Four hundred pages and a thousand miles of yarn*: or, how to beat the sunk-cost fallacy
Our greatest duty as artists and as humans is to pay attention to our failures, to break them down, study the tapes, conduct the postmortem, pore over the findings; to learn from our mistakes.
Just frog it already!
—the wise friend of many a knitter
Out of all the cognitive biases identified thus far—188!?!!—the sunk-cost fallacy has got to be one of the most pervasive. To make sure we’re all on the same page, here’s the standard definition (using a veganism-and-creativity presentation slide from 2021):
In other words, humans tend not to own up to mistakes and misconceptions simply because we’ve spent SO MUCH TIME making and believing in them. It can be embarrassing, even painful, to admit that the premise of a novel we’ve been writing for years is fundamentally flawed, or that we’ve spent money we don’t have on a graduate program that definitely isn’t the career path we want after all, or that the relationship into which we’ve poured all our emotional resources is never going to be the loving and growth-oriented union we’d hoped and longed for. When we hang on too long, the original mistake can compound itself many times over. Nor does the sunk-cost phenomenon play well with the standard pep talk on perseverance; we’ve all known at least one writer or artist overworking material they ought to set aside because they hold a (not-unfounded) conviction that professionals don’t trash work that isn’t working, they fix it. And in this productivity-obsessed culture, you’ve pretty much got to be a Zen monk to avoid framing the situation as a waste of time and resources.
…Okay, I am not nor will I ever be a Zen monk. But I think I’ve figured out what to say to myself to make it easier to admit that something’s not working and take action accordingly.
Sunk-Cost Dilemma A:
In my “‘writer’s block’ revisited” post last fall, I told you I submitted 360 pages of a novel I had no idea how to finish. And there were lots more pages that didn’t make it into that document, well over 400 total I’d say (it’s hard to tell when you’re working in Scrivener). With all my other novels I’d been able to write my way into the answers, but that wasn’t happening this time. To put it in quilting terms, I realized there was nothing for it but to cut up the thing for scraps and try for a different (simpler) design than the one I’d envisioned. I’m now pretty close to the end of this replotting process, and when I found myself in the midst of another sunk-cost dilemma last month, I decided it was time to write this post.
Sunk-Cost Dilemma B:
Waaaaay back in the spring of 2013, soon after moving to Boston, I purchased a sweater’s worth of sport-weight linen-rayon yarn in a life-affirming shade of green. Over the years I tried to knit myself a cardigan, but I always abandoned it (vintage stitch pattern + math to fit = eternal UFO. I should know myself by now!) Then in the midst of my craft decluttering, knowing I have a much higher/faster finish rate on gift projects, I figured that was the quickest way to stash down. Green is Heather’s favorite color too, and I’d found a sweater pattern on Ravelry I thought she’d love, so I downloaded the pdf, knit and laundered some gauge swatches, did some math, and cast on, hoping to finish it before my mid-October trip to Minnesota.
Well, I’m writing this post just after flying home from those ultra-cozy four-and-a-half days with Heather and Zach at a lakeside cabin under perfect blue skies and a canopy of orange and gold. And this is the current state of the sweater:
*A thousand miles of yarn is the most ridiculous hyperbole I’ve indulged in all year, it’s more like 770 yards (not even half a mile, HAH!)
I could have finished it in time. I chose not to. What went wrong? I knit multiple gauge swatches and measured them before and after laundering. I DID THE MATH! But I flubbed it somehow. This yarn grows A LOT widthwise, so a relatively snug bust measurement of 51” (the designer recommends 15-20” of ease) would have blocked out to approximately 68.”
Thirty inches of ease. Way. Too. Big.
Ordinarily when it becomes clear that I have made a mistake in my knitting or sewing, my anti-perfectionist script begins to play in my head: Follow your perfectionism to its logical endpoint and you will never finish a thing. Not a dishcloth or a granny square, not one sentence, nevermind a complete paragraph. You will be THE CREATOR OF NOTHING!!!
And this is all true, of course. I tried to tell myself it would be okay, that I could put in a crocheted “seam” up the sides to tuck in some of the excess width, or that if it doesn’t fit her (“come on, it definitely won’t fit her!”) it will fit someone else who will wear it and love it.
But I’m not knitting this sweater for some other person. I am knitting it for my friend, who will look and feel good in a garment that is “slouchy” but not to such an extent that it feels like a(n albeit pretty-green) trash bag with three slits cut in it for her head and arms. If it doesn’t feel good to finish something that isn’t quite right, it definitely won’t feel good to give it.
