The Importance of Persevering

I write this on the last day of finals.

Yesterday, I had two exams, today I have one. It will bring my total up to six for this semester. Of those six, I’ve only really worried about three of them.

Two of those were yesterday. Needless to say, I had a stress headache the night before. I needed to do well on my physics exam, and I basically needed to ace my calculus three final to get the grade I wanted. I was stressed. I poured over my textbooks and problem sets and past exams and projects to learn the material.

I knew I did well on my western civ exam, my other core exam, and my chem exam. The final exam was an improv performance, and I knew I’d do well on that one, too.

I was confident in these subjects. Still am.

But physics and calculus three?

I studied. I spent hours and hours making sure I understood the material and could do problems presented to me by the textbooks and the online homework and the in-class notes and assignments.

I’ve never put so much work into two things that took less than an hour and a half each.

That was yesterday.

I feel good about physics. I’m confident I got the grade I wanted on that exam and in the class as a whole. Perfectly confident.

The calculus?

I know I didn’t get a perfect score (the score I wanted). I know I didn’t end up with the grade I was hoping for.

It will be the first math class I’ll get a grade lower than an A- in. It is also my last math class. Beyond the math in my engineering classes, I’m done. The math department won’t be seeing me again.

But this calculus class?

Part of me is disappointed. My last class, my last one. I could have kept the streak, could’ve kept that perfect record. If differential equations hadn’t stopped me last semester, why would this class do it? Most of me, however, is content. Here's why:

Green’s Theorem

There’s this thing in calculus called Green’s Theorem. From it are derived most of the other theorems involved in vector calculus. Without Green’s Theorem, line integrals are way too burdensome to deal with, and without it we wouldn’t have Stokes’ Theorem or the Divergence Theorem.

Now, to the layman all those names mean nothing. What’s vector calculus? What’s a line integral? What’s an integral to begin with? Who were Green and Stokes, and what’s Divergence?

Let’s be perfectly honest: it doesn’t matter. I will say this: it’s the hardest part of calculus. This is where all the calculus students struggle.

Well, most of them.

My professor stopped us one day, mid-class and handed out a piece of paper. It was a short article titled “Everyone has a Personal Green’s Theorem”. We all thought he was introducing the theorem, since it was what came next in the book.

As it turns out, we weren’t doing calculus that class period.

We were doing philosophy and work ethics.

The writer of the essay was a math professor talking about his education. When this professor took calculus three, he was good at it. The math came easy (this is similar to me in many ways). Then they reached Green’s Theorem and this man, this professor-to-be struggled. He struggled with math in a way he’d never struggled before.

The article went on to talk about how every single subject, no matter what it is, will always get hard someday. Whether it’s math or science or art or music or writing, it will become difficult for every single person at some point.

Doesn’t matter who they are, or how good they are at it.

Things become too complex or difficult for them to come easy.

The level at which this is true is different for each person in each subject. Many people find math becomes difficult as soon as algebra one, some people don’t find it difficult until they do real analysis and have to prove calculus.

The point of the article? Everyone has their own personal Green’s Theorem. Everyone eventually reaches a point in every subject where they actually have to try.

For me, my Green’s Theorem in math actually was Green’s Theorem.

The article didn’t end there. It wasn’t just prepping us for when math would become hard.

This article talked about how most people give up when they reach this point. As it turns out, however, this is the point where the real work is done. The moment you reach your personal Green’s Theorem in anything, you have to try. When you try, you have to put forth all effort to learn master and overcome and persevere.

The Importance of Perseverance

If all of us gave up as soon as things got tough, we wouldn’t be here. We’d have given up on everything a long time ago.

We aren’t meant to give up when the going get rough. When we push on, when we persevere, we find art. We find the art of math, the art of science, of music, of painting, of writing, of living.

The moment we give up is the moment we stop making art.

When it gets hard: when writing gets hard, when math gets hard, when life gets hard, don’t give in. Giving up on it means giving up on art.

Don’t give up.

Push on. Persevere.

The Beauty of Design

Last semester, I got to take an “Intro to Engineering Design” class, in which we covered a whole range of topics regarding design: from initial brainstorming to the final presentation of the design complete with things like manufacturing specifications, measurement tolerances, and 3D models.

I won’t say that it was my favorite class, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. See, until this last year or so, the only type of design I’ve been a part of is purely creative. The designing of a novel doesn’t need a lot of technical elements: an outline is usually the farthest it goes.

In engineering, however, the design starts in the creative areas and then slowly morphs into more technical areas.

I’ve come to appreciate both in a way that I could not have without having experienced first the wholly creative design process, and then the mixed design.

The Importance of Design

Stories aren’t made by mistake. No one “accidentally” writes a story. It takes a conscious effort to sit down and write something. Even if you don’t know for sure what’s going to happen in the story at any given part, you’re fully aware that you’re writing it.

Design is the conscious effort behind creation. It’s laying down conscious decisions about what you’re creating. In writing, that can be anything from “I have this idea…” to “I have these four outlines and seven notebooks full of worldbuilding and character development for this idea…”. In engineering, the design is – often enough – itself the creation.

