years from now.  To know what you want long-term, you need to project yourself into the future and imagine how you’ll feel there.  This process is imperfect, but it’s the best one that’s available.

Remember that long-term happiness, though being about the future, is experienced in the present.  If you’re happy right now with the direction you’re headed, you’re long-term happy.  How you’ll actually feel in the future is thus, in a sense, irrelevant.  If you feel you’ve made a good plan and you’re following it, you’re long-term happy now.  This fact makes finding long-term wants a little simpler.

I recommend the following approach for finding long-term wants.  First, brainstorm a list of possibilities.  Write down every goal, achievement, and life path that comes to mind.  Then go through the list and, for each entry, imagine yourself ten (or however many) years from now.  You’ve reached the goal, you’ve made the achievement, you’ve followed the path.  Since you’re trying to discover your wants, don’t try to be “realistic” — assume you’ve been successful in whatever you set out to do.

Now, imagine how you feel in that future state.  Do you feel fulfilled?  Do you like how you are spending your time?  Are you happy day-to-day?  Or do you feel confined or trapped?  Are you bored?  Do you have regrets?

From your responses to each entry, try to form an overall plan.  The plan can be very specific or very vague.  The only constraint is that it makes you (long-term) happy.  You’ll know you know you know what you want when your plan fills you with a sense of purpose and excitement.  Of course, I wouldn’t expect this approach to yield a concrete plan immediately.  But it is good at clarifying your thinking: after following it, you may decide to rule out some possibilities and focus more energy on others.

Yes, it’s hard to predict exactly how you’ll feel in the future.  Your prediction may turn out to be completely wrong.  You have to accept that possibility.  Long-term happiness is always, to a degree, uncertain.  Make the best decision you can given the information that is available.  If you want to improve your predictive accuracy, I recommend Daniel Gilbert’s book Stumbling On Happiness (or others like it).  It outlines the errors people tend to make in predicting their future happiness.

Eliminating Conflicts

One issue remains: Your short- and your long-term wants must, for the most part, agree.  Long-term goals require short-term actions.  If you love a goal but hate the actions it entails, you don’t know what you want.  If you like the idea of writing a novel but don’t like sitting still for long periods of time, you may need to find another goal.  Short-term wants constrain long-term ones.

It’s unlikely that all of your long-term wants are ruled out by your short-term wants — but some of them may be.  In most cases, the future projection exercise I outlined will uncover long-term wants that conflict with short-term ones.  If you project yourself into the future and imagine yourself loving being a famous author but disliking the sitting-down-and-writing-books part, you’ve discovered a conflict.  Make sure to vet your long-term wants for conflicts with short-term ones.  There can be some conflict, but it must be small.

What about me?  My vision of what I want is still hazy, but it’s becoming more clear as follow my interests and see where they take me.  Though I can’t claim to be an expert in this area, the techniques I’ve outlined have worked well for me so far.  I recommend trying them if you are, like most people, unsure of what you want.

The Standard Debate

The free will debate in philosophy is usually framed as being about two concepts: determinism and compatiblism.  Determinism is the idea that the world is, at a fundamental level, ordered and consistent: all events are caused, and the same causes always produce the same effects.  Nothing is left up to chance.  Everything that happens was destined to happen since the beginning of time.

It seems intuitive that free will is impossible if the world is deterministic.  After all, how can our actions be free if they were determined billions of years ago?  Compatibilists think this intuition is wrong: they claim that free will is possible even if determinism is true.  Compatibilists base their claim on their definition of “free will,” which they usually hold to mean something like “freedom from restraint.”  A person is free, they say, if she is of sound mind and isn’t bound in chains.

Most of us are free according to the compatibilists’ definition of “free will.”  But is “freedom from restraint” really what we mean by “free will”?  According to incompatibilists, the answer is no.  Incompatibilists insist “free will” implies that we, ourselves, are the ultimate, originating cause of our actions. If we have free will, we control our destinies.  Being free from restraint is not enough: if our actions were determined prior to our birth, incompatibilists say, we cannot be free.

I agree with the incompatibilists.  Or, more accurately, I agree that the compatibilist definition of “free will” is a bad one.  The free will debate would not receive nearly the attention it does if “free will” and “freedom from restraint” were synonymous.  People who are free from restraint are nevertheless bothered by the idea that they don’t possess free will.  The compatibilist definition does not capture what people mean when they say “free will.”

