Hello! Before we dive in, some organizational stuff...

First, I've seen a rich influx of new subscribers recently – thanks for being here! This newsletter is about becoming an Amateur. This typically includes ideas on half-assing more things, adopting a more effortless mindset, and embracing imperfections (as I'm trying to recover from my own perfectionistic tendencies). Also, it's where I give the occasional update on my writer's life. Of course, all this happens on a highly irregular rhythm. Schedules are for professionals.

Second, I decided to move this newsletter to Substack. The move will happen within the next week or so, and if everything runs smoothly, you won't even notice it (barring a slightly different layout).

In case you're curious why I'm doing this, here's a look behind the curtain:

• Substack has better community infrastructure, allowing you to comment, like, and share posts.
• If you already follow other newsletters on Substack (*ahem* like The Bibliosopher's Club), you can manage them all in one place.
• Substack is free for authors, whereas Kit, the platform I'm using now, will charge me a substantial monthly sum once I cross the soon-to-be-reached 1,000 subscriber mark.
• Finally, Substack allows me to use more publishing tools, such as creating voiceovers.

In an ideal world, I would publish everything from one platform (aka my website), but that world would require a far more tech-savvy, organized version of myself. So, until then, I'll be using the next-best tools at my disposal – just like an amateur would.

Which brings us to today's topic.

On Desks, Deliberate Defeat, and Doing the Thing

My first writer's desk was a white, rectangular specimen from a Swedish furniture retailer. The height was adjustable, and its surface was so large that I could lay on it comfortably. The ideal desk, it seemed. And sure enough, I spent many productive hours with this desk. I even received compliments. A friend once called it "the perfect minimalist desk setup."

But then, as I was stuck in a rut one day, my desk suddenly seemed inadequate. Too big, too hefty, too minimalist. I craved change. And so, I disassembled the desk, put it on eBay, and decided to no longer work from home. From then on, I ventured to do all my writing at the university library. That would be the solution, I figured. Finally, I would be able to work in a focused environment, away from distractions, surrounded by great literature.

Writing at the library was great for a while. I always sat down at the same desk. I felt productive. Until, one day, the library seemed inadequate, too. The air was stuffy, the productivity vibe distracted me, and anyway, there was no good coffee within a reachable radius.

So, here I am. I spent the entire morning browsing for new desks. The next desk will be the one. I'm sure of it.

***

While browsing for new desks, I randomly remembered a parable from the book Resonance by the sociologist Hartmut Rosa. Here's how I recalled it just then:

Quinn and Blaire are aspiring painters. They both love to paint, but their approaches are very different. Quinn is a conscientious painter who visits lectures in art history, keeps a big scrapbook with ideas, and constantly researches the best brushes, colors, and canvases. Quinn wants to ensure no paintstroke is wasted. To paint is to perfect.

Then, there's Blaire. Blaire rummages in her parents' basement for old brushes, borrows a few colors from friends, and uses wooden panels she found on the street to start painting. To paint is to practice.

One day, they meet to chat about their artistic projects. Blaire says that she has crafted hundreds of messy, imperfect paintings, but she keeps painting nonetheless. Upon hearing this, Quinn says that there's only one painting she's been working on for the past few years. Blaire is impressed by this and asks if she can see the painting.

"Oh," Quinn says, "I haven't yet started painting. I spent the last few years looking for the perfect canvas. Now, I'm looking for the right colors."

***

The uncomfortable realization dawned on me as I was clicking through a series of mid-century desks: I had become more like Quinn and less like Blaire. I'd spent most of my time optimizing external resources when all this time, I could've simply done the damn thing: writing.

Of course, this logic applies not just to writing or painting but to pretty much any hobby, activity, or skill. In any case, we postpone the thing itself and instead focus on lining up the ducks, on optimizing resources and circumstances. The basic formula behind this logic goes something like this:

If only I had X, then I could finally be/do/feel Y.

If only I had the perfect desk setup, I could finally write again.
If only I had more money, I could finally sail around the world.
If only I had more confidence, I could finally talk to strangers I find interesting.

If only...

It's worth highlighting the genius behind this logic. I don't know about you, but I've noticed that I'm readily willing to alter the "right conditions" so that I'll never actually get to do the thing. When it's not my desk that's impeding my creativity, it might be the cloudy sky, or the noise from the street, or an overly busy schedule. Of course, considering these aspects is important. But they mustn't become the prerequisites for doing the thing. When my intention is to write, I can do that under almost any circumstances. I only need a pen and a piece of paper (or any other device that can create letters). But when I twist this logic, thinking that I actually need the perfect desk, an ergonomic chair, a crystal-clear mind, focus music, caffeine, and sugary yet healthy snacks – when the goal becomes optimizing resources for writing rather than writing itself – well, that doesn't sound right.

So what's going on here? Why do I – and many other people in this world – spend my time chasing empty promises rather than getting around to doing what matters most?

For one thing, my sanity is at stake. For instance, if I truly faced up to the fact that I could just write right now – no matter my desk situation – I'd need to accept that this is it. I'd need to accept that this is how I'm choosing to spend my limited time. This is my contribution to humanity. This is my silent scream for attention in a hauntingly irresponsive universe. In other words, I'd need to accept that my contentment doesn't hinge on conditions that must be met but on a reality that can be experienced. Which, of course, feels scary because reality is imperfect by design. You can always find flaws if you look hard enough.

Conversely, if I spend my time optimizing resources – finding a better desk, ordering books I'll never read, and shopping for keyboards – I can pretend that life will only begin somewhere down the road, somewhere in the future. What happens now is only the dress rehearsal. The real spectacle will start tomorrow. Tomorrow, the show can begin. Tomorrow, my life can finally unfold.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

***

I believe there's an antidote. The antidote is – to inconveniently mix metaphors – to step off the treadmill and partake in the grand premiere of life, knowing that it might suck. We might call this antidote "deliberate defeat."

The premise of deliberate defeat is to embrace that you'll never be fully prepared, gather the perfect resources, or feel a sublime rush of enduring motivation. None of that is going to happen. And you know what? That's excellent news.

I, for one, find it relieving to recall that I'm already working with a faulty situation. That's where the real magic happens. It's like digging through a huge box of old, thrown-together LEGO bricks and finding inspiration in the chaos, in the randomness. Contrarily, assembling a $500 racecar set by following predefined instructions – well, that's a little boring.

In this sense, deliberate defeat subverts the formula I mentioned above. The new formula might go like this:

I'll never have X, so I might as well imperfectly do/be/feel Y.

I'll never have the perfect desk setup, so I might as well write a few shitty lines.
I'll never have enough money to sail the world, so I might as well visit one country by train.
I'll never stop caring what people think, so I might as well make a fool of myself.

To be clear, deliberate defeat is not the same as "learning to love the process." After all, the process is ugly. The process might suck. And besides, the word "process" suggests, once again, that there's a glorious state of utopia that must be reached (even though utopias are impossible by design). Deliberate defeat means scratching the word process from one's vocabulary and replacing it with failing. It means doing something not in spite of defeat but because of defeat.

It's about becoming an amateur – in the truest sense of the word.

***

So, here I am. After hours of browsing for new desks this morning, I'm finally writing these lines slumped up in my bed. Undoubtedly, my eyes are way too close to the screen, and my seating position is an ergonomist's nightmare. And yet, miraculously, I'm writing. In a few moments, I'll publish this text, and there's a good chance I'll hate everything I've written. In a few months from now, I might re-read these lines and cringe at my pretentious ideas, my weird word choice, my intellectual grandstanding. But right now, I'm writing. Right now, I'm doing the thing.

Right now, I'm embracing deliberate defeat.