Over morning coffee with Heather and Zach, I started knitting a smaller size. She oohed over the color (I knew it!) and we talked about sunk cost. Here are Heather’s two primary pieces of advice:
to practice self compassion when reflecting upon supposedly-wasted time;
to look at EVERYTHING we write (or make) as skill building, meaning that the words we toss are just as necessary as the words that show up in a published work.
Our conversation reminded me of something Téa Obreht said in conversation with my friend Deirdre at the International Literature Festival Dublin this past May:
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Dross is inevitable when we live in a state of creative possibility. False starts, dead ends, and poop-outs aren’t evidence of our failures, they’re an ***occupational certainty.*** No writer has published every single word they have written. Every fiber artist has had to pick apart (frog, seam-rip, whatever) stitches that won’t get them the result they want, just as every home cook or baker has had to dump a failed experiment in the trash at least once.
Knowing if and when to quit (or pivot) is a call-and-response between intuition and logic. Heather’s two guidelines are the most essential, but I also feel like that’s easy for me to say since my considerable writing and knitting experience (25+ years and 19 years, respectively) allows me to come to a quicker decision than I could have done at, say, age 25. If self compassion feels out of reach (so far) and “everything is skill building” doesn’t automagically override your obsession with the One Perfect Outcome, here are a few more things to try:
Put the project in time out, and for longer than you think it needs.
When you circle back to your sunk-cost dilemma, ask yourself these questions: What’s the un/happiest outcome if I persevere? The un/happiest outcome if I quit? What are the one or two likeliest scenarios of all these, according to my inner guidance system? Are there other options I haven’t considered yet?
Now for the most clarifying questions of all: Is this project making me miserable right now? Has it ever made me feel radiantly, ludicrously happy? If yes and yes, return to step 1.
If you find yourself flinging your project (figuratively or literally) across the room again and again, over a period of years, well then—you just might have your answer. Keep in mind, too, that an indefinite time out still siphons a small amount of creative energy from your active WIPs.
I could have admitted the sweater was too big about five inches sooner. I worried about it all that time before I finally stopped. Owning up to the sunk cost meant not being able to give Heather her present in person, and that part was tougher than the necessity of frogging a full month’s worth of knitting. I was surprised at how I felt about the actual starting over. I felt good about it. I was looking forward to it, because knitting half of this sweater was a lot of fun. I listened to three wonderful novels—Travis Baldree’s Legends & Lattes and Bookshops & Bonedust and Maria Dahvana Headley’s The Mere Wife—feeling oh so content all the way through. Casting on a second time for the same sweater means I’m 2x’ing my enjoyment of this collection of stitch patterns and (hopefully) listening to twice as many excellent audiobooks. I’m practicing self compassion and choosing to value process over product. I can reframe my glorious-mess-of-a-time-travel-novel similarly:
Cutting up (or altogether chucking) these pages is the first step towards a stack of pages that WILL work.
Tossing this plot gives me plenty more time to live among these characters, for whom I feel such profound affection.
After this reframing, it is obvious to me that starting over is a joy and a privilege. I’ve learned so much from this process that I can (and will!) someday write a book about it.
Whether or not you decide to throw in the towel, look for the boons inside this period of frustration and uncertainty. This is how we get better at the work we love to do.
P.S. The International Rescue Committee is the humanitarian aid organization to which I contribute on a monthly basis. Here’s a link so you can click through and donate if you feel so inclined.
Emotional Hygiene Resources for Writers (and Everyone!)
If the title of this blog post caught your attention, then you probably already understand that your emotional wellbeing is the bedrock of your creative practice. Not only are you not capable of your best work while you're in "hot-mess" mode, your unexamined, unmanaged emotions may very well be creating a more stressful environment for your loved ones, friends, and colleagues. I've been the daughter, sister, friend, and girlfriend foisting her toxic storm of feelings onto her loved ones, and it's high time I shared what I've learned about emotional hygiene since Life Without Envy came out in 2016.
More recently (in May 2019) I made a video as part of a Life Without Envy web workshop on YouTube, and the recommendations in that video are still good. I've gone deeper into my private writing practice since then, though, and I have one daily prompt to share that will hopefully be as big a game-changer for you as it has been for me (it's at the end of this post).
Quick disclaimer: I am not a mental health professional, merely a fellow artist committed to taking responsibility for her emotional wellbeing and developing her emotional intelligence.