Incompatibilists usually turn to non-determinism in the hope that it will explain free will.  According to non-determinism, some events don’t have a cause.  They just happen randomly.  This view has credence: current theories in quantum mechanics do imply the universe is non-deterministic.  But can non-determinism explain free will?  If free will requires that we are the ultimate, originating cause of our actions (as the incompatibilists claim), how can non-determinism help explain it?  Random actions are not free ones.  Neither are “mostly-determined” actions with a little bit of randomness thrown in.  Non-determinism seems to offer no help.

The Problem Clarified

So both the compatibilists and the incompatibilists appear to have major problems.  The compatibilists have redefined “free will” to mean something trivial and uninteresting.  The incompatibilists cannot explain how non-determinism explains free will any more than determinism does.

This is the problem: “Free will,” as a concept, does not–and cannot–make sense.  When examined closely, the concept breaks down.  Whether determinism is true or not is irrelevant: the compatibilists and the incompatibilists are both wrong.

Of course, I need to explain why ”free will” doesn’t make sense.¹  Let’s first understand what “free will” would mean, if it did make sense.  The incompatitibilist definition is a good one to work with: to repeat, it states that we have free will if we, ourselves, are the ultimate, originating cause of our actions.  Of course, our actions may be caused partially by factors outside our control, be they laws of physics, randomness, or anything else.  Thus it might be more correct to say that we are free if we are an (rather than “the”) ultimate, originating cause of our actions.  What’s important is that our actions are not caused fully by factors outside our control.

Now we must ask ourselves: What would it mean for this definition to be true?  To answer this question, I’m going to look more closely at how we make decisions.  We base our decisions on reasons.  There are, broadly-speaking, two kinds of reasons: objective ones and subjective ones.  Objective reasons point to facts of the world.  They refer to things outside our minds: our physical environment, the limitations of our bodies, the behaviors of others, and so on.  Because objective reasons are external in nature, they can’t play a role in explaining free will.  Subjective reasons, on the other hand, are characteristics of our minds: our moods, emotional dispositions, tastes, and so on.  We base all of our decisions on a combination of objective and subjective reasons.²

A Series of Questions

From now on, I’ll use character as an umbrella term that encapsulates all subjective reasons.  Character makes us who we are.  If anything gives us free will, character is it.  But where does character come from?  Let’s look at an example.  Say I’m faced with a decision: I can eat an apple or I can eat an orange.  I like oranges better, so I pick the orange.  My decision is based on one subjective reason: my preference for oranges.  This seems like a clear-cut case of free will in action.

But things aren’t so simple.  To show why, I’m going to ask a series of questions.  First, why did I pick the orange?  Say my response is, “I don’t know–I just prefer oranges.  That’s just the way I am.”  If that’s the case, my preference appears to be arbitrary.  By my own admission I didn’t freely choose to prefer oranges, so how can my exercise of that preference be free?  It can’t: if I was not the ultimate, original cause of my preference for oranges, then I am not now the ultimate, original cause of my choice of an orange. 

But what if I did choose to prefer oranges?  Say I read a book a year ago that convinced me oranges are more environmentally sustainable than apples.  Since I value environmental sustainability, I decided from then on to choose oranges over apples.  Surely that choice makes my present choice of an orange free–right?

Wrong.  Once again, we must ask a question.  This time it is: Why do I value environmental sustainability?  Say my answer is, “I’m a moral person, and it’s immoral to destroy the environment.”  Unfortunately, that leads to a new question: Why am I a moral person?  If my response to this question is, “That’s just the way I am,” my decision is, as before, not a free one.  If on the other hand my response is, “Because my parents taught me to be that way,” yet another question arises: Why did I accept my parents’ teachings?

I won’t go further.  A pattern is emerging: each “Why?” question about character yields a “That’s just the way I am” response or a further question.  And since we haven’t made infinitely many decisions in our lives, “That’s just the way I am” will always come eventually.

For us to have caused our characters–and therefore our actions–we would have had to have caused ourselves, which is impossible.  The fact of the matter is: We are not the ultimate, original cause of our characters.  And because we aren’t, we are not the ultimate, original cause of our actions.  “Free will” does not make sense as a concept.  It’s definition implies an impossibility.

