Principle and Partisanship

My uncle and I were once debating a political issue when he said to me something like “You support that position because of your partisan alignment.” I responded that he had it backwards: to the extent that I had a partisan alignment, it was shaped by my position on specific issues.

Separately, I had a friendly acquaintance who would regularly argue that scholarly work that disagreed with Republican positions was biased because the authors were Democrats. In that situation, too, I argued for the possibility that the authors were Democrats because their scholarly conclusions disagreed with Republican claims.

Certainly, there are people whose biases affect what they do and say in both conscious and unconscious ways. An economist, for example, who supports the Unnamed Party, might conceivably agree with Unnamed policy because of partisan alignment, and that alignment might influence their research, results, and policy recommendations.

But is there only partisanship? My uncle and my acquaintance both argued all views are shaped by partisan alignment. But that assumes that everyone feels allegiance to extent parties, when it’s pretty clear that many people don’t immediately choose an alignment–witness the millions of voters in the US who register without party affiliation. Additionally, it raises the question of why people choose partisan alignment: we can’t assume that everyone simply accepts the partisan affiliation of their parents.

Doesn’t it make sense that people would choose party affiliation because the principles of the person align with the principles of the party? Imagine a school teacher given a choice between the Schools-are-terrible Party and the Schools-are-great party? What about a member of a labor union given a choice between the Union-busting Party and the Union-supporting Party? What about a environmental biologist whose work suggests that climate change is real? Someone who has dedicated their life to scientific study of the environment and, as a result of that study, concluded that anthropegenic climate change is real? Won’t that person be tempted to align themselves with a party that respects their work rather than ridiculing it?

My uncle said to me: “every one wants to fit on their own team.” I said to my uncle: “what about people who don’t feel they fit on any team?” Personally, I’ve never fit in well with groups. But when a team is dedicated to a principle that is important to me, I like them for that reason (even if there may be other reasons I dislike that team).

Remembering Shared Principles We Take for Granted

Recently, I’ve seen several sources talking about how Republicans or former Republicans were putting aside ideological differences to endorse Kamala Harris for president. For example, the Heather Digby Parton at Salon writes:

the Never Trump faction…has set ideology aside for the moment in order to create a popular front to defeat Trump. (https://www.salon.com/2024/08/26/protection-racket-crumbles-now-have-cover-to-come-out-as-anti/)

Or, the retired lawyers from the Reagan and Bush administrations, who write:

we urge all patriotic Republicans, former Republicans, conservative and center-right citizens, and independent voters to place love of country above party and ideology and join us in supporting Kamala Harris. (https://www.foxnews.com/politics/white-house-lawyers-who-advised-reagan-bush-endorse-harris-over-trump-2024-showdown)

With all due respect, the reason these Republicans agree with Democrats is because of shared ideology: the idea that Democracy is good, and autocracy is bad; the idea that we should support the US Constitution; the idea that everybody should be equally bound by the laws; and other related beliefs–ideals about what the United States of America aspires to.

In my opinion, one reason the Democrats have long struggled to make their message heard is their failure to focus on these shared principles.

In the Declaration of Independence, Thomas Jefferson wrote “all men are created equal.” We can get sidetracked from the general principle espoused by quibbling about Jefferson’s commitment to that principle, and his use of the gender-specific word “men” instead of “people.” Or we can set aside those historical details to focus on the principle implied: all people are created equal, and all people have rights, including the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. But it is that ideal of equality–that ideology–that is at the heart of what has made the United States of America great.

The history of the United States has many examples of the people and the government violating the noble principles espoused in the Constitution (“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity”) and the Declaration of Independence (“all men are created equal”). But those principles are still good principles. In these divisive times, let’s not lose sight of these principles–this ideology–that should bring us together.

Dealing with writer’s block, Tip 3: Learn to like writing

Yesterday, I saw an internet post from a writer saying, “I’m an early career, tenure-track professor, and I hate writing.”  One commenter responded: “I like doing analysis, but I hate hate hate writing.”  If you hate writing, that’s a big block. It drains motivation; it interferes with focus. It leads to procrastination. My preliminary response was to stress the value in recognizing and identifying the specific reasons that the person hates writing (see my previous posts in this blog). The original post author responded by noting a few different specific concerns that triggered the hatred of writing—feelings of inadequacy, fear of rejection—and another commenter added other specific concerns—uncertainty about how to proceed, technical difficulties with structure, emotional and technical difficulties with conventions.  All of these specific concerns can contribute to make writing unpleasant, but none of them are the totality of writing. 

