One Thought

I’ve been making my way through Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The book’s good. I love its mix between philosophical discussions and narrative, and it’s very well written.

Pirsig himself is an interesting guy. He was a precocious child with a high IQ score (170) at age 9. He started college as a biochemistry student at age 15, but he dropped out three years later. He was losing faith in science as a means to ultimate truth. After a brief stint in the army, he turned to philosophy, which he studied as an undergraduate and graduate student. He then traveled to India to learn about Eastern philosophy at a Hindu university there.

At 33, Pirsig suffered a nervous breakdown. He spent time in mental hospitals for a few years, eventually getting diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. While hospitalized, doctors subjected him to electroshock treatments, which he says left him a completely different person.

All this happened before Pirsig wrote Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The book chronicles a cross-country motorcycle trip he took with his 11-year-old his son, Chris. It took four years to write and was apparently rejected 121 times by publishers before going on to sell more than 5 million copies.

Classical and Romantic Perspectives

One bit of ZatAoMM that has really struck me so far is Pirsig’s distinction between two modes of thought: “classical” and “romantic.” These modes are more than just ways of thinking. They’re approaches to life — even approaches to truth. 

The classical view sees the world primarily in abstractions, explanations, and underlying forms. It proceeds by reason and by laws. It loves to dissect things (and ideas) into their component parts, to explain, and to classify. The fields of science, law, and medicine (for instance) fall into its realm.

The romantic view sees the world primarily in terms of its immediate appearance. It sees the whole rather than the parts, the thing itself rather than abstract categories or classifications. It is, in Pirsig’s words, “primarily inspirational, imaginative, creative, intuitive.” To a romantic, feelings take precedence over facts. Art is usually a romantic pursuit.

Although no one sees the world purely from a classical or romantic viewpoint, most fall clearly on one side or the other. People tend to cluster with those on the same side and clash with those on the opposite side. (Side note: if you’re familiar with Myers-Briggs types, I think the most-classical people are probably NT’s (iNtuitive Thinkers) and the most-romantic people are probably SF’s (Sensing Feelers). Classifying people into personality types is a very classical thing to do, so you know what side I’m on!)

Disagreements between classics and romantics can be intense. Pirsig says that both sides misunderstand and underestimate what the other side is about. Neither wants to give up its idea of truth. He writes:

To a romantic, this classic mode often appears dull, awkward, and ugly, like mechanical maintenance itself. Everything is in terms of pieces and parts and components and relationships. Nothing is figured out until it’s run through a computer a dozen times. Everything’s got to be measured and proved. Oppressive. Heavy. Endless grey. The death force.

Conversely, to classics, romantics are:

Frivolous, irrational, erratic, untrustworthy, interested primarily in pleasure-seeking. Shallow. Of no substance. Often a parasite who cannot or will not carry his own weight. A real drag on society.

Pirsig’s distinction is highly applicable to my own life. I’ve spent large swaths of my life immersed in the classical side of things. You have to when you’re a computer programmer, and I spent a good 17 years as one. Besides the fact that I tend to focus monomaniacally when I’m interested in something, computer programming is mentally demanding. It’s not something you can start or stop on a whim. It takes all your concentration and tends to occupy your thoughts even when you aren’t doing it.

Computer programming–as with, say, biochemistry or motorcycle repair–is all about abstractions, components, and laws. You don’t succeed as a programmer by relying on your gut, your feelings, or your intuition (though those do come in handy). Instead, you need to adopt an objective, highly rational, logical perspective. As a programmer, biochemist, or motorcycle repairman, you form and test hypotheses. You surrender your feelings to the laws of nature or the machine: the program works or it doesn’t, the motorcycle runs or it doesn’t, the hypothesis is true or false.

When you spend much of your time working in the classical mindset, it tends to filter into other areas of your life. You don’t just stop being a classic at the end of the workday. You usually live your entire life on one side or the other.

I found myself moving further to the classical side as I got older. I think this was mostly due to specialization. As we get older, we tend to spend more and more of our time doing one thing — specialization is the way most people make a living, after all. For me, that one thing was programming.

I also spent five years in college, and colleges tend to emphasize the classical mindset, even in humanities departments. Academic research is all about analysis: dissection, classification, categorization, and deduction. It’s likely that the longer you stay in academia, the more classical you become. You have to if you want to succeed there.

I think I became frustrated at my job (at Google, as a programmer) in large part because I was becoming increasingly imbalanced. The romantic side of me was being suppressed; I craved an outlet but simply wasn’t getting it at my job. It also was hard to do anything significant or focused outside of work — as I said, programming can be very demanding.

In the past year, I’ve regained the balance that I think I lost when I started college. Writing essays (like this one) exercises the classical part of my mind, while writing music exercises the romantic part. I feel whole in a way that I didn’t a year ago.

