work | Matt W Cook

March 12, 2014

Hey Ruth, I’m writing essays and stuff

I find, though, that it’s hard to talk to others about the excitement I get from doing all this school stuff. Right now I’m writing an essay on the subject of change and relativism in Montaigne’s work. It’s very exciting. Until I tell others about it.

“Phaw, that’s dumb,” they say. “What a pointless topic. Why don’t they teach you something useful?”

I feel like if the thing you’re doing doesn’t cure cancer or make money, people think there’s no point to it. Which is funny and sad. I sometimes wish I could turn it on its head. I can imagine someone telling me about their day at work.

“Phaw, that’s dumb,” I’d say. “What’s the point in going to work?”

“Money, duh,” they’d reply.

“What’s the point in money? Can’t eat it.”

“I can buy things with it. Food and rent and video games and stuff.”

“What’s the point in food and rent and video games?”

“They’re fun!” he’d say, justifiably annoyed with me.

And then I’d ask the most profound stupid question I can think of: “What’s the point in fun?”

But there is no point. Fun is awesome in itself. That’s why people work long hours–to get money that buys them fun. Too bad the money is put in such a focus that folks forget it’s just a means to an end. We feel so sad when we check out at the grocery store, as we hand over wads of paper in exchange for awesome edibles.

I like the essays. I enjoy examining Montaigne’s understanding of organic change and relativism in the light of Augustine’s progressive change rooted in absolutism. It’s fun. It makes my day. If I had the time, I would probably do it even if they didn’t promise me a grade and a degree at the end. Just like I’ll keep writing novels no matter how many rejection slips show up in my inbox. The reward for this labour is not coming later–I’m enjoying it now.

Like the Preacher said,

There is nothing better for a person than that he should eat and drink and find enjoyment in his toil.

Enjoy the toil of your tenth day, Ruth. I’ll say Hey again tomorrow.

November 2, 2012

Ira Glass on Work

“What nobody tells people who are beginners — and I really wish someone had told this to me . . . is that all of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, and it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not.

But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase. They quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know it’s normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story.

It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.”

– Ira Glass

I found this neat little passage ages ago, back when I was in the quote-hunting stage of my writing journey.

You know that stage, right? It’s when want to do something, but the actual doing of it is hard, so you read books on doing it and search for quotes on doing it and you print them out and post them on your walls desperately hoping that they’ll make your work easier.

They never do make the work easier, at least not two times in a row. But a few nuggets of wisdom can be gleaned from that phase. These words have stuck with me and continue to stick with me.

I don’t know if you noticed, but I took a rather long break from blogging. I thought I was too busy. I’m going to school now, working full time, writing a book, preaching. Lots of stuff going on. I figured that blogging was, at best, a distraction.

Strangely, when I stopped blogging, my writing started to suffer. And the writing is so important to me that the other parts of my life started to suffer with it. I grew less focused on school and preaching and felt like I did not perform as well as I could have.

Because the blogging was not really a distraction. It was the bull-pen. It was warm up. Practice.

What kind of athlete would you be if you only played when there was a game? A frustrated, crappy athlete.

This doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m going to start blogging regularly again. Maybe I will. Maybe not. But I’ve remembered that the only way to get better at something is to do it a thousand times. And if I’m only writing when I’m writing my book, it’s like I’m only showing up for games and skipping practice. And that’s just dumb.

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October 31, 2012

Fear and Breaks

I was thinking about taking a break from my book.

This is my third novel. The first one was practice. The second one was supposed to be a stand-alone fantasy. Then it got away from me. It crept toward 200k words and, as I was ending it, I realized it wasn’t ending. My book had turned itself into a series without my permission.

That scared me. I didn’t think I was ready to write a series. To go from practice to epic fantasy series in one book … terrifying. And the fear weighed on me. Hard. I felt like I needed to take a break. Needed to take some time out for, I dunno, training or something. I felt like I needed to stop writing the book and maybe do some blogging or write some poems. Or maybe throw together that cute sci-fi novella I have been thinking about. Or, since NaNoWriMo is nearly here, write up a crappy novel just so I could say I did it.