The Implications

This argument has important implications.  One of them is: It does not make sense to worry about whether we have free will.  After all, we can’t even imagine what it would mean to have free will, so how can we worry about not having it?  The concept breaks down under scrutiny.  Worrying about whether we have free will is like worrying about whether we’ll die before we’re born.  Neither worry has meaningful content.

The fact that we’re not the ultimate, original cause of our characters is interesting.  It means we’re not as radically self-determining as we might like to think we are.  We did not choose our core preferences and dispositions–we were created with them.  There’s no getting around this fact, and it has substantial implications for answers to meaning-of-life-type questions.  I haven’t worked them all out for myself yet, but I’m thinking about them.  More on this topic is sure to come.

Footnotes:

1. My argument is very similar to one put forth by British philosopher Galen Strawson.  Though I did come upon the general idea on my own, an online interview with Strawson greatly helped me to clarify my position.
2. Note that I’m not making a broad metaphysical claim with my distinction between objective and subjective reasons.  I’m using the distinction only in the hope that it make my argument more clear.  If you think all decision-making factors are subjective, that’s fine–the rest of my argument remains the same.

I’ve been voluntarily unemployed for about three months now.  So far, I’ve spent my days pursuing my interests full-time.  Nice, huh?  Yup, it is.

But one thing’s been bothering me.  Having now discussed my situation with a number of people, I’ve noticed a trend: more than a few think that I must be either greatly privileged or very lucky to be taking time off.  I disagree.  Neither great privilege nor great luck is necessary.

Skeptical?  Bear with me.

It’s true, of course, that most people have jobs.  Many of them are bored or burned out and could use some time off.  They long for freedom but think it’s out of their reach.  They think that because they weren’t born aristocrats and haven’t won the lottery they can’t enjoy time off.

Here’s what I’m claiming.  Taking time off is within the reach of many, if not most, people.  Being an aristocrat and winning the lottery help, but they’re not necessary.  Financial sacrifice may be required.  Life is full of trade-offs, and you have to decide what is most important to you.

Before I go further, I want to give some more background on myself.  I’m doing this in the interest of full disclosure, not to hold myself up as an example.  I’m not the best example, anyway.  The short story: though I’ve had some advantages, my background is not particularly remarkable.

Let it be said: I’ve had advantages.  I’ve benefited from them, and, yes, I might not be where I am now without them.  They are:

1. I am male, which means I don’t face sex discrimination.
2. I am a member of the most-prevalent racial group in my country, which means I don’t face racial discrimination.
3. My parents are smart and caring people.
4. My physical health has been good.

My lifestyle growing up was solidly middle-class.  I enjoyed no particular luxuries.  I didn’t benefit from parental connections.  I grew up in Modesto, California, an unremarkable town (or the worst in the nation, depending on who you ask).  I lived in a decent neighborhood.  I attended public schools.  Students at my high school performed worse on standardized tests than average for the state.  I received no help applying to colleges.

Now a little more on my current situation.  I just left a well-paying job.  While I was working, I managed to save a fair amount of money.  Yes, this undermines my overall point: I’m not the quintessential Average Joe.  I have lived cheaply for the past few years, however, and I continue to do so.  I’m not rich, and my time off is temporary.  I’ll be generating income again within a year or two.  I would be taking this time off even with far less money in the bank.  It’s nice to have it, but it’s not necessary.

Earlier I said that taking time off is more possible than many people think.  Though things like rent and food aren’t cheap, they’re not that expensive either, particularly if you’re willing to forsake luxury.  Let’s get specific.  I’m familiar with costs in my home city of San Francisco, so I’ll use them in this example.  San Francisco isn’t cheap.  Housing prices are among the highest in the nation.  Still, it is possible to live quite cheaply here.

The essentials of modern living are shelter, food, transportation, incidentals, and health care.  I’ll take a look at each.  First, shelter.  Rents in San Francisco are high, but you can save money by sharing an apartment.  I’m sharing a five-bedroom apartment, and my rent is $900 per month.  I could bring this down to about $750 if I lived in a less-desirable place.  Shelter also includes utilities: water, gas, garbage, and so on.  I’m paying about $50 in utilities per month.

Now, food.  Food can be quite cheap if you avoid restaurants.  It costs me about $50 to buy enough food for a week, and I’m not particularly thrifty.  That means food for a month is about $200.  I do eat in restaurants about once a week, but right now I’m covering only the essentials.