More on YouTube
Guy Winch’s TEDx talk, Why we all need to practice emotional first aid
Dr. Abdul Saad's Self-Transformation Series [I really appreciate his pleasantly neutral presence and delivery—it makes the concepts he's sharing much easier to grasp]
Clean vs. Dirty Pain and other videos from Therapy in a Nutshell [this channel is very helpful, just beware there's occasional religiosity]
How to Feel Peace Even with Challenges, Leslie Huddart
What can I give?, Taking responsibility for our own happiness, and other videos from Ralph de la Rosa
My favorite yoga teachers on YouTube: Koya Webb (highly recommend Yoga for Anxiety and Stress Relief), Kino MacGregor, Yoga with Adriene, Erica Rascon
Read on the web
An excerpt from Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now
7 Ways to Practice Emotional First Aid [also Guy Winch]
Byron Katie [There are free downloadable worksheets on her site, though you don't necessarily need to fill them out; for me the key takeaway is to ask after every judgmental or otherwise negative thought you have, "Is that true?" Because it's usually not.]
Heather Demetrios, Halting Your Thought Traffic and Hold Your Seat [+ her whole blog!]
Books
[Full disclosure: I'm using Bookshop.org affiliate links.]
Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now and A New Earth
Guy Winch, Emotional First Aid [I recorded an excerpt here]
Joe Dispenza's Breaking the Habit of Being Yourself
Pema Chödrön's Comfortable With Uncertainty
Trevor Blake's Three Simple Steps
Dr. Eric Maisel's Coaching the Artist Within and Mastering Creative Anxiety
Lauren Sapala's The INFJ Revolution [I'm an INFP and I still felt like Lauren was reading my soul!]
And the daily practice that has helped me most:
Since last spring, the first thing I do each day (after going to the bathroom and brewing coffee) is to write down how I'm feeling and why—and if I don't know why, I keep writing until I have some semblance of an answer. And if I find myself feeling grumpy or frustrated during the day, I pause whatever I'm doing, go back to my journal, and ask the two questions again:
What am I feeling right now?
Why am I feeling it?
I didn't really learn this from anyone, it just occurred to me one day that it would be beneficial to articulate my emotions in real time, and I noticed soon afterward that I was much less reactive. I'm also much more patient with myself and others—there have been several occasions over these past eight months when I paused and thought, Before, I would have snapped. Owing to a few unfortunate episodes in my early childhood (flagged "TMI" in the context of this post), my "pain body" is activated when I feel invisible in social situations, so (for me, at least) it's the "self witnessing," "self validating" aspect of the exercise that has resulted in this shift. I articulate my emotions without attaching a sense of "rightness" to them, remaining as lovingly neutral as it is possible for me to be in that particular moment.
I hope at least one of these resources offers you some relief from the COVID pressure cooker (in addition to all the "usual" stresses of life). I'll add to this list whenever I encounter more helpful content. If you have any favorite books or links to share, I would be grateful if you left a comment. [And a big shout-out to Rachel for inspiring this post!]
Sign up for more where this came from
My new opt-in goodie is a concise 35-minute private writing workshop video + workbook. (How is "private writing" different from journaling? Watch this.) If you found this post helpful and want more, sign up for my list and you'll receive the link in your welcome email.
Comet Party Summer School: the Vision Statement
What are the two most powerful words in this or any language?
I am.
I’ve been thinking about this ever since Jill Louise Busby dropped me a DM after reading Life Without Envy. Thank you for being a vessel, she wrote.
I am a vessel, I thought. I said it out loud. And the more I said it, the righter it felt.
In the beginning, I only wanted to tell stories. I wanted to be clever and I wanted to be recognized for my cleverness. The other day I cracked a journal I kept in 2007, scanned one entry, and felt a sweet surge of relief that I am not that person anymore. (This is why I keep my notebooks.)
The evolution out of a desire to prove oneself into a desire to contribute is the central tenet of Life Without Envy, and for me that first twinkling happened in the summer and early autumn of 2010 when I volunteered on my friends’ homestead farm in Vermont. I have never been quite so content as I was those days I spent planting and weeding and watering, sleeping in a platform tent, rising before six to watch the sun coming up over the treeline as the fog withdrew from the rolling meadow before me. Best of all were the people: Gail and Paul and their neighbors, their daughters, and my fellow volunteers. That summer we all felt like Gail and Paul’s brood. Nature + making myself useful + community as close as family, that’s all I need to be happy.
The meadow at Harmony Homestead Farm.
My experiences at Sadhana Forest and Squam Art Workshops the following year brought the new desire into focus: more nature, more community, plus ethical veganism, art, and handicrafts. At Sadhana Forest I helped with meal planning and prep for something like 35 to 45 people, and I became my grandmother’s granddaughter (more fully than ever before) even though the cuisine couldn’t have been more different than the lasagnas and salmon loaf of my childhood: food is one of my love languages. It’s how I love my family and friends, it’s how I love myself, and it’s how I express care and concern for people I don’t know all that well yet. And I loved the feeling of being at sleep-away camp and making beautiful things alongside new friends who had also come to make beautiful things and bask in the tranquility of Squam Lake.
