Midway through Joss Whedon’s Serenity, Mal and the gang find a dying Shepherd Book amidst the wreckage of his slagged outpost. In his last breath, hands bloodied, he grabs Mal by the lapels and hoarsely whispers, “I don’t care what you believe in, just believe in it…”
At first glance, it’s the sort of thing you find in Unitarian and Humanist circles, the idea that the very act of believing is sacred and important, less important than the specifics of the belief itself. Yet a grade-schooler who thought about it for a minute could knock the premise down. What if you believe that everyone you know should die by your hand? What if your belief entails stamping out other people’s beliefs? What if I believe I don’t have to do homework? Et cetera, et cetera…
But for quite a while now, I have been in a place where if pressed, I couldn’t actually tell you what I believed. And it’s damn near impossible to live that way.
Recently I’ve had some successes that ten years ago would’ve made me jump out of my seat and go have a celebratory dinner with friends and family. Because ten years ago, I believed that it was possible for those sorts of successes to take me somewhere.
As I’ve mentioned eight million times on this blog, the 21st century has worn down my belief in the potential for good things, both in my life and in the wider world. False starts, bungled second acts, dead ends, recurring themes, bad timing, hours upon hours of ignominy and obscurity, these things accumulate. They collect around a life, blocking the view, as the windblown newspapers smother Harry Tuttle in Brazil. And like Tuttle, I’ve had a hard time keeping the accretion of unfortunate events from actually becoming me. In fact, I’ve completely failed to do so.
A consciousness is in part a collection of experiences. We know how and why to laugh and smile because we’ve experienced laughs and smiles. I see that from the change to my little blank slate during the two years since I brought him home from the hospital. Some tendencies and temperaments came with the package, certainly, but experiences either heighten or diminish those predispositions, and add emotional memories of attempts, punishments and rewards that reside in memory long after the event itself passes from conscious memory. This process doesn’t stop in adulthood. Those who haven’t realized their dreams frown as they test hypotheses developed in childhood, editing and rewriting in desperation like Garry Marshall before a shark jump shoot. Those with successes write their pasts into a seamless story arc, committing crimes of omission along the way to further frustrate observers in search of a successful third act.
I visited the forum of a favorite author recently, one Dan Simmons. I’ve enjoyed his work for many years, and he makes himself far more approachable than many authors in his sales bracket, commenting frequently on the forum threads and offering writerly advice.
Bio-combing is something I am guilty of. From a young age, I studied the lives of those I wished to emulate, and have fretted many times when my own course has lacked the crucial milestones that my heroes document. Certainly, all courses vary, but there are, let’s say, Behind The Artist moments that permeate most bios.
Simmons is a bit of a special case, in that he didn’t have anything published until he was 34, the age I am now. I’m already ahead of that. Five years later, Simmons was able to pursue writing full-time. Dare I believe that such a thing is possible for me?
Fear, of course, is the driver here. To have hoped deeply and then failed is a far more raw hurt than to have vaguely aspired and gotten lucky. But as in love, it seems the greatest rewards arise from the highest risk, the exposure of the heart to something that could either bring utmost joy or scorching pain. The effort can save your life or ruin your soul, and no amount of statistical analysis can bring you assurance as to which it will be.
But a life without such risks is no life. Orwell noted that he would rather be in a war zone than dying the slow death that many resign themselves to, devoid of all highs or lows. A Prozac life, even and uneventful. The old curse wishing the recipient to “live in interesting times” carries weight, but its reverse curses equally, if not more.
In Fooled By Randomness, Nassim Nicholas Taleb makes what should be an obvious point, that the quality of lifestyle enjoyed by your neighbors directly affects your satisfaction with your own lifestyle. Someone with a solid 3-bedroom house in a neighborhood with dilapidated 2-bedroom houses feels like they’re doing pretty well. Move that house into the middle of an upscale 4-bedroom-with-a-study neighborhood, and there will be a corresponding drop in the homeowner’s perception of their own lifestyle.
I know this to be true, because it doesn’t just apply to houses. When speaking to people whose paycheck comes directly from their writing, I feel like some slacker dumbass. Whereas if I’m talking to Sue Ellen McDinglewampus about how she just got her 50th rejection letter for her Cat Who Solved The Mystery novel, I feel positively brilliant.
As I’ve written here before, Buddhism covers this, the recognition that pain arises from the chasm between expectation and result. It’s not new information. It’s not hard to understand. But it hides at the periphery of my vision instead of in the crosshairs, unseen until I bother to look for it. It isn’t intuitive, and even if it were, I don’t know how to not want what I want.
At this point, those reading this may throw their hands up in frustration and exclaim, “Well, quit your bitching, get up off your ass and DO something about it!” Well, I would, except walking away from my desk here at the big corporation would result in a pretty quick termination of paychecks, followed shortly thereafter by eviction in the absence of the rent.
I do work on my non-dayjob projects during the business day, but of course it’s necessarily piecemeal in between calls, copies, faxes, and filing. Inspiration and flow can get lost in such stuttering bursts, and thus most of what I feel I can safely finish are things like these blog posts. Which are useful, but ain’t nobody paying for ‘em.
Which brings us back to belief. What has driven me to finish any of the projects that have gotten any success whatsoever has been a belief that once finished, they would bring rewards. It’s a terribly crass, capitalistic viewpoint, but monetary reward is something that does seem to matter to me. Particularly since God and Divine Fate have been tossed into the chipper. Artistic expression is all very fine, but by itself is much like chasing one’s own tail.
So in a world without omniscient design and karmic moral management, what belief can one have that good will come? What I’m beginning to lean towards is the idea that rather than having belief in a positive outcome, I should have a belief that there cannot be an assured negative outcome. My new belief is that I’m not doomed to failure. Why? Because there is no God. If there is no God to assure my success, then neither can there be one to assure my failure.
All options are open, and there is zero evidence to show that the odds will tip either towards me or against me. I simply don’t know, and in the absence of certainty, I can choose belief in the better outcome. If I’m proven wrong, nothing will have changed. I can either be depressed now or wait until later.
Sounds good on paper. Can I believe? Well, I’d better. Without it, I create the certainty of failure. With it, at least there is no certainty. That’s probably the best anyone can ask for.