I read somewhere that painters like to paint, and writers enjoy having written. This aphorism explains a lot of paintings and the absence of a lot of writing. In that vein, I confess to feeling a strain as I put my finger on the keyboard at this very moment.
The act of creation should be joyous. It could be because of the joy of each small action or the satisfaction of each small task or milestone. For example, there is a positive feeling from completing this essay - that’s “having written.” But I look for the fun in each period. What is the small victory that allows celebration and incentivizes the next step in the journey?
Several years ago - in the Before Times - I read a book titled The Inner Game of Tennis by Timothy Gallway. A friend recommended that I read it to become a better squash player. (This is back when a sport involving two people running around in an enclosed space was possible.) It’s a short book by a professional tennis coach who discusses several mental frames and tricks to maintain focus and play their best tennis.
Late in the book, after explaining several mental models, ways of separating oneself from the moment, and other good advice that goes well beyond tennis, he confesses. These models work when we are at our best, but we are often not at our best. We miss some shots. We are tired. The models fall away, and the dread of losing fills the mind.
Love the ball. The author encourages this three-word mantra. When the world seems full of toil, remember why you are playing in the first place. Recall that your first relationship is not with your opponent but the ball itself. Where does your racquet go? What do you contact? Never the opponent (I hope). The game is between you and the ball.
When you love the ball, you look for it. You think about it - where will it go? So when you love the ball, you go where it is to meet it, and then the ball is sailing away to your opponent.
Loving the ball is probably not sufficient to win tennis games, and loving writing may not be enough to become Hemingway. It is perhaps not necessary either - there exist successful, miserable people. But if one can build on loving what one does - either in the process itself or in the atomic result that comes with each thwack of our metaphorical racket - you are “playing on easy” toward greatness.
This philosophy has implications in choosing one’s work, one’s leadership, and one’s teaching. If you love the ball, you can inspire others as well, enabling their greatness. It is from this love that we elevate each other. That is the highest calling I could ask for.