So I’ve achieved a balance – but does it make sense, in general, to try to balance the classical and romantic modes?

On the surface, it seems the answer is yes — balance is good, right? But there is a danger: In trying to balance between extremes, it’s possible just to become boring. Sometimes it’s better to go with natural inclinations than to fight them. Balance can be bland, boring, and fake; everyone doesn’t need to be the same, anyway.

In the case of classical and romantic viewpoints, though, I do think it’s worth seeking some sort of balance. You’re missing out on an entire realm of experience if you don’t. Both modes are valid (and even true) in their own way. They both contribute to human experience and achievement. If you fall too far into one camp or the other, you’re only seeing half of the picture. You’re only engaging half of humanity.

One major goal of Pirsig’s book is to establish a common ground between the two modes. I think he’s on the right track.

I attended Stanford University for five years, first as an undergraduate and then as a Master’s student. I say that only to establish credibility, not because I’m particularly proud of that fact. While my time at Stanford wasn’t miserable, it also wasn’t particularly happy. I was bothered the entire time by the vague feeling that something was wrong.

I ended up there mostly because of my competitive drive. I don’t remember thinking about college much before the age of 17. My parents went to college, and I assumed I would too. Beyond that, I was too busy making video games and hanging out with friends to care.

But at 17, I started caring — I think because that was around the time you started taking the SAT and hearing from the school’s college counselors. Suddenly college was a big deal. Everyone was talking about it, and I got sucked into the hysteria. It was too late to change my lifestyle in any dramatic way, but I do remember spending a lot of time studying for the SAT and strategizing for my college applications. It was a competitive thing.

So I got into Stanford. Hooray for me. I was a minor celebrity at my high school, which doesn’t often place students in top colleges, for a few months.

Have I benefitted from my (so-called) elite education? In some sense, yes. I got a well-paying job out of school that I surely wouldn’t have gotten without the degree. But I left that job a year ago; it wasn’t for me. And I’m not sure any of the jobs an elite education most advantages you for–ones in academia, the professions, and large corporations–are for me.

Sure, I learned a lot in school. But I’ve also learned a lot before and after. And the stuff I’ve learned outside of school has stuck with me the longest. There’s something about learning on your own that, at least for me, is infinitely more satisfying than learning in a class.

Here’s one thing I did learn at Stanford: As a rule, students and graduates of elite universities all agree on one thing: Their elite education is very important. They’re not elitists, per se — they may see themselves as privileged, and they may wish others had the same opportunities they did. They may even feel some guilt. But they do agree: An elite education is important. It’s a big deal.

But how important is an elite education, really? Just who cares if you have one?

Not as many people as you might think. It’s easy to forget that as a student–and often also as a graduate–of an elite university, you live in a bubble:

1. While in school, you’re surrounded by other students who also value an elite education — they wouldn’t have applied in the first place otherwise, right?
2. From the day you’re accepted till the day you graduate, you’re inundated with praise from administrators. Self-congratulation is always in the air. As an attendee, you are one of “the best and brightest.” You’re part of elite group of future leaders and world-changers. The future of civilization depends on you.
3. You form some of your closest, longest-lasting friendships in college. Elite-university-goers tend to stick together long after they have graduated. They network, they meet friends-of-friends. Everyone within their circle believes strongly in the prestige and importance of an elite education.
4. Elite universities are feeders for other institutions: the professions (law, medicine, etc.), academia, and large corporations. These institutions are filled with graduates from elite universities (and college graduates, in general). Within these institutions, the importance of an elite education is usually accepted as irrefutable fact.

Is it surprising self-congratulation is inescapable at elite universities? Not really. Administrators are telling students and their bill-paying parents what they want to hear. (These schools aren’t cheap, after all.) And administrators praise themselves by praising students — their own self-worth is also tied up in the prestige of the school.

Students like to hear that they’re special. After all, who doesn’t? But an elite education isn’t universally respected. Outside the bubble, many people will shrug their shoulders (or worse) when they learn you have one. And I don’t just mean “dumb” people — many smart people also have this reaction.

People tend to value things that make them look good. When we’re good at something, we place great importance in it, and when we’re bad, we think, “Who needs that crap, anyway?” This is what allows us all to be above average in our own minds.

