Learning to Trust the Process

From VeeFriends post on October 9, 2024

For the last couple of weeks, we have been firmly back in DC. After a ton of travel and hosting - almost non-stop from August to mid-November - being in our own home and having time to get into routines has just felt incredibly welcome. We aren’t going anywhere till February next year, and although the weather has dropped substantially and it gets dark before 5pm these days, I don’t feel bogged down by the winter this year. Rather, it’s propelling me both in a cycle of rest, and also in a cycle of routine.

In the last few weeks, with the knowledge of stability in the form of place, I’ve found my rhythm. I’ve been able to be much more consistent with writing. I sit at my computer everyday and plug away for several hours, sometimes getting lost in the words and the world of the story. There is a renewed motivation to return to my past writing - even the stories that I wrote some time ago and then felt drained from, leaving them abandoned - and to examine it from new angles. For example, when I was participating in grief training, I had this sudden realization that a character in one of my stories needs to have a turbulent relationship with his father - that goes beyond his grief of losing him - and not his mother.

And so, I need to remember too, that all the spaces in-between where I’m not writing - the travel and the hosting and the attending events and other things - are important too. They are the spaces where I can allow my mind to percolate without dwelling, without even being conscious of it. It is this process that allows two distinct thoughts to make connections I never could have consciously imagined. (I’ve written about this in a previous post.)

Now, with this renewed commitment, I’m diving in with two feet and letting the tide take me. I’m trying my best to not let my fears and my I’m-not-good-enoughs hold me back. And so, I’ll be signing up for writing workshops and writing retreats, submitting my work to literary magazines, signing up for a writing class, as well as a short story competition. Right now, none of that seems daunting. Rather, it feels exciting.

And that holds for fitness too. I’ve been working out consistently, lifting weights several times a week. And I’m trying to get into running again, using this wonderful app called Just Run, with the eventual goal to run a 5K. I’ve been running every other day for the last few weeks now, following the Just Run program. Here, too, all of it feels exciting.

And I’m trying, so hard, to trust the gradual and consistent process, to recognize the incremental progress, and to avoid being discouraged when the results don’t manifest instantly. All while, keeping at the back of my mind that the rejection will come, and at some point, I’ll lose motivation too; and yet, that does not mean I should stop.

In a culture of instant gratification, it is an act of resistance to believe in the long game. And yet, studies have shown that delayed gratification leads to better outcomes. You may be familiar with the Marshmallow Test, where a child is given a marshmallow; if they wait to consume it, they receive a second marshmallow, thus doubling their reward. The study then followed these children later in life, and found those that could delay gratification exhibited greater success in academic achievement and emotional intelligence. (Of course, like any study, there are many caveats, including cultural norms on what children will and will not want to wait for; and the impact of socioeconomic factors, but regardless, the findings are revealing.)

I think this applies to so many facets of life. When I worked in international education programming and policy, I remember how difficult it was to make the case for education to policymakers. After all, it was a long-term commitment that would reap rewards well into the future, something it was hard for them to imagine, and indeed, they wouldn’t get the credit for investing in it when their political term would have long passed. Education is a key, that unlocks future potential; and yet, in a world of trade-offs, policymakers would often choose to make other investments that would secure their popularity, or where the results were more immediate. And yet, providing a quality education can lift an entire economy out of poverty.

I know this culture of reaping the rewards of delayed gratification applies to writing too. Becoming a better writer requires practice, which comes about through a commitment to write, day in and day out. It demands that you face rejection after rejection and stay motivated because you are focused on something far out of sight, beyond what you may be able to see. Many writers have confirmed this. In Neil Gaiman’s Masterclass (who I know is contentious now, given the sexual assault allegations against him), he said that at some point, he took his first book that he had written - that was never published - and read it to his son. He said it was dreadful, and it should never again see the light of day, returning it back to the attic where it belonged. But somewhere in those 200 or so pages, there was a page and a half that was his voice, as it stands today. To find it, he needed to write all the pages - even the crappy ones; and so, it was only in persisting that allowed him to find his voice today. Salman Rushdie, in his Masterclass, said that he worked for 13 years before he could get his first book published - and it almost didn’t get approved by the publisher. And yet, he had to trust the process of it all, chugging away day after day, simply because of the belief of wanting to be a writer.

These experiences of writers facing rejection after rejection, but maintaining their commitment to writing are infinite. They’re the ones I turn to when I’m feeling discouraged, or when I’m feeling a lack of motivation. But instead of hyperfixating on the long-term goal, I want to be guided by it, but measrued by the everyday habit of it. As I’ve written about in the past, that progress doesn’t need to be achievements, but intentions: not ‘I must write everyday’, but instead, ‘I will do something writing related everyday’. Not ‘I will workout everyday’, but rather, ‘I respect my body and care for it in the way it deserves’.

And so, I’m steeling myself against my own mind, where it’s easy to fall into the negative beliefs that hold me back. I’ve now suddenly remembered the exercise on blurts and affirmations from The Artist’s Way that I did some time ago. According to the book, blurts are core negative beliefs that “can beat [an artist] right back into the shadows”. They make an artist judge their efforts, a form of “artistic abuse”. But we have a weapon against them: our affirmations that allow ourselves the space to fail, to recover, to grow, to not judge. And so, below, I present my affirmations:

1. I am good enough. I am worthy. I am adequate as I am. (Blurt: I’m not good enough.)

2. I am on a journey of discovering myself. (Blurt: I will fail at writing and everyone will know I’m an imposter.)

3. I deserve to love what I do everyday. (Blurt: I don’t deserve to make a career of what I love.)

4. I can change my life trajectory whenever I choose. (Blurt: It’s too late to start a new career.)

5. Creativity flows through my veins. (Blurt: I’m not creative enough.)

6. People love me for who I am, regardless of my productivity. (Blurt: People will judge me for what I produce.)

7. I allow myself to take time. (Blurt: I need to be productive all the time.)

8. I allow myself to fail. (Blurt: Rejection means I’ve failed.)

9. I am experimenting and learning and it is all growth. (Blurt: Everything I write needs to be excellent.)

And so, as I look ahead, I want to arm myself with the weapons fashioned from my affirmations. When I’m not seeing progress ‘fast enough’ or I encounter one more rejection, I want to remind myself that all of it is part of the process. I want to be able to trust my body, trust my abilities, and trust the commitment. Only by doing this, can I learn to trust myself.