A column highlighting broader perspectives and observations about science and the lives of those who pursue it.

Something to Embrace

Recently a student knocked on my door and asked if I would be willing to give them some advice about writing. This student happened to be taking a seminar class, and as part of the coursework was assigned to interview a faculty member to gather insights and tips that could potentially help them become better writers. I reluctantly agreed to do the interview, but as I expected would be the case, I found the questions to be difficult to answer. I could quickly sense the student becoming disappointed that I was not able to provide a magic solution that would make writing easy.

Over the years I‘ve read books about writing, taken classes, workshops, etc. But I can‘t clearly point to any of them that have made a significant impact on me (although I highly recommend Patricia Goodson‘s book Becoming an Academic Writer: 50 Exercises for Paced, Productive, and Powerful Writing as an outstanding resource). I think a big reason for this is that I tend to view writing as a form of artistic expression, as opposed to solely a medium for technical communication. I say this because when I write something that I feel really good about, my satisfaction emerges from a deep appreciation of how all the words, sentences, and paragraphs have been woven together in a beautiful flowing way. To me, a paper is more like a song or a painting than a report.

This view can have strange consequences. For example, I often notice that when I go back to read things I‘ve written in the past, they seem completely foreign to me. I say to myself “Did I really write this? It doesn‘t sound like me at all!” I used to think this was totally weird but recently found that it may not be so uncommon, especially among those in the artistic realm. Lori Carson, a favorite musician of mine, wonderfully expressed these sentiments in a recent blog posting where she described songwriting as a “mysterious process.” [1]

Beauty exists beyond us, and we access it through art, as artists, and as viewers/listeners/readers. It exists beyond us, and as artists, we have to find a way to let it come to us, because it can‘t be forced. On the other hand, it won‘t come if I‘m not completely focused and prepared (by working). Mysterious process.

Whenever I write anything like this, I read it back later and think I‘ve sounded pretentious, but I only want to describe it because it amazes me, and I don‘t claim to know more about it than my personal experience with having the door open, and that‘s when it feels like the song or story, or whatever comes through me, more than from me.

I was amazed to read this because it exactly described my own confused feelings about writing. Viewing myself as a conduit of the message rather than its source was the key. It seems I had unwittingly stumbled upon a way to enter this zone, at least once in a while. And what sweeter message could there be to convey than seeking to capture and interpret the beauty and mystery of our surroundings through the language of science!

Although this realization enabled me to frame the creative process, it didn‘t do much to help me access it efficiently. In fact, this outlook poses some major problems. For example, it makes it incredibly challenging to work under a deadline. The underlying story and the most satisfying way to tell it are, at best, vaguely defined at the outset. These things only become clear after diving in. As a result, it‘s not uncommon for many of my papers to undergo at least 30 drafts before reaching a point where it feels right. A draft of an abstract can claim an entire afternoon‘s time. The open ended nature of the process makes it challenging to impose an external time frame to complete it.

Working in this way also runs counter to the conventional wisdom of creating an outline and then working in a logical progression from start to finish. [2] This systematic approach undoubtedly has great value for organizing technical content. But for me, in the context of my view of writing as a creative process, I‘m more comfortable with the less confining approach of throwing everything on the table and seeing how it fits together (there is some evidence that this method has merit; e.g., see David Allen‘s discussion of “natural” and “unnatural” planning models in his book Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-free Productivity).

Although this scatterbrained approach works for me personally, it makes my life incredibly difficult when it comes to advising others about their writing and working collaboratively. This is because while I can clearly see when something doesn‘t look right to me, I can‘t really say ahead of time what it should look like. There is no clear roadmap to get from point A to point B. So since I can‘t tell someone exactly how a passage should be written, I often end up writing it myself out of frustration until it “looks right.” This is something I wish I could teach but still don‘t know how.

In my case, all this dysfunction becomes further amplified (by at least a thousand fold) because I happen to be an extreme perfectionist. I painstakingly labor over each word and each sentence until they fit my vision as flawlessly as possible (don‘t even get me started about the figures and illustrations). I‘ve become better at dealing with this curse over the years (every email need not be a literary masterpiece), but it always lurks beneath the surface.

What has helped me greatly to become more accepting of imperfection has been the realization that it‘s okay to feel incomplete and unsatisfied. This view was perhaps most eloquently summarized as follows by the renowned American dancer and choreographer Martha Graham. [3]

There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. ... No artist is pleased. [There is] no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.

Reading this inspired me a great deal and gave me solace by helping to put my perceived idiosyncrasies in perspective. After all, if someone of Martha Graham‘s stature had these kinds of persistent doubts, I guess I can‘t complain either. Uncertainty, it seems, can be something to embrace.

Victor M. Ugaz is Associate Professor and K. R. Hall Development Professor in the Artie McFerrin Department of Chemical Engineering at Texas A&M University. Comments and suggestions are welcome.

References

1. http://lifeandmusic.loricarson.com/?p=206. Accessed January 23, 2013.
2. George M. Whitesides. “Whitesides‘ Group: Writing a Paper.” Advanced Materials, 16 (2004): 1376-1377.
3. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martha_Graham. Accessed January 23, 2013.

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