I was about to do it. I had basically decided on my way to work last night. I was going to walk away. Part of me silently wondered if I’d ever return.

Then I started asking myself what I still needed to do with this novel I’m working on. It’s already pretty big. More than 100k so far. What still needs doing?

I drew up a list.

There were four items on the list.

That couldn’t be right, I thought. It’s huge. It’s insurmountable. It’s terrifying. How could there only be four things left to do? Why do I feel so overwhelmed?

Maybe, just maybe, because fear is a dirty liar.

Maybe because fear whispers insidious words into the secret places of my mind. And those secret places spread the news: You cannot do this! And that news flows through my consciousness, taking away confidence. And they travel through my body, sucking out energy. And the words grasp at my heart, making me question my identity, my abilities.

Fear.

I’m not going to take a break. I’ve taken them before and I know what kind of damage they cause. Just like you never really hate your job until you return from vacation.

I’m a writer. It doesn’t matter that I’ve only written two books. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never made a cent from my words. I’m a writer because I write. I’m a writer because I choose to be one. And I have no need for breaks.

You know why they call them breaks?

They break things.

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October 24, 2012

Writing Foreplay

No, not writing about foreplay. That’ll be a different sort of post altogether.

You ever have a feeling of drudgery when you sit down to do your thing? You love writing. You always have. But these days when you try to actually get down to work, you feel overwhelmed and utterly intimidated. You can’t remember how you managed to write two and a half novels. You feel like you don’t know where your story is going, despite your detailed outlines and plans. You stare at the computer screen and feel such a revulsion toward your task that you are afraid you were never supposed to be a writer.

You’re not in the mood.

You have a headache.

You’re tired. You have to wake up early the next morning.

You’ve forgotten how fun writing can be. You need some foreplay.

Open a fresh document. Write these words:

Writing can be such a drudgery.

And then write some more. Tell the page what you think of it. Tell the page how pissed off you are about your lack of inspiration. Rail and complain. Beg and plead. Pour out all the negative feelings in your soul onto that page. Don’t stop. Don’t think. Let it go. Just let it go.

Until you stop.

Then open your novel again. Go to the scene you have to write. You’ll feel better. You’ll be in the mood. You’ve had your foreplay. Time to take it home.

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September 19, 2012

Getting Things Done

I’m a busy dude.

But only because I want to be, so that’s nice.

Talk to me sometime. You’ll discover that I’m full of energy. I’m motivated. Ambitious. I want to get stuff done. And I want to do it well. The things I do, I want to be the best at them.

I’m a husband and a father, and I feel threatened by folks who seem to pull those jobs off better than I do.

I’m a writer, and I get chills of joy when I read a published book that’s worse than what I’m writing and chills of agony when I read something that I know is better than what I can do.

I’m a preacher and there’s nothing better than seeing a crowd of people inspired to love more.

I’m a student and I want to write essays that make the professor smack his forehead and say, “Wow, I never looked at it in that way before!”

I’m a friend, and I love everyone I know and want them all to know it and feel empowered through their friendships with me.

I want to excel at all these things, and I don’t really think it’s unreasonable. But, wow, sometimes I just tank out.

I’ve never been the most organized person. I leave things to the last minute and I get emotionally crushed under the knowledge of all the things I’m trying to pull off. It’s not that I have too many things on my plate. It’s just that I’m not so good at organizing my plate. Stuff keeps falling off and I keep making messes all over the table. My writing suffers, I lose touch with friends, I miss important family things.

All this is to ask, how do you do it? How you you keep yourself on track with all the life-roles you want to excel at? How do you organize your time? How do you organize your emotional and mental energy? How do you keep the things you love from falling through the cracks?

Tell me, people of the interwebs. What solutions help you to get the things done that you want to get done?