In this post, I argue that you can learn to like writing, and if you do, that appreciation and positive emotion will help carry you through difficulties and frustrations related to writing.  The diagnostic analysis of your writing process is useful in developing a practice that you can like, not only because you can identify and eliminate or reduce problems, but also because you can focus your attention on aspects of the process that are interesting and potentially enjoyable.

“I Hate Writing; Writing Sucks.”

Lots of people say this. The internet post I saw yesterday struck me because, to continue my series of recent posts about getting past writer’s block, I was already planning for my next post to look at the idea that writing sucks, because the general dislike of writing is an emotional writing block for many.  The idea that writing generally sucks is a barrier that can be dispelled by using the diagnostic analysis that I have discussed previously: when you look at it closely, it’s not the writing, as a whole, that is unpleasant, but rather specific aspects of it, and specific responses to it.  If you hate dealing with punctuation, for example, that is one specific aspect of writing you don’t like, but writing is not only punctuation. If you hate writing because you fear rejection, well, rejection isn’t part of writing itself, it’s something that happens after you’re done writing.

If you think that writing sucks or if you hate writing, and you also need to write for your career, it’s worth trying to translate that general “writing sucks” into a more specific diagnosis. But making a diagnosis and developing plans to addresses problems is only the negative half of the picture. To reduce or eliminate a general sense that writing sucks, it’s important to see a positive dimension, too. And, though you may doubt, there is a positive side to the task of writing.

Can Writing Be Pleasurable?

Writing may be hard, but that doesn’t mean it necessarily sucks.  There are lots of things that are very difficult that are also pleasurable—hobbyists and amateurs work hard to excel at their chosen skill, not for financial or career rewards but rather because of the emotional reward. An amateur athlete will experience difficulty to excel in their sport and also enjoy the performance. An amateur musician will endure the frustrations of practice to enjoy the pleasure of performing music. Arts and crafts all involve some difficulties and frustrations, require significant investment of effort to be any good, but, in return, offer hours of positive activity as well as satisfaction from producing something beautiful.  For all of these activities, it’s worth noting that the balance between frustration and pleasure shifts as skill increases: the beginner struggles to create something simple, while the skilled expert creates something of beauty with relative ease (emphasizing the word “relative”).  Writing is an activity of the same sort: it is difficult and frustrating, but it can also offer the emotional rewards of creating something satisfactory (a written work that is well received by an audience) and the immediate rewards of engaging in a focused practice (being in the zone, as might be said colloquially, or being in “flow,” to use the idea of Csikszentmihalyi).

What Is Writing For?

You’ll struggle to find any pleasure in writing if the only reason you write is because someone told you you have to write.  Many of us learn to write in school when writing is only an unpleasant task forced upon us, after which we are criticized harshly. If you don’t want to write, writing that “what I did on summer vacation” paper may be pretty miserable. And worse so in high school, if you’re called upon to write about books that you didn’t really want to read either. Personally, I hated writing in high school and in college. It was only in grad school that my feelings about writing shifted as my ability to write improved.

But writing in’t taught to torture school students; it’s taught because it’s a powerful tool. There are, as I see it, three main purposes for writing: to aid memory, to work out and develop ideas, and to communicate with others.  Thinking about writing as serving at least one of these three purposes can shift your relationship with writing.  Instead of just writing because of some outward obligation, you can use it as a tool to serve your own purposes.

Memory

Writing to aid memory—from writing a shopping list for the market, to taking notes in a lecture, to taking notes of research observations—doesn’t feel like writing for an assignment. Indeed, that kind of writing often isn’t what people think of as “writing,”—it’s “just” taking notes or something of the sort—but that kind of writing still exercises many of the same skills as more formal writing, especially the skill of putting ideas into words. And many people have enjoyed writing down memories—diaries, journals, blogs, and social media posts are all forms of writing used to preserve memories.

Development of Ideas

Writing as an aid to analysis and development of ideas—akin to a mathematician working through a problem on scratch paper, or an architect or artist drawing study sketches of a project—is sometimes overlooked, especially by those who think they hate writing. As I mentioned above, there was a comment that said “I like to analyze but I hate to write.” But if writing is a tool for analysis and you like analysis, isn’t there a place to like writing as part of the larger process of analysis (recognizing that writing to work out an idea—on “scratch paper,” so to speak—is not quite the same as writing something for to be submitted for review)?  

The idea that “writing is thinking” is often expressed (I have seen it in multiple places, but the one I can remember offhand in the book The Craft of Research from University of Chicago Press), and many people enjoy thinking and exploring ideas.  Of course, saying that writing is thinking gives a very different purpose to writing than writing to answer someone else’s questions. It also shifts the view of the process: some writing is just an exploration that is not meant to be the final work but rather a tool for learning more, like a painter making initial study sketches for a project.

