Self destruction can take many forms: men, martinis, one too many lines of coke, drug-fueled nights staying up until dawn.  My favorite form of masochism is browsing LinkedIn.  Though going on the professional platform almost always makes me feel bad, I do it time and time again.  

And what happens?

I end up in a terrible pit of self-loathing and masochistic comparison.  I find sick pleasure in the torment.  I look at all my impressive connections—the doctors and lawyers and entrepreneurs and PhD candidates—and all their shiny accomplishments and find myself distinctly less than.  I was just a writer (and an unpublished one at that). 

As I browsed through my news feed, I stumbled on an old college friend’s announcement: she was publishing a book.

I was incensed.  

I’m embarrassed to say I spent the next hour (or two) stalking her on the internet.  Turns out she’s married and just had her first child (though I’ve never wanted marriage or children, seeing her windswept wedding photos in Big Sur made my unmarried, childless life feel so much less serious).  She has her own website.  She’s a founder of a publishing company.  She’s been featured on a podcast. 

Needless to say, I was bitter with envy. 

I tried to comfort myself in the most pathetic ways possible: At least she’s gotten fat. 

I am aware I’m acting like a jealous, spiteful dumbass. 

I am angry.

I’m angry that someone who writes cliched Rupi Kaur Instagram-style poetry is getting published.

I’m angry that the writing business is capricious and cruel: that talent doesn’t necessarily equate to success. 

I’m angry that the people who succeed are not the smartest or the most talented but those who’ve mastered the art of shameless self-promotion.

Then my mother’s words crawled out from my subconscious: “What are you going to do with all your writing?” 

Though she had mostly been supportive when I showed her my work (“You’re so talented!” she gushed, her compliments effusive), her question seemed to veil a criticism: “What are you going to do with your writing” suggested writing wasn’t an accomplishment in itself.

My words weren’t worthy if they were hidden in clandestine notebooks, if they languished in obscurity in a desk drawer.

My writing—my mother’s question seemed to imply—had to do something. 

It had to rewarded, it had to be recognized. 

My writing meant nothing unless it was published somewhere, unless it attained some sort of success my mother could brag about to strangers at a cocktail party.

Growing up Asian American (Filipino and Hawaiian on my mother’s side, German, Scottish and Austrian on my father’s), family gatherings were always a contest among the aunties: whose daughter was doing better?  

“Did you hear?  X just got her PhD!” 

“Y has over 100,000 Instagram followers.  She’s starting her own photography business.” 

“Z just bought her own house; she’s a real career woman!” 

So I learned success was outward approval: Ivy League degrees, 100,000 Instagram followers, best-seller lists, six figure book deals.  Success could be boiled down to a simple equation.  Success = outcomes. 

Success wasn’t pleasure in the process or the bliss of making something from nothing.  It wasn’t the simple satisfaction of doing something to the best of your ability. 

Success was quantifiable, calculable, a stamp of approval bestowed on you from the outside (by critics, by gatekeepers, by publishing houses, by the New York Times).

Success was the flash of camera bulbs.

Success was roses and recognition. 

Success was the thunderous roar of applause.

But I realized something: if I only cared about outcomes, about success in the traditional sense of the word, I would almost certainly stop writing.

If my only goal was achievement—making the New York Times bestseller list, publishing a book so I could brag about my accomplishment on LinkedIn—I wouldn’t be able to withstand the writing life’s inevitable disappointments. 

If you’re a writer, there will be gin-soaked nights of existential angst when you look in the mirror and wonder: “What the fuck am I doing with my life?” 

There will be moments when you wish you had chosen a more respectable profession or simply went to law school.

There will be rejections slips and crumpled papers and times when you release your work into the world with little recognition from others. 

Even if you attain “success” by conventional standards, there will always be people who don’t think much of your writing career.  (I’m reminded of the best-selling writer Dani Shapiro who’s published eleven books, written countless articles and essays, and been interviewed by Oprah.  Despite her literary accomplishments, an acquaintance at a party once asked if she was still “just” writing). 

I realized if I wanted to remain devoted to the writing life, I had to redefine success for myself.  When asked about her definition of success, Cheryl Strayed, the wise, warm-hearted voice behind the beloved Dear Sugar column said, “The way I define and measure success…is can I answer the questions: Have I done the work I needed to do?  Did I do it as well as I could?  Did I give it everything I had?  If you can say, ‘Yes, I did,’ that’s success.”

Did I do the work I needed to do?

Did I do it as best as I could?

These words became my mantra. 

This passage from the Bhagavad-Gita also became a source of inspiration and comfort:

“Your work is your responsibility, not its result.
Never let the fruits of your actions be your motive.
Nor give in to inaction.
Set firmly in yourself, do your work, not attached to anything.
Remain evenminded in success, and in failure.
Evenmindedness is true yoga.”

In the end, the only thing that matters is doing the work.  You can’t control if your writing is published; you certainly can’t control if it’s condemned or congratulated.  But you can control whether you show up at you desk, whether you give in to inaction.

Letting go of outcomes is the only way to stay sane as an artist.  The fruits of your labor should never be your motive.  You should write—not to win a Pulitzer Prize or see your book in a Barnes and Noble or brag at your next high school reunion—but for the joy of a graceful sentence, for the rare delight of putting just the right word in just the right place.  You should write for the way it reawakens you to the wonders of the world, for pure pleasure, for as Oscar Wilde, the unapologetic aesthete once said, “it’s own sake.”