Lillian Hellman was once asked what she thought was the
most difficult thing about writing. The famous
playwright replied: “Killing your little darlings.”
Writers know all too well about the little darlings she
was referring to, for there isn’t a writer alive who
hasn’t found himself bursting with satisfaction at some
pet creation. Perhaps it’s a complex idea that we’ve
managed to distill into a more accessible form, and felt
ourselves beaming at the prospect that many will now
understand who did not understand before. Or, we’ve
taken a common observation and expressed it in a new and
unique way. It might be just one particularly graceful
paragraph that fills us with pride, or nothing more than
a cleverly turned phrase. Whatever the case, there we
sit, admiring our creation, and fantasizing about the
day when our eloquence will be given birth in published
form, so that others might admire it as well.
But
then … something happens.
As
our project takes shape, whether it’s a two-page article
for a magazine or a major, full-length work, it evolves
in such a way that this particular collection of words
we’re so fond of — our little darling — doesn’t really
fit. It may be brilliant writing, but it doesn’t belong
anymore, not in this script, and the piece as a
whole would be better served by killing it.
But
human nature being what it is, we resist — mightily.
Perhaps our darling can be saved somehow. Deep down, we
know it won’t work, but we’ll make it work. We
start twisting ourselves into pretzels, contriving
artificial reasons for keeping it, attempting to make
the whole serve the part, instead of the part(s) serving
the whole. Of course, we don’t realize this is what
we’re doing. We’re too blinded by our attachment to our
baby. Unfortunately, at this point, our baby has become
Rosemary’s baby — an agent of destruction that threatens
to destroy that which is healthy and vital.
Knowing when to holdem and when to foldem is just as
important to the writer as it is to the gambler;
conversely, the painful task of self-editing is no less
essential to the latter than to the former. It’s only
natural to form pet habits when we first take up the
game, but if our poker “little darlings” go unedited,
we’re in trouble. With January right around the corner,
the time seems ripe to touch on the subject of poker
resolutions for the New Year. With that in mind, I asked
three winning poker players the following question: “If
you were to think of your poker game as a work in
progress — a rough draft, if you will — what edits would
you make to streamline it?” Here are some of their
thoughts (edited, of course, for length and content):
1.
Trim the criticism of others.
This
doesn’t refer to criticizing opponents out loud; any
seasoned winner knows that such criticism serves only to
educate the bad Texas Holdem players or drive them away,
neither of which is conducive to profit. (Besides, it’s
rude.) No, what my first respondent had in mind was the
criticism that plays in the privacy of one’s head. This
can actually be healthy — to a degree — for an
occasional self-reminder of superiority over the
competition is a legitimate way to pump yourself up
psychologically (assuming it’s an accurate assessment).
It can also fortify your commitment to a truly superior
game plan in the face of short-term bad luck that may be
tempting you to abandon it. But beware — there’s a fine
line between healthy and unhealthy levels of ego, and
this exercise can mutate into a pervasive contempt for
one’s opponents, a silent running commentary of bitter
denigration. At this point, one’s inner editor needs to
make massive cuts, for all of this criticism is just so
much dead weight, and a huge distraction from your main
“theme.” Before you know it, you’re so fixated on the
idiocy of your opponents that you’re not focused fully
on the game. So, who’s the idiot now?
2.
Edit the memory of residual fears — the “here we go
again” mentality.
In
Texas
Holdem
poker, a
long memory is a tremendous asset, but it can also be a
liability. The capacity for recalling opponents’
tendencies in a broad range of situations carries
incalculable benefits; unfortunately, when the scope of
memory extends equally far to bad beats, look out. The
retention of negatives can result in a skewed
perspective in which replays of past situations appear
overly ominous, and each bad beat seems to foreshadow an
entire cycle of doom. Such self-defeating memory creates
an inner static that interferes with operating
successfully in the present. The cards have no memory at
all, and when it comes to past setbacks, neither should
you. Hit “Save” to retain the causes of past
failures; for the rest of it, punch that Delete button.
3.
Lose the chair glue.
The
fellow who raised this point described a colorful
character who used to show up at the cardroom at 3:30
every morning. Surveying his surroundings (à la Robert
Duval in Apocalypse Now), he would inhale deeply
and proclaim: “I love the smell of chair glue in the
morning.” He would then find a game filled with players
who had overstayed their good judgment. Some of these
folks were actually decent
Texas
Holdem
players —
at least they were for the first eight or nine hours of
their sessions. But they could never manage to pick
themselves up and locate the exit, and as their “Long
Day’s Journey Into Night” wore on, the quality of their
decisions deteriorated badly.
While it’s true that
Texas
Holdem
poker is a
volume business, it’s also true that every session, like
every well-edited paragraph or chapter, has an
appropriate length. Determining when to call it a day is
no exact science, but even good players can let things
drag on too long. Many factors come into play here, but
don’t let simple inertia turn your session into the
Texas
Holdem
poker
equivalent of a run-on sentence.
4.
Give yourself a deadline.
If I
didn’t have a deadline to meet, I’m not sure I’d ever
finish a column. And procrastination is as big a problem
in poker as it is in other areas of life. You know that
situation that came up at the table the other night, the
one that took you by surprise? Remember how your
hesitation betrayed you? You know the situation I
mean, because it came up a couple of weeks earlier, too
— and you vowed at the time to do some serious thinking
about it, so you’d be better prepared the next time. But
you didn’t, so you weren’t. Oh — and remember that poker
book you were going to read? Guess what, that was eight
months ago. What can be done to counter all this
avoidance? Well, when it comes to your poker goals, try
giving yourself an actual deadline — and then make a
reasonable effort to meet it.
On
that note, I need to excuse myself, so I can get this
column in. If I hurry, I can just make my deadline. |