Communication

Writing is a tool for communication and many people like communicating but hate writing. A lot of writers that I have worked with get stuck because instead of focusing on the task of communication—what ideas do you want to share?—they focus on the task of putting sentences and paragraphs together on a page, which fraught with all the possibility of error in spelling, punctuation, grammar, etc.  Thinking about the technical difficulties interferes with thinking about the interesting stuff you want to share with people. You may be passionate to educate people about some topic, but if you’re worried about spelling, punctuation, etc., as well as the response of someone who might be hostile (a reviewer, a difficult professor), then it’s easy to lose sight of the underlying interest that drives a project.

Below, I offer an exercise comparing speaking with writing. It is instructive to compare speaking with writing because most people like speaking, or at least feel comfortable speaking, even if they dislike writing. Why do people like speaking? Among other reasons, it’s because speaking allows them to build connections with other people, to share ideas with other people, and to get other people to learn things that they care about. The process of writing takes on a very different emotional character when you’re focusing on sharing an idea with someone who will be interested, even enthusiastic about your work.  

It’s reasonable to give some attention to possible criticism of your work, but that shouldn’t keep you from thinking about the positive response you want to create. Some writers get stuck thinking about all the people who would complain; others get motivated by thinking about people who would be interested in or even excited by their ideas. In the practice of writing, think about writing to someone who would be enthusiastic about your work, rather than thinking about writing to someone who will complain about your punctuation.

Exercise: Writing and Speaking

How do you feel about speaking? Do you hate to speak? Do you like to speak? In what situations do you like to speak, and what situations do you dislike it? Do you like writing less than you like speaking?

What are the differences between writing and speaking?

What are the similarities between writing and speaking?

Other Positive Dimensions of Writing

There’s more to like in writing than just these three purposes. I mentioned earlier how writing offers the challenge of becoming good at a skilled task, and of practicing that task at a high level, which can be satisfying or even pleasurable. According to the research of Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, such challenges are at the heart of the “flow” experience, which, for many, offer the best moments of their lives. I will not discuss this potential here, however. In other posts, I have mentioned how writing can provide a certain refuge from other difficulties. I’m not arguing that writing is free from difficulties and frustrations, only that writing offers benefits, including emotional ones.

Conclusion

If you want to get past writer’s block, it’s important to keep in mind that writing, despite its difficulties and frustrations, is something that has enjoyable and engaging aspects. If you focus exclusively on the worst parts of writing, your aversion will be strengthened. Instead, focus on the best parts of writing—the ability to explore and share ideas, the challenges of developing skill—to get more positive motivation.

Protecting Children from Feral Hogs

A man in Arkansas recently entered the gun control debate with a viral tweet asking “How do I kill the 30-50 feral hogs that run into my yard within 3-5 mins while my small kids play?” Protecting your children, of course, is an aim that cannot be criticized. Feral hogs are a significant problem in the U.S. for many reasons, and their population is growing. His concern, therefore, cannot be dismissed lightly.

But…

Can you imagine that actual scenario? Imagine it as a movie scene: children playing in bucolic yard. Suddenly, the pigs trample in, straight for the children. Happily, dad has his gun handy with a loaded large-capacity magazine.

“Get out of the way kids,” he yells, as he takes careful aim. (We assume, of course, that his kids never come under his arc of fire.) And then he lets loose with his semi-automatic, accurately pouring bullets into the crowd of hogs. Within seconds there are 30 to 50 dead or dying hogs on his property.

Children successfully protected! And, of course, watching 30 to 50 large animals get blown apart won’t cause those children the least distress.

And then he has 30 to 50 animal carcasses to deal with—perhaps somewhere in the vicinity of 8,000 pounds of dead hog.

A great way to protect your children from feral hogs, and to also provide the whole family with plenty of pork to eat! Because, of course, that gun is always handy, unlocked, and with fully loaded high-capacity magazines ready to slaughter that herd of hogs.

Perhaps it reveals my city-dweller’s ignorance to wonder why the hogs need to be killed to protect the children. A fence wouldn’t kill the hogs, but wouldn’t it be a more effective solution to protecting the kids? That fence will be on duty 24/7, and won’t take a break to go to the bathroom. It won’t get taken by surprise. It won’t need to get and load a weapon. What do you think? Is an assault rifle a good way to protect your kids from feral hogs? And does protecting your kids necessitate killing the hogs?

As I conclude, I wonder, was that tweeter just asking a hypothetical question, or has he actually already lived out this scenario, where he killed the hogs threatening his playing children?