It’s natural to value an elite education if you have one. And if you stay within the bubble, you’ll certainly have your belief corroborated. But an elite education isn’t without its drawbacks. Consider the following:

1. At an elite university (or any college, for that matter), you spend four important years of your life in school learning rather than out in the world doing. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but there are trade-offs: It’s hard to discover what you want in school, and depending on what you choose to do, you may be disadvantaged compared to people who were busy doing it while you were in school.
2. If you’re like most people accepted to an elite university, you’re convinced at a very young age that you have, at least in some sense, made it. As a result, you start to believe you have something to lose. You become less accepting of failure. This can make you more risk-averse and conservative in your career choices.
3. As a graduate of an elite university, you feel a strong urge–almost an obligation–to put your degree to use. It cost a lot of money and took a lot of work to get, after all. And since an elite education is a big deal (you think), you’d be throwing away a huge opportunity if you didn’t use it. This limits your career options — namely, to the ones an elite university degree most advantages you for. If you do anything else, you feel like you’re taking a step down.
4. You’re trained at prestigious institutions to define yourself in terms of your association to them. And because you learn to take great pride in your institutional associations, you become accepting (and even needing) of their prestige and authority. Your personal identity becomes wrapped up in them. This makes it more difficult to live free of institutions: You may start to see them as the solution to your problems, seeking refuge in them to escape the uncertainties of the outside world.

Clearly these problems don’t apply to every student and graduate of elite universities. There are many exceptions. But the tendency is there — and if you live within the elite education bubble, it’s particularly easy to suffer from them without even noticing their effects.

An elite education isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s good for some things and bad for others. Getting one certainly isn’t unequivocally a good idea — and it may be a bad one for many people.

So I’ve been unemployed for a while.  I’ve already said that a number of times.  It’s been nine months now.  It’s ten in the morning on a Thursday, and I’m sitting in a cafe writing this.  I’m in a contemplative state of mind.

I’ve been feeling the need to rethink my narrative.  A narrative’s an explanation, or perhaps a justification, for how one leads one’s life.  It explains what one’s doing, where one’s headed, why what one’s doing will lead to where one’s headed, and why where one’s headed is a good place to go in the first place.  (Got it?)   

When you’re unemployed, people expect you to justify yourself.  After all, you’re not working and making money like everyone else, so what are you doing?  People want a narrative.  And as an unemployed person, you also expect one of yourself.  You want some sense of where you’re headed and why you’re doing what you’re doing.

When you’re unemployed, concrete goals are harder to come by.  At school, your goal is to do well and to graduate.  At work, your goal is to finish your current project, get a promotion, or just get through the day.  These goals are given to you.  They’re justified within a well-understood system.  At least on a day-to-day basis (or a week-to-week or month-to-month one), there is little uncertainty.  You go to your workplace, and you know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it.

But when you’re unemployed, this certainty leaves.  It’s harder to function without it, and many people don’t.  They feel useless and purposeless.  They lack the self-discipline or motivation to kick-start something on their own.  They feel the questioning eyes of their friends and acquaintances.  They search desperately for a narrative and come up empty-handed.

When I left my job nine months ago, my narrative was simple.  It was: I’m leaving my job to pursue some outside interests (music and writing).  I’m not sure where this is headed, but I’d like to give myself a chance to devote myself to these interests and see where they lead.  That was pretty much it.

This sort of vague narrative only works for so long.  It’s a good explanation for a few months, but it stops working so well around the six to nine month mark.  (Remember where I am?)  At that point, the familiar round of questions reemerge: So when are you going to get a job again?  What’s the plan?  How are you going to make money?  You hear these questions from others, but you also ask them of yourself.  

The only way to answer these questions is to come up with a narrative.  That’s what I’m here to do.  I’ll be discussing music because that’s what I spend most of my time doing.  It’s been my focal point.

I’m excited by music.  I’ve known I like it for a long time–and not just in an “It’s nice to listen to while I do other things” or “It really gets me going!” sort of way, but in a deeper way–but recently I’ve been discovering that I really like it.  I mean “really like it” in the sense that I feel happy spending all my time doing it.

It’s hard to find something you enjoying doing all the time.  I encourage you to try sometime.  Take a sabbatical from your job (or take a break between jobs) and spend the time doing something you love to do.  (Save up some money, live cheaply; you can afford it.)  Surf, or play basketball, or write all the time for a few months.  Though you may find you love doing what you’ve chosen all the time, chances are you won’t.  We like most things in moderation: we’re not going to make a full-time endeavor out of them, and we may get sick of them if we try.

But I do think I’ve found something I enjoy doing all the time in music.  That’s exciting.  Sure, I’m not certain I’ll always like spending all or most of my time on music–and how could I be?–but I am convinced that it’s not just a passing fancy.

I’ve made a huge amount of progress music-wise in the past nine months.  I feel like everything is starting to “click” in a way that it never has before.  I still have so much to learn, and the road ahead is a long one, but I’m excited by how far I’ve come.

