Month: January 2020

The Fragility of Emotion

There have been thousands of sci-fi TV shows and movies throughout the years. But only a select few franchises have the level of popularity that Star Trek does.

Why that is remains an open-ended question.

It could be the aspirational mantra— To go where no man has gone before. It could be the fascination with all the technological flair. It could be the intrigue of the mysterious language of Klingon.

But I think the appeal of Star Trek comes from something far more fundamental — the allure of the protagonist.

The franchise primarily covers the adventures of the Starship Enterprise. The ship’s captain in the initial series — James T. Kirk — is a confident character who is not afraid to wear his emotions on his sleeve. Yet, his First Officer — Spock — is meticulously logical and comparatively emotionless.

Spock’s tendencies are biological. Spock is Vulcan on his father’s side, and Vulcans are defined by their adherence to logic. Kirk’s tendencies are also biological — as humans are often known for their bravado.

The dynamic between Kirk and Spock defines much of the narrative — both in the 1960s TV show and the 2000s reboot film series. Their interactions often demonstrate the conflict between emotion and logic.

This dramatic tension resonates. After all, logic and emotion are two core conditions of humanity. And they represent the two pillars of storytelling.

With this in mind, it’s no wonder Star Trek is so compelling. In a strange way, it’s the story of us.

Step away from the TV screen, and the view is much different.

In our everyday lives, we don’t want to explore the overlap of logic and emotion. We’d rather keep them separated.

So, we protect our emotions with vigor. We aspire to keep our mood steady. And we angrily rebuke anyone who pokes holes in our defenses.

This process takes no prisoners. Like an enraged dragon, our defenses engulf anyone who questions our decision making processes.

No one is spared when this inferno rages. Not our enemies. Not our acquaintances. And not even our loved ones.

And sometimes, entire industries feel our wrath for prodding a little too deeply. Two, in particular, get on our nerves most often — the news media and marketing.

These professions get all up in our business. They blast right through our varnished facades and expose the raw emotions within us.

We don’t like getting exposed like this. So, we brand the news media as Triggering. And we give marketers scarlet letter of Manipulative.

We sing the praises of other industries in their stead. Of professions that are more logical.

They seem like lines of work that Spock would excel in, if he wasn’t the First Officer on a famous Starship. And we aspire to be like Spock — or at least to appear to be like him.

Of course, in reality, we are not like Spock. Not even close.

Unlike half-Vulcans, we are driven by emotion. We feed off it. We rely on it.

We want to be loved, cared for and doted on. We want to experience joy, wonder and satisfaction. We want to our pulse to quicken, our heart to race, the blood to flow through our veins.

Most of all, we want to feel.

So, we lead with emotion. We let it pilot our decisions. Then we use logic to justify them.

None of this, on its face, is improper. After all, emotion is what makes us human.

Still, this approach comes with its own set of issues.

For emotion is fragile. Emotion is raw. And emotion leaves us vulnerable.

Our feelings can cloud our judgment. That means others can use them against us for nefarious purposes.

We avoid this outcome by spinning a narrative. By portraying ourselves as logic-based machines. And by rebuffing anyone who openly tries to stoke our emotions.

This is the objective we seek — this relentless homogeneity. It’s the safe play. Far safer than exposing the soft underbelly of our emotions.

But it’s also vanilla. Too vanilla for our tastes.

And that dissonance looms large.

When there’s a logjam, it’s best to cut through the clutter.

We want the stability of logic-based decision making. But we need information to feed our emotional side.

The legal and financial industries help give us what we want. They provide us the cornerstones of order and power — even as seem more detached from reality than someone hopped up on Valium.

But maligned industries like the media and marketing — they give us what we need. They call to our emotions, providing us the fodder to make choices in the manner we’re most accustomed to.

Yes, professions like these are the purest reflection of the human condition. They allow us to make profound connections. Connections that capitalize on the very fragility of emotion we so fear. Connections that build upon empathy to make the world a better place.

This is why I’ve chosen to work in both the media and marketing realms throughout my career. And it’s why it irks me to see them so callously smeared.

For there is a lot of good in these lines of work.