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July 25, 2012

That Is Why You Fail

I found out why you keep failing. Why you can’t seem to get the things done that you want to get done. Why you can’t pull yourself out of bed on time. Why you can’t stick to that fitness routine. Why you can’t write that novel. Why you can’t reach that spiritual goal. Why you just can’t.

You believe the lie.

You believe the lie that says you aren’t good enough. You believe it so much that you continually tell it to yourself in some misguided attempt to make things better. It’s killing you.

It kills you because you set yourself up for failure every time you try. You tell yourself that you’ll fail. And your body and spirit takes it as a command.

It kills you because it stops you from taking initiative and innovation. Since you’ve always failed there’s no reason to believe that this time will be any different.

It kills you because it pushes you down and kills all the impulses that want to lift you up.

It kills you because it calls the positive ideas and motivations inside you vain, arrogant and even sinful.

It kills you dead, friend.

And it leaves you open to the real beast of getting things done. Resistance.

Resistance always wants to stop you from doing your work. It pushes you down, slaps you around and tears at your heart. When you agree with its accusations that you aren’t good enough, smart enough or skilled, you do the work for it.

Don’t agree with Resistance. Agree with me. Because I believe in you. Seriously, I do. I think you can do great things. I think you can create worlds. I think you can commune with God. I think you can get healthy.

Yes, you’re messed up. Sure, you’ve got problems. But I’d be willing to bet that your issues are not nearly as bad as you think they are. Stop convincing yourself to fail. Go win.

June 29, 2012

On The Creative Flow and Kidney Stones

Sometimes there is a flow, y’know?

Sometimes it all just comes out, rushing and tripping over itself to get on the page. It comes so fast and so hard that you spend hours and hours throwing it down, but the stream still doesn’t let up. Not until you’re finally mentally and even a bit physically exhausted. Then you pack up, go home and have a great day.

But sometimes it’s different. Sometimes it’s like having kidney stones.

You can feel the flow, deep inside of you. It wants out. No, it needs out. So you go to the place where you can get it out, but it doesn’t come the way you want it to. It comes out in frustrating trickles. And it hurts. It hurts so much that you don’t even want to do it anymore. So you throw it down and walk away.

But you can’t stay away for long. You need to get it out. Even though every time you try, the pain flares up and you begin to hate the process.

What do you do then?

Keep trying. Keep working. I know it hurts. I know you can see blood in it and it kinda smells funny. That’s fine. It’s alright. It’s still coming out, and that’s what is important. Eventually the stone will pass. It’ll pass when the pain and the struggle is at its zenith. Then, suddenly, you’ll be cured and the flow will return.

I’ve had creative kidney stones for a week now. It hurts. I feel like I’m bleeding onto the page. I’m probably going to miss my self-imposed deadline, unless this stone gets passed today. But I’m not too discouraged. I’m still standing over the toilet, trying my best. Sweating and groaning and swearing, but still here. It’ll pass one day.

And, yes, I did just liken the entire creative process to urination. So there.

May 25, 2012

A Billion Stories to Tell

     I’m about 18,000 words into book two. And I’m dry inside.
I had another idea for a book. A great idea. Just as good as the series I’m on now. So I thought that my dryness in the sequel meant that my muse wanted me to write the other idea first. I got 2,800 words in before I turned dry again.
     Then I had another idea. And another. And then I remembered.
     The muse has a billion stories she’d like you to tell. And she couldn’t give a rip which one you do first. If she had her way, you’d be somehow writing them all at the same time. And then you’d have a nervous breakdown because muses don’t care much about human frailties and the like.
     I haven’t written much in about a month. Maybe more. And I’m starting to feel it.
     When the creativity doesn’t seep out, things get stale inside. It’s like a pool with no stream running out of it. It stays still and grows stagnant. And it stinks like poop. It needs to flow or else nothing but mosquitoes and parasites will live there.
     Stop blogging, Matt. Go write a story. Write about the Bard and his wife. Write about the Chronicler and his god. Write about the people of the Expanse and call their tragic stories into existence. And when you feel the wells of self-pity rising up within yourself, think about the blinded Skotons and the doomed men and women of Al Ryaal. And count yourself lucky.
     Write, Mr. Cook. It is your calling. Your well-being is at stake. And the world wants to hear your story.

