striving + an update

on ambition

This is my semi-foolproof¹ way to tell if someone is from the Bay Area, CA. They will be friendly and chill. They’re down for anything and love a good time. But if you can detect the invisible, then you’ll notice that there is something brewing deep inside them; some sort of fervent desire to maximize their potential; a willingness to start X and build Y and create Z; their baby formula was injected with personal agency; they eat grit and gumption for breakfast. They are externally easy-going and internally intense.

Photo by Charlie Lederer

I grew up in the Bay, but I don’t want to start a non-profit, run a marathon, get a PhD, or do whatever it is the Silicon Valley children are doing now.

mothers are formidable

I don’t think of myself as being naturally inclined towards leadership, taking initiative, being a self-starter, or even a hardworker (college admissions officers and job recruiters hate to see me coming). I don’t care about first place and I think I’ll never be the best. I just want to sit around and do whatever I want; maybe lay down and look at a blade of grass. But since I grew up in an environment that breeds child musician prodigies and Stanford graduates (of which I am neither), and since I have Asian parents to boot, I got dragged into the current.

I don’t know if it was just my environment that made me the person I am now, or if I really did possess those Bay Arean inclinations and my determined mother just had to wrench it out of me. What I do know is that now my mind is primed to see every activity as an opportunity to achieve something more. If I pick up an instrument, should I start making recordings and post them online, go busking, join a band, or raise money for a social cause? If I pick up a sport, should I try to win local and then regional and then national competitions? If I start writing fiction, should I dream of acclaim?

I resisted this kind of ambitious effort for most of my life, because it all seemed very tiring to me. Other people seemed to think chasing was fun; I didn’t. I hated this unrelenting race towards nothing. I suppose if I cared deeply about the things I was doing, then maybe chasing would have more of a thrill, but I cared about very few things back then. (My siblings often say that I don’t care about anything.) Admittedly, I did care about my peers viewing me as capable enough to match them in their pursuit of Ivy Leagues, so I agreed to do all the things my mother pushed me to do. I wanted to appear smart, which we all know is the noblest of motivations.

Moms at my orchestra would sidle up to me and ask where I was applying for college. I would pretend I didn’t know or hadn’t decided, and of course they didn’t buy that act at all. Everything we did was for those college applications. Every AP class and summer camp and fundraiser and personal-enjoyable-hobby-now-turned-into-impressive-resume-material.²

becoming both and neither

I didn’t care about my STEM classes, so I didn’t care if I got mere passing grades. I didn’t care about winning competitions or playing solos, so I didn’t practice my instruments enough. But I love writing and reading. I care a lot. Now I want to do things, so now I actually try. Now I am chasing. Ugh!

How do I enjoy striving, without being bogged down by discouragement, burnt out from self-inflicted pressure, or driven mad by comparisons? Can anything in this world remain pure and untainted? Am I still having fun? My response in the past was to stop caring, but that often led to barely trying. (Much to my mother’s exasperation, I imagine.)

I can’t not try. I must write. If I don’t write, I will wither away. I’m not even being dramatic (okay, maybe a little). Some essential part of me died during those few years I stopped writing. But now I have returned, with the angst and cringe from yesteryears pulling me forward. So, I will have to learn how to choose neither extreme of caring vs not caring. I must never lose my joy for writing, even as I fling myself at publications. I must never stop blogging, even if my following doesn’t grow or if no one reads my yapping (if you’re reading this, thanks! I push myself to write a little more sensibly for your eyes). I must never stop reading, even without a reading goal.

I hope my quiet, personal joys and existential inclinations will keep me from being whisked away by vainglorious thoughts. I hope I can hold these contradicting desires and remain intact.

chasing after the wind

About two and a half months ago (that’s how long it took me to write this barely coherent post), I was sloughing through a tedious work task when I got an email notification.

It was Fish Barrel Review saying they would publish my story.

I was ecstatic. I had been receiving rejection after rejection, and I was suffering from having the creative capacity of an anchovy. But I was then revived, for my chasing has caught a fish! I have received the title of Published Writer! I have been anointed external validation! I am not bad at writing!

The exhilaration soon evaporated, which I expected. I knew that being published would give me a satisfaction like smoke. I knew I would be very happy, and then return to being nothing.

Of course, I am still overjoyed and thankful that Fish Barrel Review published my work (you can read my story here!). Many of the other writers they published in their issue are much, much more accomplished than me; I am a nobody, and to be included alongside their work is an honor. I will always think of Fish Barrel Review as the first (and hopefully not the last) magazine that believed in my work as much as me.

okay but why

Life is still meaningless (source: all of Ecclesiastes). Companies race each other to put out the shiniest AI product, and for what? I try to think of new ideas, edit my drafts, find scraps of time to work on my stories, and for what? Some child in the Bay Area works themselves to the bone to be the most intelligent, most community-oriented, proactive high schooler for their college applications, and for what? Is this endless endeavoring worth anything at all?

I do want my writing to have some kind of “positive impact on the world blah-blah”. But I don’t choose what people decide to read, nor what they will think of my particular jumble of words. What then of my ambitions?

Perhaps some things, like capturing hearts, are too lofty an ambition and too silly a goal. I can dream all I like, but in the end I am writing as an act of blind faith; faith which hopes for the sake of love.

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.” Phil. 2:3-4

1. It’s not foolproof because I’ve met many people from the Bay who don’t have the vibe I described. I don’t think I even have the vibe.

2. There can be lot of good things that come out of being raised like this. You are taught to consider your community and “give back” (even if you have murky motivations). You are taught discipline, perseverance, and even optimism. You are trained to push yourself and test your limits. Dissecting child development in the Bay Area is something I (probably) won’t explore in depth on this blog.