Indeed, unlike many “logic-based” professions, these industries are seldom zero-sum. It’s not about winners and losers, or lifting up one at the expense of another.

At their best, these industries think broader. They focus on connecting buyers and sellers, or providing knowledge to the uninformed.

These are the types of mutually-beneficial exchanges that can raise entire societies. When we have each other’s backs — when we’re focused on the same endpoint — we soar.

But we can’t get there by playing it safe. By putting distance between ourselves and those who are attempting to reach us. By deluding ourselves as to our true nature.

No, we must welcome vulnerability. We must accept the fragility of emotion. And we must recognize the potential that exists if we allow others to move us toward action.

To be sure, this is not a silver bullet. If we don’t do our due diligence, we can get badly hurt.

But it is a step in the right direction. A necessary step.

The fragility of emotion is not a bug in the human condition. It’s a feature.

Let’s get the most out of it.

The Ambiguity Trinity

There’s an old adage: You never forget your first professional moment of crisis.

I can still remember mine.

I was fresh into my first post-college job, working as a news producer in Midland, Texas.

My job was to put together the 5 PM and 10 PM newscasts — which made me a jack-of-all-trades.

I organized each newscast, determining which stories would run where. I coordinated with the reporters and made sure their full-length reports ran on-air as planned. I wrote news scripts for the anchors to read. And I contacted the authorities to confirm developing information as it arose.

These last two responsibilities were the most critical. For they helped get fresh information on the airwaves, while adhering to the three principles of news: Be First. Be Right. Be Best.

At first, I had no trouble with this part of my job. This was years ahead of the era of toxic anti-media sentiment, and Midland had something of a small-town feel.

The officials I talked to would generally confirm the information I was asking about instantly. And I was able to get most stories on the air with little to no trouble.

One day, that changed.

I can’t remember the story I was working on covering that day. A shooting perhaps. Or maybe a car accident. Whatever it was, I’d heard about it on the police scanner that sat by my desk.

I sent our cameraman to the scene to get some footage. But it was getting perilously close to 5 PM, and there was no way that footage was making the early newscast. So, I would need to write a short summary of the situation for the anchors to read on the air.

I picked up the phone and dialed the number for my police contact. But when I asked them about what I’d heard over the scanner, I got an unexpected reply.

“All we can confirm is that we have officers on the scene,” they said. “We have nothing more we can share at this time.”

I descended into a panic.

I couldn’t run the story. For I couldn’t confirm that what I had heard over the scanner frequency was accurate.

Yet, I couldn’t not run the story. If I did that, our viewers would be denied important information — and our competition would get the edge on us.

What was I to do?

My boss — who was both the news director and an anchor — overheard my dilemma and gave me some quick advice.

“Tell the viewers three things,” he said. “What you know, what you don’t know, and what you’re working to get more information on.”

It was a simple, straightforward tip. Yet, hearing it lifted a weight off my shoulders.

I got back to work, quickly typing out a news script that looked something like this:

Police are on scene investigating an incident in West Midland. We don’t know at this point if anyone has been injured in the incident. We have a crew on the scene and will bring you more information as we get it.

With three short sentences, I covered all three points of emphasis. And even without assistance from the authorities, I was able to get accurate, fresh information on the air.

What happened that day might seem like a small win. But it left a lasting impact on my life.

Since then, I’ve encountered many moments of uncertainty. Many times where I’m on the spot and I don’t have all the answers.

It’s no fun at all to be in this spot. To be caught off-guard. To feel trapped and dumbfounded.

But fortunately, I have the antidote. For I know there are three questions I can for sure answer:

  • What I know
  • What I don’t know.
  • What I’m working to get more information on.

Yes, I’ve made those same three questions I used to get that story on the air into a blueprint.

I call these questions The Ambiguity Trinity.

The Ambiguity Trinity helped me plenty of times in my TV news career. But it’s helped even more in the years since I left the media behind.

In fact, it’s gotten me out of more tough spots than I care to count.

I’m no longer dumbfounded when a client calls me out of the blue to go over something out of left field. I no longer freeze when facing a gauntlet of questions after giving a presentation.

The Ambiguity Trinity is like a security blanket. It keeps me from losing my poise or getting exposed.