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January 11, 2012

The Writer’s Home

When thinking about the best place to write or do whatever our creative spirit moves us to do, there are phases.

First, we picture the perfect environment as a place of seclusion with ample lighting, classical music in the background and an expensive mahogany desk. Or something like that. Probably something with a bunch of quotes on the wall. And maybe a poster. And an espresso machine.

If we’re unlucky enough, we might even be able to manufacture such an environment. And we sit there, in our expensive chair made from baby cows, and frown.

Because it didn’t help. Writing is still hard work.

Then we figure that the environment counts for nothing. We force ourselves to adapt to every and any situation. We try to work at home, despite the screaming kids. We try to work at coffee shops, despite the noise. We try to steal a few hours at work on the night shift, despite the eerie silence and darkness. And things get better.

But it’s still hard work.

Since we’re versatile at this point, we end up doing our work in a variety of different places. And, if we’re mindful, we start to notice that our productivity levels are higher at certain places / times / settings. I, for example, discovered I work best in a public place, surrounded by people who don’t know me.

And then a temptation arises.

Because we suddenly realize that there is an ideal writing environment. It’s just a little counter-intuitive.

This is a dangerous realization to touch, because it tempts us into thinking that all our bad days are due to the place we sit.

My life does not allow me to sit at the coffee shop every day. If I’m lucky, I get there a couple times a week. And my work is certainly best there. One day at the coffee shop is worth four normal days. That stat makes me look at my normal days and question why I bother with them at all.

But that thought fails to take stock of the inter-connectivity of … well, everything.

What I do during the week touches my coffee shop weekends. If I spend the week in discouragement and idleness over my inability to transport my coffee shop environment to my night shifts, what sort of energy will I be passing on to the weekend? I’m pretty sure that the moment I neglect the hard, inefficient grind of the weekdays, I’ll start to fail even at the coffee shops.

Because the writer’s home is not a room or a desk or a shop. It’s where the story is.

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January 2, 2012

Nothing Resolved

Here is my list of this New Year’s resolutions:

As you can tell, my chances for success are high.

I don’t do resolutions. Historically, they have hurt my chances of doing the things I want to do.

Here’s what usually happens to people like me: At the dawn of a new year, I write up an admirable list of things I want to accomplish. Stuff about getting into shape, producing something creative and reaching some spiritual milestone. I make an action plan, tell my friends, print some motivational posters and am sprinting off the blocks.

It goes well for a few weeks. Then, in a sudden, dark moment, I stop caring. I fail once.

I remember the failure the next day. I still know how it tastes and I cannot shake the knowledge that I failed my resolution. I keep trying for a while, but it’s tainted now. By March, it’s all a memory.

So I stopped making resolutions. Instead, I create habits.

Habits grow naturally if you cultivate them. Resolutions, like stone walls, tend to crack.

To write a book, I don’t sit down and resolve to do it. Instead, I habitually write.

It started slow. First I’d write a couple times a month. I was never bothered that I didn’t write more because I had not resolved anything. There was no standard to give me guilt. After a while, I was writing a couple times a week. Now I write every single day. The habit has formed. There was no need for resolutions. In fact, had I made resolutions, I would have been depressed in the beginning that I was only writing a few times a month. And that would have weakened my resolve and the goal might have died.

I generally succeed in the things I want to succeed at. And that’s a special thing. Because most people just dream of the things they want to have in their lives.

Each and every second is new. January 1st is a date we made up. We might as well call April 16th at 4:34pm the new year. Your new start is whenever you want it to be. Make a new habit.

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Tag: work