Music engages me in a way that feels more full and complete than my past pursuits.  I’m able to engage my emotional and creative side in a way that (I now realize) has been stifled since I started college.  Music is the purest artistic expression of emotion I’ve encountered.  I enjoy the mechanical act of playing an instrument: playing guitar requires far more dexterity and finesse than any other physical activity I’ve performed.  It’s very satisfying to see improvement.

Music also has theoretical, technical, and strategic sides.  I enjoy learning and thinking about music theory and how it relates to the feelings we experience when we listen to music.  I like to record and produce.  I enjoy the “strategic” thinking required to plan out, orchestrate, and arrange a whole song.

Basically, I like it all!  And I haven’t even experienced much of what music has to offer.  Though I’ve rehearsed, I’ve never played live with a band, for example.  That would be fun, but I’m taking things one step at a time for now.

Where am I going with all this?  Here’s what I’m thinking: I now know that I really like music, and I’ve made a huge amount of progress recently.  I want to keep doing what I’m doing.

I can’t quit now just because nine months have passed.  It would be stupid to stop just as things are starting to get interesting.  My living expenses are low, and I’ve saved some money.  I don’t need to return to the money-making world immediately, so why should I?  This is a risk worth taking!

So that’s my narrative.  I don’t know where I’m headed, but I think it’s someplace interesting.  And I’m not sure when I’ll get there.  Money?  I’ll probably start doing something part-time once I feel things have stabilized.  Hopefully something not too far from my interests.

There you have it.  This is where I am.

It’s been about eight months since I left my job.  Eight months — that’s a long time not to be working.  It’s the longest I’ve been without working in a long time and, if you count school as work, the longest I’ve ever been on my own.

Though the time has passed quickly, a lot has changed.  Indeed, I’ve changed.  I’ve written quite a bit, and I’m getting closer to understanding my writing interests (and non-interests).  I’ve spent countless hours (well, about 25 a week, so 800+) practicing guitar and studying music, and I’ve learned a huge amount.  I’m beginning to see myself as a “real” musician.  Even a year ago, writing and recording music seemed daunting.  Now I’m finished with my second song.

So for the most part things are going well.  It’s clear, though, that I’m entering a new phase of unemployed life.  When I first started out, managing my own time was a thrill in itself.  Working on my own was very rewarding.  I felt little need for external validation.

That phase has passed.  Sitting in my bedroom and doing what I want is no longer enough: my desires for recognition, community, and collaboration have returned.  I want to meet more people with similar interests.  I want to expose more people to what I have done and am doing.  I want to talk shop and collaborate with similarly-inclined people.  In a word, I want to network.

I don’t like the idea of “networking.”  It carries connotations of phoniness: sucking up to get what you want, treating people as means to your ends.  I’m not into that.  I’d like to be honest, and I’d like to cultivate mutually beneficial relationships.  I’ve never liked (or even been able) to put up a false front to get what I want from people.

For me, networking means connecting with people.  I want to meet people with similar interests I want to meet people who are interested in the type of thing I’m doing.  I want to collaborate.  I want to be part of a community.

Networking has never come easy for me.  I’m bad at meeting new people outside school or work.  I’ve tended to use my friends as a crutch: my friends are nearly all friends of previous friends.  Luckily, unemployment seems like the perfect opportunity to improve things.  Not only do I have the time to do something now, I also have to do something — after all, I’m not going to meet anyone through school or work!  Sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better.

So what am I going to do?  I’ve puzzled over this for a while — it’s hardest to fix the problems you’ve had for the longest, and I’ve always had trouble networking.  I tend to be happy with only a handful of friends.  As a result, it’s been hard to motivate myself to venture beyond my current circle.  I’m also relatively self-sufficient.  I don’t usually need to meet anyone new.

I’ve known I need to do more networking for a while now, but I still haven’t done much of it.  The task is unfamiliar and daunting.  I feel like I did about writing music a year ago: there’s so much I don’t understand, and I don’t know where to begin.  It seems that just knowing I need to do something isn’t motivating enough.  I need to take action, and it appears I’m going to have to force myself to make something happen.  Sigh — such is (my) life.

The best way I’ve found so far of getting myself to take action is through a schedule.  I’m organized my music, writing, and reading time with a schedule for the past eight months, and it has worked well.  I’m not 100% consistent, but I’m pretty close.  I’m good at doing things when I’ve agreed with myself beforehand that I’m going to do them.

At the same time, I’m bad at doing things (even if I’ve agreed to do them) when they’re too daunting.  I don’t want to bite off more than I can chew.  Setting my immediate goals unrealistically high is just setting myself up for failure.  Though taking things fast can be very effective, it can also be very difficult.  I’d rather go slow and succeed than go fast, stress myself out, and fail.

