I’ve suggested in previous posts that for big things it is better to try to move in a general direction than to work out a careful and detailed plan that tells you exactly how to get there. Generally we aren’t smart enough or knowledgeable enough to work out such a plan in advance. It is better to pursue agrarianism than to work out a plan for becoming a farmer, better to pursue music than to work out a plan for becoming a professional musician, better to write than to work out a plan for becoming a writer. Taking a small but deliberate step in the direction you want to go will teach you things that will help you figure out what step to take next.
One problem with such a flexible attitude is that it is easy to confuse moving in a direction with simply facing in that direction, to confuse preparing to a step with actually taking a step. There is always something else you can learn about the project you are about to undertake, one more book to read or authority to consult or tool to buy. If we begin to think of these as steps toward the goal, then we will soon end up walking in place, and enjoying it. We can know everything there is to know about agrarianism, think deeply on the issues involved, engage in sophisticated discussions about the modern malaise and its sources and possible cures—but if we haven’t moved to simplify our lives in some way, we are still preparing for a journey we have yet to embark on.
A second problem with such a flexible attitude is that it is easy to avoid putting our efforts to the test, i.e. determining whether our efforts are actually taking us in the direction we want to go. We pick the aspect of the project we like the most or comes most easily to us, and focus our efforts there. If we are pursuing agrarianism and like gardening, we become experts at growing things while failing to develop the other skills needed to live a successful agrarian life: living frugally, staying home, enjoying the fruits of our labors (i.e. eating what we grow), marketing what we produce, living at nature’s pace. If we are pursuing music and enjoy having people ooh and ahh over our flashy solos, then we spend hours upon end maximizing the flashiness of our solos, neglecting the other elements that are critical to a sucessful pursuit of music, however modest: developing a repertoire, playing well with others, performing on stage, lining up opportunities to play, pleasing an audience. If we are pursuing writing and mostly enjoy impressing people with our ability to make sharp observations and turn a clever phrase, then we will devote ourselves to writing for the trunk while we wait for the world to discover us, never bothering to put ourselves to simple tests: building an online audience, getting an article or column published, doing the research that will give our pieces depth and solidity, putting our prose through the wringer so that the reader can absorb our point without unnecessary distractions.
The absurd extreme of this is idle daydreaming. We noodle around with fun stuff while imagining that someday, somehow, it will all come together into a complete, coherent package that will bring us the success we hope for. We imagine that someday, somehow, the details we don’t care for will have taken care of themselves. Or perhaps our genius for the parts we like will be seized upon by someone else, someone who will take care of those other details in order to make us a star.
Instead, we need to set out to do it for real, which will almost always entail scaling down our expectations to the point where we could actually achieve something. We need to stop dreaming about farming and instead grow some vegetables that we then take down to the farmer’s market and try to sell. We need to stop dreaming about being a famous musician and instead learn to play a song well enough to play at next month’s open mic event, or to find a local town fair and arrange to perform on the street for tips. We need to stop dreaming about being a famous columnist or novelist, and write something that someone will publish.
Doing it for real can teach you many lessons quickly, some of them hard ones. Maybe you don’t like dealing with bug infestations in your garden, or cold-calling the guys who run the farmers’ market, or sitting at a table while people paw over your produce, or trying to explain why your stuff is so much more expensive than what they’re selling at Wal-Mart. Maybe you don’t like practicing, or the friction that comes with learning to play music with other people, or getting up on stage with everyone watching, or trying to catch the attention of people who are on their way somewhere else. Maybe you don’t like revising your writing, or having an editor tell you what needs to be cut, or writing about subjects that don’t interest you but might interest a publisher. These are things you need to know before you invest much energy or hope in a pursuit.
Doing it for real gives you a chance to learn how to do the stuff you don’t like or aren’t very good at while the stakes are still low. If you really want to be a farmer or a musician or a writer, learn to act and think like one, even if you’ve accomplished so little so far that it feels faintly ridiculous. It is faintly ridiculous, but at this early point in the game nobody will care. Look for opportunities to do all the things that real farmers and musicians and writers do. Cut your teeth on the full range of required tasks while the scale is modest and the work is easy. Don’t assume that a salesman or a buyer or a booking agent will come along later when you have something real to offer; learn to do it yourself now, and decide later when and whether it is worth delegating such responsibilities.
If you do it for real, you’ll find out something surprising: real practitioners will take you seriously. I’ve gotten much help from real small-scale farmers and musicians and writers because they know I take their work seriously, that I’ve done what I can to learn about the full scope of their work, and that I’ve sought out actual experience with their work, however limited.