And unlike the art of shooting bull, The Ambiguity Trinity stands the test of truth.

There are no fancy elaborations required. Just the simple facts that are at hand at the moment.

It might not be a perfect solution. But it’s darn close to it.

The Ambiguity Trinity can help us out in a pinch. But could we be selling it short?

After all, what we know, what we don’t know and what we’re working to learn more about are the three fundamental pillars of our lives.

In a world where knowledge is power, expanding our knowledge base is critical. So is the act of reducing our unknowns.

Indeed, the quest to learn mirrors the directive to grow. It’s imperative.

So, why are we relying on these principles only in times of crisis? Why do we only aspire to answer these questions in times of crisis?

Is it because of our hubris? Our ego? Our misplaced self-assuredness?

Perhaps.

In a culture built on confidence, sharing what we don’t know is generally considered unwise. It reflects doubt and vulnerability. And each is a principle the confidence movement seeks to banish.

So we hide what we don’t know from the world until we figure it out. Unless the world calls our bluff, and we have to show our cards.

Then, and only then, The Ambiguity Trinity is our ace in the hole.

It need not be like this.

We can get much more mileage out of The Ambiguity Trinity. And we can glean so much more from the world as a result.

Sharing what we know, what we don’t know and what we’re working to learn more about can make us seem honest and self-aware. That transparency can breed trust. And trust can forge connections.

Yes, a little more openness can go a long way.

So, let’s stop hiding from the unknowns. Let’s embrace them head-on, with The Ambiguity Trinity as our guide.

For uncertainty might await. But so might opportunity.

Let’s seize it.

Earn It

The sun was barely up and the coffee was piping hot.

Yet, there was palpable excitement throughout the office.

For it was Friday.

And not just any Friday. A short-week Friday.

There had been a holiday earlier in the week. We had barely gotten back to work. And yet, there were already two more days off on the horizon.

As the day wore on, more and more of the office slid into full-fledged Friday mode. Fewer and fewer items on to-do lists got completed. More and more sidebar conversations popped up at various cubicles.

It seemed like everyone’s focus was on the impending weekend.

But mine was not.

As my co-workers ran down the clock, I was racing against it.

There was so much to do. And there wasn’t enough time.

I did my best to tune out the distractions around me. I locked eyes with my computer screen. And I started crossing items off my to-do list.

It was slow going at first. But soon, I picked up momentum.

I was getting to more tasks in a shorter amount of time. The to-do list was getting shorter.

But it wasn’t enough. As the workday wound down, I was still behind the 8-ball. Some items on my list would have to get pushed to next week.

I got in my SUV and headed home, where two days of freedom awaited me.

But I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt like I had failed.

There are several theories about the balance between our lives at work and our lives outside of it.

Parkinson’s Law states that work expands to fit the time available for its completion. Many scientific studies have shown that vacations are good for our health. And there is even a growing consensus that working longer hours hurts our productivity.

These revelations have changed the way work is done. Many companies now offer flexible work schedules, generous vacation policies, and the ability for employees to work from home.

Now, some are pushing the boundary even further. Some experts in recent years have been calling for the 8 hour workday to be cut to 6 hours. And the Prime Minister of Finland has floated the idea of moving to a four day work week.

On the surface, I have no qualms with the idea of vacations or 4 day work weeks. After all, I once set my college class schedule specifically so I could have three day weekends.

But there’s another side to reduced work schedules. A darker side.

For while an abbreviated work schedule gives us more time to enjoy life outside of the office, it also leaves us with less time to get things done within it. And that can cause problems.

There are two ways to approach time off.

One is as a gift. As something bestowed upon us with no strings attached.

The other is as a reward. As something achieved in exchange for our hard work.

These days, many of us take the first approach. We expect time off to be generous and unconditional. And we indulge in opportunities to get away from the grinding demands of the professional world.

We live for the weekends and holidays. We curse Mondays and approach Fridays with a sense of righteous vindication.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with taking this route. It’s natural — even expected — in a world where the traditional workplace norms are getting unshackled, one by one.

But I don’t follow the crowd here. Instead I go for the second approach.

For I believe in the grind. I believe in rolling up my sleeves and getting to it.