I’ve decided to modify my daily schedule.  Networking is now part of my working life: I’m going to spend an hour or so a day on it (I’m doing less reading).  For now, my requirements are lax: any activity whose focus is meeting people with similar interests counts as networking.  I’m good at researching, so that’s a lot of what I’ll be doing at first.

Here’s a sample of networking-related activities I can (and will) be doing:

• Find (and attend) interest group events.  Meetup.com seems to be a good resource for this.
• Create a MySpace page with my music (once I have enough of it).  Network with other local musicians.  Become more familiar with the local music scene.
• Participate in internet forums and community blogs related to my interests.  Many are a waste of time, but there are some good ones.
• Find (and attend) local classes related to my interests.

To demonstrate how seriously I take networking, I’m issuing myself an ultimatum: I will not return to a job before I’ve demonstrated significant progress in this area.  Though I may not return to a job at all–self-employed life has its perks–I certainly acknowledge the possibility I will.  And I know that it will be very easy to fall back to my old ways if I have the ready-made community a job provides.  I need to work things out first to ensure that doesn’t happen.

So if you see me lying destitute in the streets in a few years you’ll know what happened  Wish me luck!

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 my plan of action, I stated that music was a major reason I decided to leave my job.  I didn’t have enough time to accomplish what I wanted musically, and I needed to do something to fix that.  This essay describes that something.

I took up guitar at the old age of 19–the horror!–and, being in college at the time, I never had the chance to devote myself to the instrument.  Music was always on the back-burner.  I spent quite a few hours practicing during my first 7 years as a musician, but my practice was usually unfocused.  I learned new stuff here and there, but mostly I played the same pieces over and over.  It’s hard to focus on improvement when your only free time is after work (when you’re tired) and on the weekend (when practice time competes with leisure time).

I decided I could either accept my fate as a mediocre musician or do something drastic to change course.  Needless to say, I chose option B.  I left my job five months ago (wow, has it really been that long?), and since then I’ve devoted a big chunk of every day to music.

I like to call my current musical endeavors “self-taught music school.”  This description is pretty accurate — I am in fact doing many of the things people do in music school.  I’ll describe what I’m doing later, though.  First I want to answer an obvious question: Why am I not in music school?

Music School: Pro and Con

Music school is great in some ways: Your environment is structured for you.  You’re taught a curriculum formulated by experts.  You’re mentored and coached.  You’re surrounded by a community of musicians.

But it’s not-so-great in other ways.  First, you have to pay to attend.  I would pay if I thought it was worth it, but there are other problems.  Music school’s structure can be stifling.  The curriculum can require classes that aren’t interesting.  The pace can be too fast or too slow.  The instructors can be boring or inept.

I’m most concerned with the curriculum and structure.  Of my friends who’ve attended music school, most have not liked it much.  Their complaints have usually been about the curriculum and structure: They’re not interested in conducting, but they have to learn it anyway.  They are interested in learning about counterpoint, but they don’t like the rigorous way its “rules” are enforced.  The styles of music that music schools tend to focus on–like symphonic and jazz–bore them.

I’ve looked at some music school curricula, and I’ve not been excited by them.  My apathy isn’t due to a lack of interest in music theory, ear training, or other things that some musicians consider boring — in fact, as you’ll see below, I’m studying these things right now.  Rather, the teaching style feels too formal and the focused-on styles of music are not what I’d like to be studying.

Music school’s structure might hinder me more than it would help.  I’m a self-disciplined person, and I’m able to structure my time myself.  I tend to learn best without external pressure.  I’m most excited when my motivation is purely internal, and I hate feeling pressured to do things I don’t want to do.

So I’m not that excited by the prospect of music school.  However, if anyone has good things to say about their music school experience, I’d love to hear them.  I’m not convinced it’s a bad idea, after all.

My “Curriculum”

With that out of the way, I’m going to describe exactly how I’m spending my time.  Per my article on mastering a new skill, I’m doing the things I feel are the biggest bang-for-the-buck time-wise.  I’ve identified my weakest areas, and I’m focusing on improving them.  I’m doing some exercises, but I’m trying to concentrate on producing actual music.

My “curriculum” is as follows.  Note that I’m studying music approximately 5 hours per day, 5 days per week.

• Guitar technique.  As a warm-up, I start the day with technique building exercises.  I focus mostly on my right (picking) hand technique–and particularly speed–which is (or was!) my biggest technical weakness.  Progress is slow but (mostly) steady.  I play along with a metronome and focus on exactly how my hands are moving.  (I could write several articles just on this subject — and maybe I will!)

• Ear-training.  During my first 7 years as a guitarist, I focused very little on training my ear.  The songs I wanted to learn were usually complex, and learning them from tabs was far easier than learning them by ear.  Doing the easy thing was a bad idea — it’s difficult to compose music without a well-developed ear.