Transportation.  If you aren’t working, you may have no transportation cost.  I don’t own a car, so I don’t have to pay for gas, parking, or maintenance.  If you want to get around the city by vehicle (and don’t ride a bike), you can buy a bus pass, which is $50 per month.  I don’t own one since I don’t ride the bus often enough for the pass to be worth it.  Let’s assume you do need a bus pass, though.

Incidentals.  These are random necessities like toothbrushes, laundry detergent, and replacement clothes.  This stuff shouldn’t typically be that expensive–let’s say $50 per month.  Clothes are cheap if you buy them used, which I usually do.

Finally, health care.  This is a tricky one.  Health care in the US is too expensive, and policies are weighted against those whose employers don’t provide health insurance (and those who don’t have employers).  For now I’m going to assume you are like me: you’re relatively young, and you have no pre-existing conditions.  If you do have pre-existing conditions, that sucks: you might need an employer just to afford health insurance.  What a dumb system.  Though I’m on COBRA now, my (brief) research indicates that decent health insurance for someone in my position can be had for $200 (or less) per month.

Let’s use my numbers to calculate the cost of basic living in San Francisco.  The cost per month is: $750 (rent) + $50 (utilities) + $200 (food) + $50 (bus pass) + $50 (incidentals) + $200 (health insurance) = $1,300 total.  The cost per year is $15,600.  In reality, I’m living on about $22,000 a year right now.  I would cut back more if I needed to.

Now let’s see how much income is necessary to maintain this spartan lifestyle.  First I’ll look at minimum wage, which is a (relatively) high $9.79 per hour in San Francisco.  A full-time job at this wage yields about $20,000 a year in income, assuming no overtime.  After taxes, this ends up being about $15,500.  That’s slightly less than the amount required by my already-minimal budget.  It’s hard to live in San Francisco on minimum wage, and, clearly, you aren’t going to save much money without multiple jobs or substantial overtime.

But let’s be a bit more ambitious.  The median personal income in California was about $35,400 a year in 2006.  This becomes about $26,600 after taxes, which is well above the minimum requirement.  $11,000 above it, in fact.  (And this calculation assumes you’re paying the full cost of your own health insurance.)  Say you live simply on this income and save $10,000 per year.  At that rate, after 3 years of work you’ll be able to afford almost 2 years of time off!  Not bad.

Yes, there are caveats.  Unless you’re rich, time off requires sacrifices.  You’re not going to raise children on the spartan budget I outlined; time off becomes more expensive when you have dependents.  And if you have health problems and can’t afford your own health insurance, this won’t work either–I’m sorry.  If you want a nice car or vacations in the Bahamas, your costs will go up, which means you’ll need to save longer and more to take time off.  You have to decide what’s most important.

I hope I’ve convinced you that you need not be greatly privileged or very lucky to take time off.  Yes, privilege and luck help.  And I’m not saying anyone can follow the plan I’ve outlined.  But the bar is not that high.  If you’re willing to accept the trade-offs, time off may well be within your reach.

Some people glow.  They know who they are, and they are happy being that way.  They radiate an inner confidence and an inner energy.  They know what they want, and they have worked–and are working–to get it.  They know what they are good at, and they play to their strengths.  They admit and accept their weaknesses.  Their lives make sense as a unified whole; they are free from contradictions.

These people are, on balance, happy.  They are excited.  They seek challenges.  They love to learn from others.  They are not afraid to express their opinions, even if they may be wrong.  They are great at what they do.  Their energy is infectious.

I call these people fully-realized.  I’ve met a few of them.  I’ve seen some speak.  I’m not one of them–yet.

What does it take to be fully-realized?  The following, I think, are the basics–you’re fully-realized if:

1. you know what you want;
2. you pursue it; and
3. you know who you are, and you’re happy being that way.

Knowing what you want is the most important part.  In the long run, it’s hard to be excited about what you do if you don’t know what you want.  If you do know what you want, pursuing it won’t be hard.  In fact, doing so may be unavoidable.  If you think you know what you want but you aren’t pursuing it right now, you might not actually know what you want–or at least you might not have fully convinced yourself yet that you want it.  (On a related note: just because you are pursuing something doesn’t mean that you want it; you could be running up a blind alley.)