Most of all, I believe that to get a break, I need to earn it.

Now, there are upsides and downsides to this approach.

On the plus side, I’m able to keep a steady course. I don’t get crushed by the Monday Blues, and I rarely find myself flying high on Fridays. There is only the next task. The next day. The next opportunity to get after it.

But on the minus side, I get flustered when I get off-schedule. So short weeks and missed deadlines each eat at me.

When the routine suddenly shifts, I find myself without direction. And I feel unworthy of the freedom bestowed upon me. For I haven’t earned it.

Why on earth would I subject myself to this torture?

In a world where instant gratification has never been more plentiful, why would I shun it in favor of monotony?

The answer is equal parts self-control and self-awareness.

As avid Words of the West readers know, I’m a bit obsessed with control.

I crave it. I depend on it.

Yet, I often have doubts on my abilities. And these doubts undercut my sense of control.

This paradox used to paralyze me. I was a ship in irons, caught between the warm trade winds of ambition and the frigid gales of doubt.

It got so bad that by the middle of my high school years, I had checked out. I would sleepwalk through classes, come home and blankly watch whatever sports game was on television.

I was a mess. My grades were slipping. And my misery was rising.

My mother saw all this. And she was not happy.

One day, in a fit of seething exasperation, she called me lazy. Not once, but multiple times.

I could have shrugged this off, the way I shrugged off everything else at that time. But something in those stinging words lit a fire under me.

I didn’t like being called lazy. And I wanted make sure that wouldn’t happen ever again.

So, I made a pact with myself. I conceded that others might have more talent than I did, but I swore that no one would outwork me.

This helped me break the ice of my self-doubt and regain control of my destiny. And it’s continued to provide me direction to this day.

Yes, the Earn It approach is not just habit. It’s my guiding principle.

There’s no need to evangelize the Earn It approach. For it’s not for everyone.

Still, it’s important that we understand the merits of this mindset. It’s important that we recognize the value of hard work and determination.

These principles might not be flashy. But they provide a steadfast certainty in an ever-changing world. And they can yield an unparalleled sense of satisfaction — the satisfaction of a job well done.

So, while we count our blessings and indulge in ever more abundant leisure opportunities, we should remember one thing.

Some of the best things in life are not given. They’re earned.

When We Lose the Governor

It was a beautiful Florida day.

Blue skies stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with puffy white clouds. Sunshine and warmth abounded. The slightest breeze kept things from getting insufferable.

But on this day, I wasn’t on the beach or dining under a palm-lined restaurant patio. Instead, I was behind the wheel of my old Saturn, trekking up the Florida Turnpike from Miami to Orlando.

The route was boring and monotonous. An endless stream of trees and swamps that were occasionally interrupted by suburban neighborhoods.

But as I passed the Fort Pierce interchange, my heart started beating faster.

For I knew what came next. A 40 mile trek across a remote corner of the Everglades.

Between Fort Pierce and Yeehaw Junction, there were almost no distractions. There were hardly any trees. There were few onramps, offramps or curves in the road. And, most importantly, there were no sheriff’s deputies with radar guns looking to make their speeding ticket quota.

I could go as fast as I wanted. So, I pushed the pedal to the floor.

The Saturn accelerated as it roared down a long straightaway bracketed by sawgrass and swamps.

I watched the speedometer gauge on my dashboard move ever more to the right. 85 miles an hour. 90. 95. 100. 105.

But when it hit 107 miles per hour, I felt a jolt. Suddenly, I was traveling at 80 miles an hour again.

The governor had kicked in on my engine. I had hit top speed.

Not the 120 mile per hour clip my speedometer advertised. But not far from it either.

Either way, the experience was truly terrifying.

In the moments after my need-for-speed encounter, my mind was still racing.

Suddenly, the potential consequences of what I had done were clear to me. I recognized that by flooring the gas pedal, I had actually ceded control. My actions had increased the risk of the car rolling over, veering off course or going up in flames.

The governor saved me from all that. And I was truly grateful for it.

In all the years since this incident, I have never tested top-speed in any vehicle I’ve driven. And even as I’ve moved on to vehicles with more powerful engines, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve cracked the 100 mile per hour mark.