  I’m working hard to bring my ear up to par with my other abilities.  I do ear-training exercises, which involve identifying intervals, chords, and melodies, and I’ve gotten a lot better in the last few months.  I learn (and sometimes transcribe) songs by ear.  This is still a painstaking process, but I’m getting better.  I try to transcribe all parts–including bass, drums, and keyboards–rather than just guitar.

• Songwriting.  My goal is to create music, so songwriting is the most important thing I do.  Unfortunately (but not surprisingly) it’s also the most nebulous, so studying it is difficult. I regularly practice my composition and improvisation skills.  My composition experience is, so far, very limited, but I’m getting closer to having a finished product.  One of my goals for this year is to complete an “EP” of original music.

  Every day, I spend some time improvising, usually over a backing track.  My improvisational abilities have improved significantly in the past few months.  I study the form of songs I like and, in some cases, record covers of them.  I read books on song structure and the songwriting process.

• Music theory.  I find myself drawn to music theory, but for different reasons than I’m drawn to music.  Music is, at its core, an emotional experience, while music theory is a scientific and mathematical one.  Music theory is the “physics” of music: just as physics is about explaining patterns visible in the natural world, music theory is about explaining patterns in our perception of what sounds good.  I love to experience music on an emotional level, but I also love to understand it on a scientific level.  I’m also convinced that a scientific understanding of music can, if used correctly, lead to better compositions.

  To further my understanding of music theory, I work through books on the subject.  At this point, I understand the basics–rhythm, scales, modes, chord construction, chord progressions–and I’m delving into more-advanced subjects.  I’m starting a book on melody now, and I’ll be studying harmony and counterpoint in the near future.

There you have it!  As usual, any questions, comments, and suggestions are welcome.

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.

I’ve been voluntarily unemployed for for a little over two months now.  The experience so far has been eye-opening.  I’ve already detailed my plan of action.  I’ve discussed my realization that I am now, for the first time, fully responsible for my own happiness.  It’s a scary realization, but ultimately an invigorating one.

Now comes the status update.  I’ve learned a lot about myself and this experience in the last two months.  Here are my takeaways so far:

• Even with no commitments, time is precious.  It’s tempting to assume when you have a job that, without the job, life will be a vast wash of time with more than enough to do everything you’ve ever wanted.  That’s simply not true.  I feel almost as time-constrained now as I did when I had a job.  I’m not doing a dozen things I would like to be doing. There’s just not enough time.  And I’m spending less time than I would like on the things I am doing.

  Progress is often slow.  I can get only so much done in a day, a week, and a month.  There’s nothing magical about working on my own that makes things happen more quickly.

• It’s easy to try to do too much.  I have two main activities right now: music and writing.  I explained why I chose these in my plan of action.  Doing both at the same time is already stretching me.  Particularly with music, there’s always more I could be doing.  I don’t have enough time to work on composition.  I don’t have enough time to work on technique.  Almost daily, I stop before I would like to–and that’s after 5 hours.  There are many skills I’d like to learn or grow better at–piano, math, drawing, cooking, sewing, public speaking, etc.–and I don’t have the time to pursue most of them.  Even one more serious activity would be too much for me right now.

• Variety is nice.  Yes, it’s good I haven’t spread myself too thin.  At the same time, though, I’m glad I’m doing more than one thing.  First, I have alternatives.  If I get sick of music, I can move on to writing.  I don’t have to bang away at something if it’s driving me crazy.  Second, I have multiple paths to success.  It’s nice to know my eggs are in more than one basket.  Third, I’m maximizing the benefit I get from from the passage of time.  See my article on mastering a new skill for more discussion of this.  Yes, it’s good to specialize, but only if you’re completely certain you know what you want to do–and I am not.

• Self-discipline is incredibly important.  This isn’t news to anyone who has ever worked in an unstructured environment.  I’m not accountable to anyone but myself.  I’m responsible for every hour of every day.  If I waste the time, it’s my own fault.  I live in a big household, and there are many distractions.  Excuses not to work are plentiful.  Some days I feel discouraged, tired, or unmotivated.  If I let these negative feelings control my actions, they can become self-reinforcing.  I’ve found that pushing through them is the best policy.  I’ve kept my schedule well so far.

• Feedback helps.  Even without feedback, it’s rewarding to learn and to create.  Feedback helps a lot, though.  Without feedback, I have only my own judgment to rely on.  It’s easy to convince myself that what I’m doing is better or worse than it actually is.  Feedback acts as a counterbalance to my perceptions.  It also provides direction: positive feedback encourages me to do more of something, and negative feedback encourages me to do less of it.  Of course, I take all feedback with a grain of salt.