Design is a process. It’s the development of your idea from start to finish, whether it’s a short story, a novel, a chemical process for the creation of preservatives, or a new design for an internal combustion engine.

Why does design matter?

Without design, do our creations really mean anything? If we create things without conscious effort, what is their worth?

This isn’t supposed to be a philosophy post, so I won’t make it one, but I will say this: without design, our creations have far less meaning and worth. They’re accidents, made unintentionally in the subconscious of our minds.

That, to me, doesn’t speak to what creativity is. Design is one of the integral parts of anything we create.

Fluid Design

You, of course, probably aren’t super interested in the stiff form of an engineering design. It’s probably not overly interesting to read about abstracts and design papers and research papers and 3D rendering and process detailing.

Probably.

Instead of structured design, conventional artists (those who design the fine arts) tend to follow a more fluid design pattern. They create things, but they’re not in any particular order, with any particular amount of formal thesis writing or problem stating, and they’re often wild and unpredictable.

Which is better?

Neither.

When it comes to design, you must avoid the comparison trap. Don’t take your design methods and compare them to others. Everyone has a different way of designing things. Even in engineering, where design is much more structured and pre-formatted, each engineer will design things differently in their initial stages. It’s not until they have to present it that they’ll conform it to standards outside of their own.

Let your design form the way you need to form it.

Let it be fluid.

Your Design Process

So… what is your design process?

For me, I have two different design processes: my fluid design and my structured design. The latter is what I use when I’m doing technical art, like engineering design and math and science. The former design process I use when I create fine art, like writing.

My fluid design is probably more structured than many, because I’ve also got that part of my brain that wants to structure it. When I design a writing project, it progresses in almost the exact same order from book to book. I start with a basic plot or character idea, expound upon it and then develop characters. Then comes worldbuilding and plot arcs, followed by a rough outline on my wall and then a detailed outline in a notebook. This process can take me anywhere from three weeks (for instance, Barnslow Died and Asher’s Song) to eighteen months (Agram Awakens, and my newest project I’m about to start).

For you, I’m sure it’s different. You might start in a different place, create less outlines, develop your world more or less, or any number of different things.

You know what?

That’s okay.

Design isn’t about “the best way” to make something. It’s putting real effort into creating something.

Design, in and of itself, is an art. The art of making art. I think that’s beautiful.

So.

What does your art of making art look like?

(Meanwhile, I’m sitting in my college’s library and I just spotted a book titled “Nihilism” and I feel the need to skim this book so I’m going to end here… don’t mind me.)

Your Own People

As I write this, I’m preparing to head off to a writer’s conference/retreat. As it is posted, I’ll be nearing the end of said conference. Six days of community with college-aged writers. A chance to be with friends old and new, to exchange ideas and critiques and passions.

I can’t wait.

All of us need that sort of thing: a group who understands us, who knows who we are and what we love and loves it with us.

Among those people will be a few of my beta readers for Agram Awakens, including the only person who’s ever gotten to read the whole thing. These are the people who understand my love for writing and they are passionate with me.

This sort of community is so vital and wonderful that I thought I’d take this time – my first post of the new year – to explore the ins and outs of finding and communing with one’s own people.

Searching Alone

It is possible to be a writer alone. It’s possible to be many things alone: perhaps it’s even possible to be everything alone.

In fact, we rarely start out with a huge group of people just like us, if we start with a group at all. Instead, we’re alone. I started my writing venture alone: scribbling stories into notebooks at the desk in my room. I started my engineering venture with only one or two mentors in my life who knew a thing about it.

When we find our passions, we’re exploring them alone. Discovery of individual passions is rarely a group project. Instead, we find them on our own, and then slowly reach out to others with the same passion.

We start our search alone, but we shouldn’t continue that way. Humans have a communal nature. People like other people. More specifically, we like people who are like us. This is a thing that can create rifts and divides, but also strong fellowship and friendship. When you find your passion, you should also find people who share that passion. Being alone is no fun, when it comes to passions. Sure, being alone can be quite handy and peaceful (trust me, I know… I’m currently alone in my room writing a blog post… and it’s great), but it can also get… well… lonely.

Finding Your People

Sure, maybe it’s a good thing to have people who share your passion. But how the heck do you find them? It’s hard to find other people. It requires hard work, interaction, and persistence.

For me, my writing people were found first through online forums and then through writer’s groups and workshops and conferences and even through college. I’ve found highschoolers and college students and adults with passions for creative writing who are invested in my work and in whose work I can invest in myself.

For my engineering, it was simply choosing to pursue it as a degree. I was able to meet dozens of peers and many professors who cared that I was there and shared similar passions and dreams.

What about you? Finding your people may involve more work, or less. Perhaps you’ve already got your people. If so, invest in them. Your people are only your people if you embrace them as your own. They’ll invest in you at the rate you invest in them.

Community is important. People to lean on are important. Investing in your passions and in the passions of others is important.  It allows you to be creative and to create art in your own life and in the lives of others.