Knowing who you are and knowing what you want are obviously related.  However, I think you can know what you want without knowing who you are.  Knowing what you want is more basic and requires a lower level of self-awareness.  You can know what you want at a younger age than you can know who you are.  In addition to knowing what you want, you must understand your strengths and weaknesses and how people perceive you to know who you are.  And to be fully-realized, you must not just know these things–you must be happy with them.  You must accept yourself as a whole person.

I’ve noticed that fully-realized people are usually older–in their thirties, at least.  It takes time to build self-awareness.  You may know what you want at a young age, but I doubt you know who you are.  And I doubt even more that you fully accept who you are.  When you’re young and inexperienced, it can be hard even to be sure you know what you want.  The only way to discover this is through a combination of trial-and-error and reflection.  Trial and error build experience, and reflection derives patterns from experiences.

It helps that older people are more likely to have had successes.  It’s easier to be confident–really confident, not postured-confident–and to accept yourself when you’ve had success.  But I don’t think major success is necessary.  Of course, a fully-realized person will tend to be successful in her pursuit of what she wants.

I’ll say one more thing: As I mentioned, the life of a fully-realized person is free from contradiction–its parts fit together.  Stated differently, a full-realized person is “whole.”  A level of personal identity and self-certainty come with wholeness that are otherwise unattainable.  If you’re happy with some areas of your life but not others, you aren’t whole.  If you accept some parts of yourself but not others, you aren’t whole.  A whole person applies the principles of full-realization to all areas of her life.

Having talked to a few people about what makes a person interesting, I think I’ve decided–it’s curiosity. Before I go further, let me define ‘interesting.’ To me, a few attributes constitute interestingness–an interesting person

1. is passionate about something;
2. has insightful and original things to say; and
3. is not afraid to take unpopular stances.

These attributes are, I think, both necessary and sufficient to establishing interestingness. That is, a person having these attributes is interesting, and an interesting person has these attributes. I am more assured of the former case than the latter, but let’s work with this definition for now.

My argument is that curiosity implies interestingness, and vice-versa. If I am correct, a curious person is interesting and an interesting person is curious. Because interestingness and curiosity are not obviously connected, this means that their (apparent) connection might make it easier to identify interesting people. Say I know a person is curious, but I am not sure yet if that person is interesting. If my argument holds, then I do in fact know that person is interesting–progress!

What makes someone curious? A curious person

1. is eager to learn;
2. is inquisitive; and
3. is able to see things as they are, rather than how she wants them to be.

Let me be clear about the last one. I don’t mean that a curious person accepts the current state of things and doesn’t try to change anything. I mean that a curious person doesn’t project preconceived views onto the world, or at least tries not to. A curious person wants to know how the world is; she doesn’t merely look for evidence to support her preconceptions.

I am arguing that the attributes of curiosity imply the attributes of interestingness (and vice-versa). Since a curious person is eager to learn, I would expect her to be passionate about something–and likely multiple somethings. I would expect her learning experiences to give her insightful things to say. Because she is inquisitive, and because she desires to see things as they are, I would expect her to take unpopular stances some of the time–the popular view of the world is not always the right one.

So a curious person is interesting. Is an interesting person curious? Of course, that depends on my definition of interestingness. However, I would guess that many people–or, to be a bit circular, the people I find interesting–share my definition, or at least something close to it (consciously or not). According to me, an interesting person is passionate, insightful, and willing to take unpopular stances. Suppose we have a person with these attributes who is not curious–who has none of the curious attributes. That means the person is not eager to learn, is not inquisitive, and projects her preconceptions onto the world. An uncurious person certainly could be passionate and willing to take unpopular stances. However, I don’t think an uncurious person would have insightful and original things to say (what experience would the insight come from?). Contradiction! Thus, a person who is interesting must be curious. Thank you, logic.

Of course, my definition of interestingness may be too narrow. I am certainly more convinced that curiosity implies interestingness than vice-versa. In any case, there does seem to be a strong connection between interestingness and curiosity, and that connection is …

… interesting.

I have a goal: I want to become a musician. I want to produce music that is original and meaningful to me and others. Currently guitar is my instrument, and I am focused on learning to produce music with it.

I spend a lot of time practicing guitar. I play the same short pieces of songs over and over, trying to perfect my technique and bring them up to tempo. I’ll play scales and other non-musical passages repetitively to improve my technique, often along with a metronome. I’ve learned quite a bit of music theory: scales, modes, chord progressions, and so on.