  It’s also nice to know that what I’m doing is affecting people.  That’s a big reason why I’m doing it, after all.  I created this website to get feedback, and all feedback is appreciated (hint, hint!).

• It’s easy to become work-obsessed.  Well, for me, at least.  Work is often on my mind.  It doesn’t help that I don’t know what my ultimate direction will be.  The gears in my mind are constantly cranking away trying to solve this problem.  I love the challenge, but it can be exhausting.

  Having a schedule helps.  A schedule guarantees two things: that I will be working some amount every day, and that I will not be working some amount every day.  I created my schedule to ensure the latter just as much as the former.  However, I haven’t been spending my “off” time as well as I would like.  Levels of fun have been too low.  Chilling out has been infrequent and revelry rare.  I’ll work on it.

In summary: Things have gone well so far.  I’m keeping to my schedule.  I’ve learned a lot, and I’ve gotten a lot done.  I’ve progressed as much as a musician in the past two months as I did in the 3 years before that.  I’m excited to see what the future will bring.  I’ll work on having more fun.  Ideas (and feedback!) welcome.

Since I left my job, I’ve come to a scary realization: I am now fully responsible for my own happiness. I can do whatever I want; the whole day is free. If I waste the time–or spend it doing things that make me unhappy–it’s my own fault.

I can’t remember feeling like this before. In the past, I have always been in a well-structured environment (in school, at my job) or in the interim between structured activities (between years of school, between jobs). In a structured activity, the structure defines the purpose, and the purpose has never been happiness.

In school, the purpose is to learn, and progress is measured with grades. While you might wonder whether to go to school at all, you’ve probably bought into school’s purpose if you’re there: you want to learn, and you probably want to get decent (or even “good”) grades. That’s the point of school. Whether you’re happy or not in school is, to some extent, irrelevant–you’re there to learn, not to be happy. Being happy is a plus, but it’s not the point.

School imposes constraints on your lifestyle. You have to take classes you might not want to take. You have to wake up early in the morning. You have to study for finals. You have to work on projects you may or may not like, with people you may or may not like. Of course, there is a lot to like about school.  My point is that much of it is outside your control. If you’re unhappy, it may not be your fault–it may simply be that the structure school imposes makes you unhappy. And, even if you are happy overall, it’s unlikely that you would choose every constraint that school imposes on you. Everyone outside of the glossy brochure has some complaints.

Work is even more constraining than school. You wake up even earlier in the morning. You have to show up five days a week for eight hours a day. You have a boss. In school, the goal was to learn; at work, the goal is to earn a living. Sure, most people hope to be happy in their jobs, but that’s not the point–the point is to make money. If you can make money and be happy, that’s a nice bonus.

Many people are unhappy at their jobs. Of those that aren’t unhappy, per se, many are indifferent: they work; they get paid; they leave and live their lives. I’m going to lump unhappiness and indifference together–everyone has the capacity to be happy doing what they do, and an indifferent person is not a happy person.

At work, as in school, the structure imposed bears strongly on your happiness. If you’re not happy, the structure is likely to be, at least in part, to blame. And the structure can only be bent so far. At some point, the only way to bend it further is to break it completely–to quit. You can’t do whatever you want at a job.

I started by saying that it’s scary to realize that I have full responsibility for my happiness. Without the structure imposed by work or school, there are no constraints–and thus no one to blame but myself. I can schedule my time as I like. I can do whatever I want. It’s a great feeling, but it’s also a scary one. Though many hate it, structure is comforting. If my job’s structure makes me unhappy, I can convince myself that there’s nothing I can do about it. After all, the point of a job is to earn a living, not to be happy. Without the structure imposed by a job, however, such thoughts don’t make sense. You have to accept responsibility for your own happiness.

I suspect that many in my situation might be scared back into jobs. Despite the obvious money worries, the structure is comforting. If you’re unhappy, you can blame the structure. You can convince yourself that your happiness is out of your control. You can buy into the obvious and clearly-measurable goals of a job: money and career advancement. It’s nice to have obvious and clearly-measurable goals.

But I don’t want to do that. Sacrificing comfort now is worth it if it forces me to accept responsibility for my own happiness. Without embracing this responsibility, I’ll always live below my potential.

Where I am

I recently left my job. Or, more accurately, I am on a leave-of-absence from which I may not return. This is Monday, the first day of my leave. Why did I leave? Two main reasons:

1. I have grown less interested in what I was doing at the job and much more interested in pursuits far outside its scope.
2. I feel ambitious, and the job wasn’t satisfying that ambition. Money is at this point a bland and uninteresting ambition. I want to create things that are mine. I want to put them out into the world and meet like-minded people. (And a little fame wouldn’t hurt, either.)

So here I am, on leave. Nothing to do except exactly what I want. I am responsible for every hour of my day. I just need to use the time wisely.

