Old habits die hard
What if you could change your mind?
After I published the last issue of this newsletter, I regretted the teaser. Disappointment came slowly, over the course of a long week. The creep of a mild tide. I didn’t feel the crush until I sat down to write the newsletter again. Which, due to the Thanksgiving holiday in the United States, was around a week of cooking (keep reading for my go-to torte recipe), and I felt rushed. When I opened up my document to share what brought two people hope[1], I was faced with the fact that my answer to a last-gasp effort to generate suspense would go unrealized. I didn’t want to write about that. I wanted to write about cognitive biases and a little something on AI agents, too.
Of course, I was grateful to have been present. I like thinking in conversation with brilliant people. I feel more alive. And after, strangers approached me to say how they appreciated my question. A crackle of electricity surged. Not to mention, my minute of public exposure gave way to new relationships (I have new readers! Hello and welcome, I’m so glad you are here!). And thankfully, I can pivot to this different topic. I mean, you can change your mind, right?
I’m going to write something embarrassing. For a considerable period of my young adult life, I had an unpleasant cognitive habit. I believed other people knew something I didn’t. I believed I’d be better off if I knew what they knew. It was a kind of dependency, a snag in my personality. Most of the people that I encountered seemed to be in on a secret. If only I knew what they knew, I’d know the meaning of it all, and perhaps be more successful, more experienced, interesting, etc. Here’s the dig—this habit was unconscious; I didn’t realize I believed this; it was an unknown known.
To my credit, I eventually figured it out. Not only was I looking to others as a source of power, but by doing this, I was undermining myself. An unpluming. I see now people may appear brilliant or well-connected or cheerful or wicked or have a lot of followers on Instagram or be good at Python in relatable or abrasive ways. We may have something to learn from each other, to give each other. That’s beautiful. But I needn’t look to others for instructions on meaning. A freeing mindset, for a time.
Realizations come with the creep of a mild tide. Did I mention I like to swim? I prefer slowness when I go, it’s not as frightening. I don’t like being taken by surprise, though it happens if I’m in the clutch of something beyond me—a timer, a job, a nursing baby, a babysitter (not all clutches are equal). It’s harder to maintain a state of equilibrium when there are unexpected currents. Not to mention, the after-drop after cold-water submersion can be heart-stopping. As a swimmer, I’ve learned how to safely navigate thanks to other swimmers who have shown me the way. I like to think I’ve changed over time, and it’s a mutual exchange.
Now that I think about it, perhaps my earlier disclosure isn’t that embarrassing because it’s relatable. While it’s reasonable to recognize that no one has everything figured out, maybe others have been as foolish and unreasonable as I’ve been and lived according to unrecognized cognitive biases and unconscious persuasions. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, really. We are all finding our way together. We can change our minds, right?
I’ve been thinking these thoughts about my mind for a while. Two years ago, I wrote this: “habits are, in a way, prayers. Devotionals. Our unspoken ways of tracing our course in advance.” Maybe the circularity is actually the Zeigarnik effect. This theory of cognition suggests people best recall the details of something when it’s unfinished. The book is open, you are inside. Close the book, you’re released. Honestly, though, I haven’t let go of some of my questions because some habits grip me from the outside. They’re painful. Devotionals I resent. Can we change our minds while our minds are being changed?
Conversations about AI often leave me feeling short of breath, as if I’ve been shocked. Perhaps it’s because, as I wrote in an article about machine learning in 2021, “AI sells.” Face-offs with popularity are not my strong suit. Despite my best intentions, when faced with a topic of consequence and amidst what appears to be the ongoing encroachment of corporate logics into human creative work, I lose my mind. I lose my way. I senselessly grab for answers. Old habits die hard.
Losing control makes me second-guess myself. What other cognitive habits don’t I realize I have? Maybe I’m wrong to suggest that the criticisms around the widespread marketing of generative AI agents by corporations are not wrong. Maybe I’m wrong to suggest that I’m skeptical of claims that an overdetermined process is a panacea, or a poison, to inextricably complex social challenges. AI agents appear brilliant or well-connected or cheerful or wicked or have a lot of followers on Instagram or are good at Python in relatable or abrasive ways. We may have something to learn from each other, to give each other. That’s beautiful. We can look to AI agents for instructions on meaning. A freeing mindset, for a time. But do old habits have to die hard? What if we can change our minds?
Upcoming courses
I’m teaching Writing about Past Travels (at Hugo House) Wednesday, Jan. 24-Mar. 6, 2024 | 7:10-9:10p PT | Online | Register! ($302.40/$336). Travel to your past travels, find your past selves, and enjoy the views of retrospect.
I’m also teaching a course on memoir, memory, and truthiness at University of Washington Bothell which means if you’re an undergrad at UW, consider enrolling in BIS 206-Engaging Literary Arts (Memoir).
What to bake
Marian Burro’s Plum Torte (New York Times Cooking); substitute fresh cranberries for plums. Generously sprinkle sugar over top. Serve warm or cooled. There’s nothing else to say, it’s delicious.
What to read/click/think
Read Ted Chaing’s story collection Exhalation. I was lucky to meet Nam-ho Park, another UW lecturer in interactive digital media who recommended the short story “The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling.” A riveting meditation on memory, technology, and ethics. My favorite line becomes the coup de grâce of the story: “There is still a past me who would have been […] and I can’t deny that I am continuous with him” (186).
Are you continuous with your past self (or selves)? By coincidence, the day I finished Chaing’s story, a New Yorker issue featuring Joshua Rothman’s article on this topic surfaced on my bedstand. Then, a few days later Jane Friedman’s free newsletter Electric Speed, referenced the article. Are you a continuer or divider? Personally, I believe 100% I am a continuer. I mean, I’m asking questions that I was asking two and twenty years ago. I have the same goals. The same haircut. I even live in the same hometown! While it may be that some of my past actions are utterly unrecognizable to me—imagine, I came across a diary I wrote a few years ago and literally could NOT get into the head of the person who wrote it—let’s just push that discomforting paradox into a drawer to deal later along with whatever other unknown knows are in there.
If you ARE continuous with your past selves, you might like Zeesy Powers’ AI agent Dear Diary! This nifty AI-powered service uses machine learning to tell you what you want to know about yourself but can’t see (unknown knows?) based on what you wrote in the past! Not a continuer, well 🤷—at least https://deardiary.wtf appears to be (imho) satire!
If you are a published author concerned because AI companies have copied millions of copyrighted books and articles without your permission to train their for-profit generative AI agents, The Author’s Guild is conducting a survey for more equitable licensing. In their words: “Generative AI is here to stay and can be a useful tool for writers in the future, but going forward, it must be legally developed. To that end, we are working to build a licensing system that would generate new income from authors and gives authors control of output uses.” Authors, take the survey!
Book recommendation
Tom Lake
Anne Patchett
I read Tom Lake in a day and a half—equal parts poignant and page-turning. Patchett’s protagonist, home on a cherry farm with her adult daughters and spouse during the pandemic, relives her past lives through storytelling to her family, to herself. Nostalgia, motherhood, theater, performance, swimming, and harvesting cherries (and more) through the lens of constraining interpersonal dynamics in a tight-knit community and beautiful wise words—a comforting winter read.
Thank you for reading The Gift!
Until next time,
Monika
The Gift
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Footnotes
[1] “Youth,” said Ted Chaing, in a matter of words, “and perseverance.” “Authenticity,” said Emily Bender, without hesitation.
Thanks so much for the shout out! :-)