Practicing is satisfying–I get better at guitar, if painfully slowly–but it is not fun and not very rewarding. After all, my goal is to produce music, not to play sixteenth notes at two-hundred beats-per-minute. Practice is inherently uncreative: there is no product at all, much less a creative product. When I have produced music–even when I have recorded covers of existing songs–I’ve felt satisfied and happy in a way that I haven’t from practice. I’ve had fun, and I’ve spent my creative energy.

It is far more important to do than the practice. When you do, you perform the action your goal consists of. In my case, when I do, I produce music. When I practice, I play scales to a metronome. When a computer programmer does, he writes software. When a programmer practices, he takes classes and completes exercises. And so on. The point of practice is to distill the skills relevant to doing into simple, repetitive activities. The best practice is often the activity that isolates the skill most needing improvement. Practice is, by necessity, often repetitive and boring.

Practice is important, however, and should be viewed as a necessary evil. I don’t mean that practice is unpleasant–in fact, being goal-oriented, I find it quite satisfying (I also enjoy lifting weights in the gym). Rather, practice is not an end in itself. And any time practicing is time not spent doing. Practicing helps you do–which is the point–but you should practice only when necessary. After all, doing is also great practice–the best way to get better at something is to do it. Practice, if overdone, can be practice merely for more practice. If you practice all the time, you’ll become an excellent practicer rather than an excellent doer.

So when should you practice? It is important to practice regularly, but the majority of your time should be spent doing. Practice is inherently reflective–you analyze your weaknesses and construct activities meant to improve them. Without analysis and reflection, it is easy to get stuck in a rut, even when you’re doing all the time. Often practice is the most effective way to improve a skill. Without focused practice, your technique may never improve past a certain point.

However, practice shouldn’t become an end in itself. Practice is satisfying but not fun. And it isn’t your goal. It’s easy to get discouraged if you spend all your time practicing. If your goal is to get good at something, you should spend most of your time doing that thing. Recognize the importance of practice, but don’t let it monopolize your time.

Money is one measure of success, though it’s certainly not the only one–there are many measures. People seem to get fixated on money, though.  Why so much focus on money? I think, simply put, only because it is so easily measurable.

Besides money, success can be measured in terms of love, respect, creative output, quality and quantity of impact, and so on. Unlike money, none of these is objectively quantifiable. If I have $N and you have $2N, in money terms you’re more successful than me. This is obvious and can’t be debated. On the other hand, say I run an Italian restaurant, and you write romance novels. Who is more loved and respected? Who brings more value to the world? It’s much harder to say.

I don’t mean that love, respect, and creative output can’t be compared. They can–at least to a degree. However, the comparison can’t be done numerically. I can’t compare my respect number to your respect number. We may agree that you are more respected than me, but this judgment is not based on a concrete figure. There is no objective quantity to turn to.

I can think of two reasons people focus on money. First, it is almost universally thought to be important–everyone needs money to survive, after all. Because of its necessity, money holds at least some value to almost everyone. Love and respect are also this way. Donkey Kong scores are not, which is why only a small group values them as an indicator of success.

Second, money is easily measurable. I know exactly how much I have, you know exactly how much you have, and we know that more is better. If given the choice between more money and less money, I will take more. While larger quantities of love and respect are preferable as well, they can be measured much less easily. Money wins simply because it can be represented as a number. People want a clear goal with a clear measure. They want to know when they are more successful, and a number provides this certainty.

More-intangible measures of success are not ignored.  In fact, they are the driving forces behind much of human effort. Love and respect are extremely important to most people. Money is more of a second-order concern–people seek it out as a means of fulfilling their more basic desires. Because of people’s bias toward the quantifiable, money receives undue attention, however. When a second-order desire (for money) does not satiate more basic desires (for love and respect), things can get ugly.  As the cliche goes, money doesn’t buy happiness.  And, in fact, its pursuit is often counterproductive.  It’s never a good idea to focus on a means rather than on an end.

If you are competitive, know that money is only one measure of success–and not a very important one at that. If you focus too much on money, you’ll miss out on the more-meaningful measures of success. You’ll know in your gut that you have missed out, no matter how much you try to deny it. Don’t fall into the money trap.