I thought of how one of my grade-school friends had gone to music camp every summer; I remembered the name of the organization, so I Googled it, curious as to how much it cost. Well, I don’t know how much it was back in 1995, but in 2013 it was $8,000 for a six-week program. I started to think, wouldn’t it be great if kids (whose parents could never afford a typical sleep-away camp) could have an experience like Squam? And what about kids who didn’t have parents to come home to?
I’ve been to Squam many times now—as student, teacher, and staff—and each time it bothered me how white and upper-middle-class we were as a group. More recently, Elizabeth has done a wonderful job of highlighting and supporting the work of artists, artisans, and teachers of color, but the economic inequities remain; I’m sure many knitters would love to spend four days taking classes at a lakeside cabin but will likely never have that $1,400 to spare.
On one trip I stopped at the general store in Holderness and found a rack of greeting cards with quotes attributed to Rumi: “Live your life as if the universe is rigged in your favor…because it is.” I had a flashback to a church my family and I visited above Lake Kivu in Rwanda, where 11,000 people were murdered during the genocide. Slavery, lynchings, civilian casualties. I felt this fury any time somebody brought up the Law of Attraction. The universe is rigged in your favor: this was a message appropriated by and intended solely for privileged white women like me.
I met Rachael Rice at Squam in 2014, and I referenced her excellent blog post in Email Marketing and "Authenticity," but the message is too important not to share again here:
“Can we imagine the impact of our work beyond those who can afford it?”
Nowadays the summer camp in my mind is primarily for grownups—at least to start with—purely for logistical reasons. During quiet afternoons at the Providence Athenaeum I would dream of a library in the forest with cozy carrels where writers of all stripes and sensibilities could focus on their manuscripts. Everyone would see themselves represented on the shelves in this library. Attendees who could afford to pay for their retreat-time would subsidize those who could not; or maybe it would be a pay-what-you-can model? Filling vegan lunches packed with care, just like the ones that fueled the Bones & All revision at Hawthornden. Childcare. Hammocks and more hammocks, hammocks everywhere, and a home-sewn quilt on every bed. Writing workshops, painting and drumming workshops, workshops on foraging and herbalism and anything else people want to learn about. Safe spaces for members of marginalized communities to come together (“safe” meaning that every soul in the place understands why “no white people in this room for the next two hours” is not racist). A food forest. A swimming pool. Campfires and jam sessions. Tiny houses, perhaps—though after reading Sunaura Taylor’s wonderful book Beasts of Burden, these spaces I was dreaming of became ADA-compliant. And because white saviorism is something else I’ve been thinking about a lot, I saw myself asking, What do you actually want and need? How can I help make it happen and then leave you to use and enjoy it?
Every day—up until just a few months ago—I’d been asking myself, how the heck am I going to get from here—making next to no money off my writing at the moment, without much saved—to there, that pretty plot of acres with architectural blueprints in hand?
I’m not sure what’s shifted, exactly, I just know that I don’t need a bridge, I AM the bridge. I’ll bring this retreat into being one plank at a time. The workshops? I can make those happen now. That’s why I wanted to publish this post on the day I launch The Bright Idea Kit and finally hang my shingle as a writing coach. The course is a $200 investment and coaching is $100 an hour, perhaps a tad ironic given the vision I’ve just shared with you, but I’ve poured all of my twenty years of experience into this class and I’m feeling confident that it’s going to catalyze a lot of creative awakenings. In terms of walking my talk, I am making myself informally available for aspiring writers who can use the mentorship, and I’ll allot more bandwidth (creating an actual program, perhaps?) as I get myself sorted financially. I'll also be hosting free workshops starting later on in 2021 (first up: the power and potential of private writing!)
I see myself—white hair, liver-spotted hands—working away in one of those carrels. I am a writer. But my greater work for this lifetime is to “take up space” by holding space for others, to create a warm, welcoming retreat and inhabit it for the rest of my life without ever claiming it as mine.
If you’d like to be a part of this community (virtually for now and eventually IRL), you can join my mailing list to watch it all unfold and participate as much as you feel like. Thank you for reading this, and I wish you a healthy, joyful, and fulfilling 2021! ✨
EDIT: Adding the link to Be Seen Project founder Mindy Tsonas Choi's relevant and insightful piece from March 2021, "The Cost of Selling Belonging."