Reasonable Expectations of Success and Rejection

Some people just have bad taste. Or bad judgement. Or at least different tastes or interests.  You could create a work of great artistic genius, and it might get rejected.  Responses that you get for your writing are not solely determined by the quality of the writing itself.  When you offer a work for review, the reviewer’s response is shaped by his or her own interests, concerns, etc. The response is not all about the quality of your work. Any number of causes could lead to rejection.

My book proposal got rejected by a publisher a few days ago. It’s a bummer, but it’s not actually a big deal.  I expected to get rejected.  Or it might be better to say that I was reasonably optimistic about my chances, where “reasonably optimistic” means “realistic about possible outcomes of submitting a proposal.” Some proposals get rejected. Some proposals of worth get rejected. And the people who do the rejecting don’t always get it right. Rejection is not necessarily a referendum on the quality or value of my work.

Recently, in a cafe, I overheard a conversation about the band “Crack the Sky.”  It happens that when I was about 14, my cousin gave me their album Safety in Numbers, which has three tracks that I love.  For whatever reasons, Crack the Sky never broke it really big.  Their first three albums made it into the lower half of the Billboard 200 in the 1970s, and they became very popular in the Baltimore area, where they remain popular to this day.  The question we can ask is why this happened.  Does their music have some lack that prevents it being as popular as other acts that have “made it”? Or was there some circumstance outside the ability of the band to make it big?

Ability and effort are not clear guarantors of immediate success. Crack the Sky may not have the talent of more famous musicians, and that may explain their lack of huge success. Or maybe they didn’t make it big for reasons separate from their musical abilities.  Maybe their record company did a poor job promoting them. Success and talent don’t always go hand in hand. Many great artists have only been recognized after their time.

Along similar lines, I’m remembering a passage from Bill James’s Historical Baseball Abstract. He was writing about baseball in the early 20th century and about the minor leagues and the quality of minor league players. Many big league players, James wrote, talk about their lucky chance—how they had a good day when the scouts came out to see some other player on their team who had a bad day.  James goes on to note at least one example that suggests that the guy the scouts came to see—the guy who had the bad day that one day—went on to have a great minor league career because he was a talented player. We don’t remember that guy now in the same way we remember the major leaguer, but that minor league player might have been just as good or better. The difference between a major league career and a minor league one depended on that chance of having a bad day at the wrong time. Is the situation of Crack the Sky something like that?  Did they happen to play a bad show the night a promoter showed up? There’s reason to believe that they had the talent.

These situations are parallel to my book proposal, in a way: There are any number of factors that might determine whether my book proposal gets accepted, and some of these may not be a reflection on the quality of my book. Maybe the person who reviews my proposal is grumpy on the day that they review my proposal, and pessimism tempers their evaluation where on another day they would have felt more optimistic and would have been more interested. Maybe they like my book, but don’t think that they can sell it.

One thing that I do know (well, I don’t have statistics or citations, but…): most book proposals do not get accepted. Only a small percentage of book proposals get accepted. It’s not being unduly pessimistic to think that my proposal might fall into the larger class, even if I hope that my skill as a writer and the quality of the story that I share influence those odds. I would like to believe that my writing and my ideas improve my chances of acceptance—but I don’t believe that my skill or content can guarantee acceptance.  Not alone. 

In the long run, the question is whether I can get my proposal accepted by some publisher. I only need one acceptance. It would be great to get accepted on my first try, but I can hardly expect that. (As it happens, my very first book proposal was, in fact, accepted for publication by Routledge. It helped that my mentor, Jean-Pierre Protzen, the first author, added significant gravitas to the project, but I wrote the proposal.)  I expect to have to try several times.  It would be great to get accepted right away, but I don’t view rejection as a surprise, and don’t particularly view it as an accurate reflection on the quality of my work.  

I believe in my work. I’m highly self-critical, so I don’t think my work is perfect. I am, indeed, highly aware of many flaws in it.  But I still believe that the ideas I want to share about the writing and research processes could help many people, and I believe that the book is well written.  The strength of that belief is a support when my book proposal does get rejected. Because I believe in my work, rejection is frustrating and difficult, but I won’t rewrite my book because of it. I’m going to rewrite my proposal and send it to someone else.  I don’t want to be oblivious to learning from feedback, and maybe a long string of rejections will force me to reconsider the potential value of my project, but I do believe in my work.  

Hopefully you, too, can believe in your work.  It can be hard to believe in your own work if you are self-critical.  But, if you believe in your work enough to send off a book proposal (or abstract for review, or other application), then you should not let rejection shatter that belief. There is always a chance that a work will be rejected for some reason unrelated to its quality or value. Expect the chance of rejection as a reflection of the many vagaries of life, and focus on the larger picture of finding the one publisher who will take the work.