I’ve noticed that when I am writing to a direct prompt, my writing is most focused. I feel most satisfied with what I have written in such situations too. A “prompt” here isn’t formalized like an essay question on an exam. I mean something that provokes a strong feeling and compels me to respond. Often I feel most compelled when I disagree strongly with something I’ve just read. I think: “No! That’s wrong, and here’s why.” I’m great at marshaling the evidence and forming a coherent argument when this happens. Writing comes easily.

I want to understand, first, why a strong prompt fires up my writing and, second–and perhaps more importantly–how I can use this to improve my writing. Prompts motivate me in two ways: they excite me or they piss me off. They provoke a strong emotion. Without the emotional reaction, my thoughts are directionless and my point is hard to grasp. With the emotional reaction, the point is clear: I know what my thesis is, and I feel strongly that it is right. I want to set the world straight. So emotion proves to be a strong motivator. Of course, this is obvious–motivating emotions differ, but all emotions are motivating. And without emotion, there is no motivation.

How can I apply this insight to my writing? I can wait for prompts to appear and then drop whatever I’m doing and start writing immediately. This actually isn’t such a bad idea, but it gives me no control; I have to wait passively for inspiration. Alternatively, I can seek out prompts. Say I want to write about a topic. I can search for other opinions and hope that these fire me up. Again, this isn’t such a bad strategy, but it can be hard to find a strong prompt–something that really provokes me. And it is time-consuming and distracting to do a literature review before writing. Research is great, but sometimes I’d prefer just to write. I don’t want to read first and write later; I want to write now.

Here’s the best approach I’ve thought of. When I have a topic in mind to write about, I generate the prompt myself. I make it as inflammatory as possible. I think of all the best (worst) arguments in favor of the opposing view. I push all my buttons; I call myself an idiot for having that crazy idea in the first place. Then I start writing. The goal is to provoke as strong a response as possible before starting–it is the intellectual equivalent of football players punching and yelling at each other before a game. You get fired up and then begin in that state. Your heightened emotions organize your thoughts and make you feel your thesis. Writer’s block disappears. Words flow onto the page.

At least ideally. I’ll try and let you know how it goes.

I’ve noticed that most good writing uses metaphors. Metaphors can be powerful–they hold a concreteness, a directness, and a life that other devices lack.  It’s important that metaphors be original, though.  Cliches rarely add much to writing and often detract from it. Most cliches are metaphors, which means you have to be doubly careful not to use them. People are more likely to remember metaphors; that’s why they often become cliches.

Let’s look at a example.  Say I want to describe a table with a lot of staplers on it.  (Apologies in advance for the mundanity.)  There’s a table in the back of the supply room with staplers on it. Not just a few, mind you–this table is covered in staplers. Open the door and you are faced with an army of staplers peering back at you. Staplers are innocuous alone, but in large numbers–when in battle formation–they can make your soul spasm. Approach carefully–these devils will strike you with their metallic fangs if they get the chance.

I used several metaphors in the preceding paragraph: “army of staplers,” “peering back,” “in battle formation,” “make your soul spasm,” and “strike you with their metallic fangs.” The subject of the paragraph is mundane–a collection of staplers–but it is described vividly: as a menacing army ready to attack. The staplers have a reptilian quality: they peer at you and threaten you with their fangs. This metaphor brings the subject to life. It evokes a vivid picture. It conjures an emotional reaction in the reader, giving him a feeling about the staplers that the mundane, obvious description would not have. Metaphors bring vividness, concreteness, and emotional impact to writing.

Some of what I am calling metaphors may better be described as turns of phrase. In this context, I mean an interesting, lively way of expressing a normally-pedestrian thought. For example, two paragraphs ago I claimed, hoping to frighten you, that a pack of staplers can “make your soul spasm.” Is a spasming soul a metaphor? Maybe. The soul in this case is a metaphor for the body, which can spasm. But there is no extended metaphor–just this short phrase. I think the real point here is to express a common idea–fear–in a novel way. It’s more exciting and surprising to think of a soul spasming, which you may not have done before, than to read that the staplers can scare you. And it’s more rewarding to read something original–only 228 hits on Google for “soul spasm”!–than it is to be confronted with cliches like “scares you out of your mind” or “sends shivers down your spine.”

Conclusion: Metaphors are powerful. They are exciting. They invoke emotions and conjure mental images. They bring life to writing. Use ‘em.