On the Privilege of Giving Up
I think I fetishize the virtue of not giving up.
I’m not alone, of course. I didn’t come up with this idea that, no matter how sick I feel, there is something weak about not going to the gym on what’s supposed to be legs day. Or, for that matter, that being so sick that I am physically incapable of exercise is the only acceptable reason not to follow the gym schedule that worked for me last week.
Likewise, I didn’t decide on my own that determination, stick-to-it-iveness, is the hallmark of a successful writer. Would-be professionals are told, in all sorts of ways, that stubbornly pursuing their goal, be it getting published, produced, or publicized, is the only way to win a career in the arts.
I probably was the one to tell myself, ages ago, that not finishing a book or movie or video game, was as bad as cheating. Or that ending any friendship, ever, for whatever reason, is a betrayal of affection.
And I’m certainly the one who still has files of every novel-length MS she ever wrote on her current laptop (not to mention several hard copies in a whole shelf full of magazine holders), despite some of them being old enough that I originally had to transfer them from a plastic container full of floppies. I even catch myself wondering if this idea I just had, if that would finally “fix” the terrible mishmash of voice-copying and derivative plot that I wrote before I was old enough to drive.
It’s easy to agonize over not giving up when the thing you are thinking about giving up is not the thing that would require pulling yourself up by the roots. I can torture myself over whether or not to drag myself to the gym because, overall, I’m healthy and in shape. I can obsess over stories I wrote over half my life ago because they don’t wrap around my heart like the ones I’m working on now.
Which means that this obsession over giving up? Is really a byproduct of incredible good fortune.
For instance, when I list for myself that I gave up on:
- beating the final boss of Persona Q
- becoming a tenured professor
- keeping in touch with every single person I’ve ever met and liked
- revising the first 10 MSs I wrote into publishable stories,
I feel lucky that I had enough money and leisure time to actually play the Persona series and get to the point where a fan-service dungeon-crawler appealed to me.
And that I can support my lifestyle, be taken seriously, and chase my career goals without needing a permanent academic position.
And that I meet so many wonderful people through the course of my life that I literally cannot be friends with them all.
And that I have enough time and ideas and support that I could write 10 novel-length MSs before I turned 25 without giving up education, employment, or social opportunities.
When I stop reading a book I don’t like or turn off a TV series partway through, I can do so only because I have the great fortune to have access to literally hundreds, if not thousands, of other books and TV shows, let alone other ways of entertaining myself and enriching my life.
Plus, I am extremely fortunate that, when I give up on something, nobody judges me negatively, permanently, for doing so. I can choose not to pursue a career, a life, a narrative, a piece of art without people sneering behind my back that I don’t because I can’t. Or that I deserve whatever negative things happen in my life because I didn’t throw everything I had into achieving something they think I need.
Giving up on a task or goal because you want to, because you’ve evaluated your options and don’t think that this path is for you (or best for you) is a privilege. It’s different from giving up because you can’t (… afford piano lessons or time to practice, pass the MCAT, force the other person to want to be your buddy, scrounge together enough free time and mental energy to finish that one novel).
That kind of giving up, the voluntary kind, can be about making your own guidelines. Taking the path you choose now instead of the path that looked great from a distance or that others told you was awesome.
The tough part of this kind of giving up is telling the difference between when it moves you toward something you truly want and when it moves you away from the unpleasant obstacle between you and your goal. Like Bastian in the maze of rooms in the moments after he arrives in Fantasia, sometimes I find it more difficult to know what I really want than to figure out how to achieve it.
Do I feel impelled to revise this MS I wrote when I was sixteen because there’s something in it that still moves me, a story I still need to tell? Or is it because I can’t bear the thought of having spent so long on something that will live on my hard drive forever?
Is declining an invitation the right thing to do to preserve my mental energy and allow me to devote my time to the people I’m closest to instead of spreading myself too thin? Or is it an excuse I’m making because I’m selfish and lazy and don’t want to go to the trouble of leaving my apartment?
Did I stop reading this book because it didn’t give me anything or because what it had to give was difficult and unpleasant, though important?
As someone who spends most days arguing with herself about whether she wants to go to the gym or not (is my body tired, or am I lazy? Will I feel better if I exercise or if I let myself relax without obsessing over exercise?), I have no easy answer for dilemmas like these. But I do know that wanting can be a malleable thing: what I want now is not what I may want once I knock on that acquaintance’s door or pry myself out of my chair put on gym clothes.
And, most important of all, having the luxury of exploring, second-guessing, doubting what I want means that I am fortunate enough to have everything I need.