Photo Courtesy of Jamie Haughton
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Monkey Business
(First appeared in Brevity.)
I am not a monkey, but sometimes I act like one.
Over the past couple years, I’ve had to put my writing and teaching career on hold as I’ve dealt with non-negotiable demands on my life. Those events knocked the stuffing out of me and trashed my self-esteem. I wondered if I still possessed the confidence, organizational skills, and knowledge I needed to continue in my profession.
Despite being filled with self-doubt, I pitched a creative writing retreat idea to a group I’d worked with in the past. They’d always responded to my proposals with enthusiasm. Within a day, I received a warm email from the director saying she liked the concept but wanted me to expand the description section.
I realized she was right. My proposal lacked substance.
Normally, I welcome revision suggestions. I’d calmly flesh out the ideas and hit send. However, this reasonable feedback sent my fragile psyche into a death spiral. Had I lost my mojo? Why did I email such an ill-prepared document? I paused to relive many of my past failures, including losing the citywide spelling bee in third grade by misspelling “rhythm.”
Once the self-flagellation petered out, I decided to scour the nether regions of my home. I stooped so far as to clean under the bathroom sink in the basement, a space that still contained hygiene artifacts from twenty-five years ago.
After my zeal for scrubbing waned, I vowed to craft the perfect revision. But the pursuit of perfection paralyzed me. I stared at a blinking cursor for hours as I wrote and deleted many imperfect drafts. I knew what the director wanted but my self-doubt was messing with my ability to articulate it.
While I am not a monkey, the embarrassing truth is that my unhinged behavior bore a striking resemblance to a group of lab monkeys that once flipped out over a banana in a basket.
Years ago, researchers had taught these monkeys how to open a straw basket by pulling a latch and lifting the lid. All the monkeys became expert lid-lifters. Next, they divided the monkeys into two groups. Monkeys in one room observed someone putting a banana in each of their baskets. The other group was asked to unlatch and lift the lid but without the bananas—which they did, no problem.
However, the banana-in-the-basket monkeys forgot how to open the lids. They jumped on baskets, chewed on baskets, and smashed baskets against the wall. Overwhelmed by their desire for those bananas, not one of them remembered a simple task they’d already mastered.
Researchers found that the prospect of an enticing reward had interfered with the brain signals that enabled the monkeys to complete a simple task.
Much like those lab monkeys, I felt so desperate for the director’s blessing that I couldn’t form a few simple, descriptive sentences. My fixation on receiving her affirmation made me forget how to unlatch my lid.
Disgusted by my lack of progress, I decided to procrastinate in a non-housecleaning way. I took out my trumpet, an instrument I’d stared playing at nine, and practiced the St. Louis Blues, a syncopated tune with grace notes, slurs, and the nemesis of my musical existence, dotted eighth notes. I’ve been butchering this song for years. But this time, I focused on counting beats, remembering the sharps, and making the slurs work, despite my shot lip.
I didn’t experience performance anxiety because I didn’t care about anyone’s opinion. I played for the joy of it.
As my performance improved, I loosened up and lightened up—and gained the courage needed to go back to revising. St. Louis Blues had distracted me from anxiety and the drive for perfection. I added a little verve to the tone of the proposal and wrote one hundred words of what I hoped approximated a persuasive description.
The upshot? A nightclub owner invited me to perform St. Louis Blues on stage in NYC.
Just kidding. However, the director did like the revision and accepted the proposal, which ended my existential crisis.
In retrospect, I wish I could have skipped the drama queen stage. After receiving the revision suggestion, I wish I had poured myself a cup of Good Earth tea, watched the sunset, then calmly written the requisite words. However, my bruised soul didn’t possess the bandwidth for rational thinking and a little self-care. I didn’t realize I had all I needed to complete the task. Like my simian counterparts, my overwhelming desire to achieve a specific outcome interfered with the brain signals that, without fanfare, would have enabled me to complete the simple task.
What reassured me that my brain still worked was picking up an old friend, my trumpet, and mastering St. Louis Blues—a low-stakes, complex task that led to a small success. Music worked for me; maybe painting, solving a puzzle, or practicing a tennis serve would work for you.
The lesson I learned: Find a way to stop obsessing about the banana!
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Interested in other writing tips? Check out:
Don’t Arrive Before You Get There
(Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.
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