The guardrail is there for a reason. Better not to use it as a crutch.

Governors don’t just exist in car engines. (Or as positions in regional politics, for that matter.)

They play a sweeping, yet pivotal role in our society.

Governors are the voices of reason that call to our conscience. They keep us from veering into anarchy.

For many years, a web of institutions has served as our society’s governor. These institutions have included civic bodies, religious establishments and the media.

Each institution has approached rationality in a different way. Civic bodies — such as police and the courts — have spoken to the rule of law. Religious establishments have spoken to the question of morality. And the media have spoken to the obsession with legacy.

No matter how reckless and swashbuckling we got, these institutions have continually provided a line in the sand. Cross it and become an outcast from society. A pariah. A wearer of the Scarlet Letter.

No one wants this outcome. And because of that, the societal governor has been quite effective at putting a lid on extremism.

But recently, that lid has been sent skyward.

Ever wondered what life would look like with no limits?

Look around you. It’s happening now.

Yes, we are in the midst of contentious times. Divisiveness is as high as it’s ever been. Trust in institutions is as low as it’s ever been. And more and more, there is a sense that the guardrails we’ve long heeded need not apply anymore.

Thanks to the growth of the Internet — social networking in particular — we can shroud ourselves in filter bubbles. We can rally behind ever more radical worldviews, casting stones at anyone who dares think differently from us. And we can count on a network of like-minded thinkers to rally around us, fortifying our views.

But what of the old establishment? We can cast stones at them too. We can call the civic bodies corrupt. We can call religious establishments hypocritical. We can call the media “fake news”.

We can, and we do.

Certainly, there is an element of truth to these accusations. Our key societal institutions are far from infallible.

But by painting them with such a broad brush — by undermining them in this fashion —  we remove the governor entirely.

We allow chaos to ensue. And with chaos comes absurdity.

Absurdity like a leading evangelical Christian magazine being branded as offensive for calling the President of the United States immoral.

Sure, the magazine took a controversial stand in an opinion column, calling for the president to be removed from office. But the rebuke of being branded as offensive hardly seems to fit the circumstances. As these words are being written, the president is facing an impeachment trial, and people on both sides of the political spectrum are questioning his morality.

In labeling the president’s actions as immoral, the evangelical magazine was trying to restore reason. To demonstrate where the lines in the sand for acceptable behavior are.

This is well within the scope of expertise for an organization that is built on the issue of morality. It’s within bounds for an entity that focuses upon morality as our one true measuring stick.

Yet, in a world where we’ve lost the governor, even measuring sticks get attacked.

There is seemingly no limit to what we can do or say without getting called to account for our behavior.

And that’s more frightening than feeling the engine lock up on a Florida highway.

It’s time for this madness to stop.

It’s time to bring the governor back into the equation.

We, and we alone, have the power to do this. For we are the ones who defanged the old system in the first place.

Getting this done will take us stepping out of our comfort zone. It will take us shunning our filter bubble and voluntarily putting restraints on ourselves.

This is a big ask. But for the future of society, it’s a worthwhile one. And a necessary one.

We built this monster. The time has come to slay it.

The Obsession With Newness

Square One.

It’s an interesting place.

On one hand, you have a clean slate. Endless opportunity. Like a jet at the end of the runway, you’re ready for takeoff.

Then again, you have no experience to build off of. No internal compass sending you in the right direction. You’re as wobbly and tentative as a baby giraffe learning how to take its first steps.

Yes, everything about the Square One experience — for better or for worse — is just new.

And we can’t get enough of it.

 

We are now in an era of peak newness.

As these words are being shared, the world is embarking on a journey into a new decade. And while my thoughts on alcohol-fueled calendar worship are well documented, the scope of newness in the world these days is truly unprecedented.

The way we think, act and organize is all far different than it was when I was in high school. And I wasn’t in high school all that long ago.

These changes are pervasive — stretching from business to politics, from dating to grocery shopping. No matter where you look, cultural conventions have been turned upside down.

There are plenty of explanations for this phenomenon.

For instance, some say technological innovation is driving the change we see. Others say the rise of entrepreneurship is leading the charge.

Neither of these explanations is wrong. But neither is entirely correct, either.