What I want to do

I have two interests, very generally stated. The first is creative expression.

I want to create things that are mine–that are some combination of who I am and what I am feeling. Right now, music is my main outlet. However, I never got the opportunity to develop myself much as a musician. Sure, I’ve practiced guitar for 8 years, but my practice was usually unfocused. And when it was focused, it tended to be on technique rather than on, say, composition.

I want to produce music that is an expression of myself. I want to connect the emotional part of my brain to the musical part of my brain to the mechanical part of my brain. I’ve worked on the mechanics; now I need to create the connections necessary to produce heartfelt music.

And I need a ton of uninterrupted time to do it. I started playing guitar in college and have always had to squeeze music into the cracks of my life. It takes more time and focus to bootstrap the musical process.

What’s the overall goal? I want to create works that I think are amazing and that other people–at least some of them–also appreciate. I would love to release music and to be contacted by people I don’t know who like it. Putting my stuff out there will, I hope, help me to find and attract like-minded people.

I am also interested in ideas. Clearly I need to elaborate. I like to exercise the rational part of my mind. I like to discover generalizations–to combine a bunch of specific ideas into a general one. I like to merge ideas from disparate fields. I want to understand how I ended up here and how my mind works. I’m interested in the history of the universe, earth, and human civilization. I want to understand how the world works: how its systems are intertwined, and what causes produce what effects. I am interested in economics, political theory, psychology, evolutionary biology, neuroscience, and physics. And I’m sure my interests will further broaden as I learn more.

Clearly I will be reading a lot. I also find writing to be very effective. When I write, I think more clearly; I see the holes in my logic and the gaps in my understanding. I work out my ideas concretely. And, of course, writing is the most effective way to disseminate new ideas. I hope to contribute to the body of human knowledge.

What I want to avoid

So I want to develop as a musician and pursue ideas through reading and writing.  Given how much I want to accomplish, I need to make sure that I am consistently productive. I don’t want the weeks and months to pass without much to show for them. The sooner I produce things–music, writings–and get them out there, the sooner I get feedback. Feedback will, I think, be instrumental in determining how to proceed. I don’t live on Mars–the point of this is to impact people.

I want to avoid wasting time. I want to get things done consistently. I want to produce rather than merely to think. A year from now, I want a body of work that I am proud of.

Am I approaching this too intensely? I am an ambitious person, and I have ambitious goals. Ambition demands some level of intensity. Of course, I want to be happy and have fun. I like to relax, and I understand the pitfalls of workaholism. But I am ambitious. I will be unhappy if I ignore my ambition and opt for a more comfortable and conservative lifestyle. Thus I see some intensity as necessary. They key is balance, and I try to be as intense as necessary. The goal is to be happy and fulfilled, not to drive myself into the ground pursuing some abstract goal.

My plan

For the indefinite future, I will be working full-time toward developing my interests. I want to get something interesting–and preferably multiple somethings–done every day that I am working. Thus some sort of schedule–and the self-discipline to follow it–is necessary.

So what’s the schedule? I have decided to divide my time between music, writing, and reading. At least for now, I will be doing all three every day, five days a week. The following are the constraints I considered when forming my schedule:

1. I want to prioritize music, since creative expression is most important to me right now. That means that music comes first and that I spend the most time on it.
2. I want to prioritize creative activities. That means they come first and that I spend the most time on them.
3. Because it takes a little while for my brain to warm up to each activity, I want to minimize “context switches” between different activities.
4. I want to spend a substantial portion of the day outside the house; otherwise I’ll go crazy.
5. I want to get a lot done, but I don’t want to work all day; otherwise I’ll go crazy.

I came up with the following plan. Each day I’ll spend 4 hours on music, 3 hours writing, and 2 hours reading. I’ll stay home in the morning for music and leave in the afternoon for writing and reading. Cafes, parks, and the library are all good places to go. Within the music and writing blocks, I’ll do the most creative stuff first. I’ll spare you the details of how I plan to subdivide the time allocated to each activity. This plan is a work in progress, and I’m sure I’ll be tweaking things and dropping the stuff that doesn’t work.

Why have this much organization? First, I want to guarantee that I am spending my time productively. Even if it’s hard to focus on the most important things all the time, at least I’m working toward my goals consistently. And a schedule eliminates the need to motivate myself every day. With a schedule, I don’t need to psych myself up or wonder whether I have it in me to be creative; I just get to work, because that’s the schedule. In fact, I’ve often found that even when I think I don’t have it in me, I do–it’s only getting started that’s difficult.

The first day has gone well. I am writing this during the “writing” time. There have been some frustrations, but that is to be expected when getting started.  I expect to find a rhythm with time.