Indignance

A word sets a tone.
In this case, a rather pretentious and archaic one.

I feel the need to write. No idea to convey or point to persuade, simply a drooling of pen on paper. An untitled unmastered mess.

Writing is strange. Given a context, it’s a rather mundane thing. If the aim is clear, the words write themselves. If I know what to write, writing is a matter of the means. Find the diction, find the tone to paint the picture as I perceive it.

Other times, as now, it’s a strange thing. It’s an act of effort. One that requires me to wake, don the garb of courage (or something like it), and stare vapidly at a blank page while I ruminate what it is I want to write - what I need to write.

It demands honesty. It’s easy to escape from anxious thought to another in the recesses of one’s mind. It’s harder to do so on paper. The pen doesn’t lie. If you write something untrue, it stares blankly back. Each word a stake in your conscience, a reminder of guilt.

I haven’t written like this in quite some time and it shows.
I used to write for self more frequently. Day by day, or week by week, whenever the need strikes, just writing to write.

It’s not so enjoyable really. The term journaling has come into vogue, and though that seems to share similarities with what this is, I’m skeptical that it is. Perhaps it’s just the way that its marketed as part of “wellness weeks” and “self-care routines.” Or perhaps it’s just my personality to eschew anything popular.

But its effects are clear. For one, I seem to adopt the language used in speech. Often, I regurgitate written answers to common questions asked, as if I had crammed for a pop quiz on my personality. The same goes for what I read. What leaves my mouth is a mix of the prose I consume and the words I write. If I happen to be on a particular esoteric binge, I’ll gladly give voice to anachronistic words like “antediluvian” and “multilateral.” Pretentious, I know.

And for two, there’s a certain assuredness I gain after writing. As if I’ve made that amorphous thing known as identity concrete by giving it form. I feel better, in self. Resolute in who I am and who I strive to be. That armor doesn’t last long; its chipped at and taken away by the deluge of the day-to-day. Hence, I write. To find self and define what it be.

Why I publish what I write is a better question. I remember being reticent to share what I wrote prior, and it took quite a while to be comfortable in doing so. My answer now is I simply don’t care. I am who I am - and unapologetic in that.

That isn’t to say I don’t think about how I’m perceived. I do, and often to my own detriment. Even now, the faces and reactions of the few readers who might read this flash by. But they’re secondary. What matters most is what I think of myself. And if I’ve chosen to share, chosen to be vulnerable and let others in, might as well show them everything.

In lieu of that, there’s been a few thoughts on my mind.

I’m getting older. I tweaked my neck again and it serves as a sobering reality that I’m not as young as I used to be. Pain makes the present palpable. You become distinctly aware of your own finitude. The limit on what you can achieve and the time you have to do it.

I can’t do what I used to do. Perhaps a tad exaggerated as I’m still young yet, but less and less will doing the same things that led me to success prior, continue to work for me now.

It’s a tough habit to break. I walked the path of an individualist for a long time. As a child, be it for one reason or another, I read Emerson’s essay on Self-Reliance. That work shaped me. It incepted the idea of self-sufficiency, that if you want something done right, to do it yourself. And I lived by that philosophy. I avoided relying on others and always did things myself even if it was work I was ill disposed to.

Things are different now. I’ve grown to trust others, both out of inclination and necessity. There’s a limit on what I can achieve as an individual. And though vain of me to say, I think I’ve gotten pretty close to it already. That is, I don’t think I could’ve worked much harder in times past.

But it remains to be seen what I can achieve with the help of others.

Mikkel, my cofounder, cemented that point. I view myself as capable of doing most things relatively well, whether that’s engineering, sales, marketing or what be it. Yet, I’m not someone capable of solving fundamentally hard problems. Mikkel is. And by putting my trust in him, in his ability to do things that I can’t, we can achieve what I cannot alone.

My relationship with my directs is different. Many of them are young, and yes, I can do more than they can. Much of management is ensuring the minimum. For this person, at this role, what is the expectation and how do you ensure they meet it. It’s unglamorous, boring work, largely consisting of asking questions and reminding people of their deliverables.

That alone is a self-fulfilling prophecy. If the goal is to meet expectation, you will never exceed it. It doesn’t interest me. It doesn’t expand possibility, it only systemizes it.

The bet I took is that I can achieve more together than I can alone. That only works if I can raise the upper bound. It’s the belief that my directs can and will supercede me. That they will obviate me and achieve what I cannot.

Indignance is the word to start and end on.

The higher you get up in a company, the more nebulous progression appears to be. Early in your career, promotions are well-defined. There’s many people to compare yourself to and there’s much to learn and do. Doing what’s in front of you is often all it takes to move forward.

Higher up, it’s less clear. Tenure plays a part, as does delivery. But what distinguishes a good director from another and how does one go about pushing for a promotion at that level? Many seem to answer with politics. They chase the coattails of their superiors, seeking to appease and get on the good-side of whoever is most influential at the time. They cascade fear, lashing out at their directs in response to their bosses doing the same to them. They wage wars to gain scope and increase their number of reports to embed themselves more firmly as people of undeniable import.

It’s the pursuit of power.
And I won’t claim to be above the rest.

Frustration was the feeling that filled me after abandoning my startup. A feeling of lack. I tried my best to solve a problem that was personal to me - and failed because I was insufficient. I was unable to build the future I envisioned. I lacked power.

Power is the ability to do what you want to do. At a small scale, it’s the ability to work on whatever you want to work on and make a living from it. That’s hard enough. At a larger scale, it’s the ability to create real change and build assets to do so.

It’s tempting to chase scale. To chase capital, to chase influence, to chase promotions and conflate that with ability. But call it indignance or immaturity, I disagree.

I’m going to do what I want to do.
I’m going to do what I think is right, be that as indignant as I may.