Large-scale innovation has been around for centuries. From the printing press to the automobile, innovations have long shifted the course of our culture.

And entrepreneurship might be having its day in the sun, but it’s been in the shadows for quite some time. Lest we forget, Thomas Edison was an entrepreneur. And his heyday was more than a century ago.

Even the intersection of these two phenomena is not particularly novel. There is a lot of buzz around twentysomethings who rocketed to wealth on the strength of their smartphone apps. But a little more than a generation ago, Bill Gates and Steve Jobs each did the same thing —  from their garages, with the personal computer.

So, what’s really driving the accelerating rate of change we’re seeing?

I believe it’s a surge of Square One fever.

Newness is in style now. But it hasn’t always been that way.

In fact, there was a time when starting over was a dirty word in our society. A time where it reflected a step backward. A time where it represented a lack of respect for the sacrifices prior generations had made.

These snubs were significant, as the dominant culture had been built upon the sacrifices these prior generations had made — primarily through consecutive waves of migration.

The first wave of migration brought settlers across the ocean to North America. The second sent pioneers across the land.

Each wave faced down its share of danger. Harsh weather, rampant disease and frontier lawlessness made success far from a sure thing.

Yet, these settlers powered through to provide a better future for their families. They laid the foundation that future generations could build upon.

Whether one was raised in posh Boston townhome or born in a modest farmhouse in Nebraska, they had a leg up on their ancestors. Tossing that advantage away would be sacrilege.

The events of the early 20th century only accelerated this pattern. With two world wars, a financial catastrophe and the growing threat of nuclear annihilation, it’s no wonder that we became more risk averse.

Staying the course was no longer the safe thing. It was the only thing.

Yet, gradually, the outlook improved. The economy grew. The threat of global-scale conflict shrank. And society evolved to tap into the power of the imagination.

Newly empowered generations began to shed the shackles of risk-aversion. They started to test the waters of Square One.

This process took a few generations to really catch on. But by the turn of the Millennium, it was nearing critical mass.

By that point, many who had seen the calamities of the early 20th century firsthand had passed on. And the ascendant generations were starting to assert themselves.

The dream of the house with a white picket fence was no longer ubiquitous. Neither was the image of getting a gold watch after 50 years of work for the same company.

Trying something new was not only possible, it was probable.

And now, it’s expected.

I’ve experienced Square One plenty of times in my life. But the most drastic instance came when I switched careers.

I knew that I was done with the TV news industry. But I had no idea what I would do next.

After all, I had gone to school to become a news producer. And I had spent three years in the business. It was Plan A, B, C, D and E. There was no plan F.

And to top it all off, I was moving to Dallas. A new city that offered plenty of opportunity, but one that I had no direct experience in.

I wasn’t standing on Square One. I was clutching onto Square One for dear life.

Ultimately, I weathered the storm and found a path forward. And I’ve continued to explore new ventures since then — including Words of the West.

But as I think back to those early days in Dallas, the thrill of newness was equaled by the terror of uncertainty. There was no guarantee that everything would work out. Far from it.

Many of us have been afflicted by the same fear. No matter how much we try and play it cool, the concept of starting over terrifies us.

So, we find strength in numbers. We rally around shared events, like the turning of a calendar. We package the events of our lives into measured boxes — months, years, decades — and create artificial nostalgia. We make absurd resolutions to ease the pain of diving into something new.

Yet, in our zest to roll with the pack, we lose focus. We forget why we wanted to start over in the first place.

And when we lose our why, we tend to lose our way.

My why was clearly defined when I switched careers and moved to Dallas. I wanted a job with that better supported a healthy lifestyle. Even as my future got murkier, the goal remained crystal clear.

That goal — along with some good fortune — got me through the maelstrom. It helped me accept newness and emerge from the experience stronger.

But my experience doesn’t need to be unusual.

In fact, I firmly believe that the same principle I followed can apply to anyone.

So, as we explore Square One, let’s consider reasoning behind our choice. Let’s make sure we’re striving for our goals, instead of arbitrarily rolling with the pack.

For it is only when we proceed with purpose that novelty becomes more than a gimmick.

Let’s make change we can believe in.