So, a few years ago I was at JFK Airport about to get on a flight, when I was approached by two women who I do not think would be insulted to hear themselves described as tiny old tough-talking Italian-American broads.
Pirms pāris gadiem es biju Džona Kenedija lidostā, grasījos kāpt lidmašīnā, kad pie manis pienāca divas sievietes, kuras, manuprāt, neapvainotos, ja tiktu aprakstītas kā mazas, vecas itāļu-amerikāņu kundzītes, kas nav uz mutes kritušas.
The taller one, who is like up here, she comes marching up to me, and she goes, "Honey, I gotta ask you something. You got something to do with that whole 'Eat, Pray, Love' thing that's been going on lately?"
Garākā, apmēram tik gara, piesoļo pie manis piesoļo un saka: "Dārgā, man tev kas jāpajautā. Vai tev ir kāds sakars ar to pēdējā laika <i>Ēd, lūdzies, mīli</i> padarīšanu?"
And I said, "Yes, I did."
Es atbildēju: "Jā, man ir."
And she smacks her friend and she goes, "See, I told you, I said, that's that girl. That's that girl who wrote that book based on that movie." (Laughter)
Un viņa iebaksta draudzenei: "Redzi, es taču tev teicu, tā ir tā meitene! Tā meitene, kas uzrakstīja to grāmatu balstoties uz to filmu!" (Smiekli)
So that's who I am. And believe me, I'm extremely grateful to be that person, because that whole "Eat, Pray, Love" thing was a huge break for me. But it also left me in a really tricky position moving forward as an author trying to figure out how in the world I was ever going to write a book again that would ever please anybody, because I knew well in advance that all of those people who had adored "Eat, Pray, Love" were going to be incredibly disappointed in whatever I wrote next because it wasn't going to be "Eat, Pray, Love," and all of those people who had hated "Eat, Pray, Love" were going to be incredibly disappointed in whatever I wrote next because it would provide evidence that I still lived. So I knew that I had no way to win, and knowing that I had no way to win made me seriously consider for a while just quitting the game and moving to the country to raise corgis. But if I had done that, if I had given up writing, I would have lost my beloved vocation, so I knew that the task was that I had to find some way to gin up the inspiration to write the next book regardless of its inevitable negative outcome. In other words, I had to find a way to make sure that my creativity survived its own success. And I did, in the end, find that inspiration, but I found it in the most unlikely and unexpected place. I found it in lessons that I had learned earlier in life about how creativity can survive its own failure.
Tātad tas ir tas, kas es esmu. Un, ticiet man, esmu neizsakāmi pateicīga, ka esmu šis cilvēks, jo tā visa <i>Ēd, lūdzies, mīli</i> padarīšana man bija milzīgs sasniegums. Bet kā autore es attapos arī ļoti sarežģītā situācijā – es mēģināju saprast, kā gan es varētu uzrakstīt vēl kādu grāmatu, kas kādam varētu patikt, jo es jau no sākuma zināju, ka visi tie cilvēki, kam patika <i>Ēd, lūdzies, mīli</i>, manā nākamajā darbā būs ārkārtīgi vīlušies, jo tas vairs nebūs <i>Ēd, lūdzies, mīli</i>, savukārt visi tie, kam <i>Ēd, lūdzies, mīli</i> nepatika, būs ārkārtīgi vīlušies, jo mans nākamais darbs būs pierādījums tam, ka es joprojām dzīvoju. Es sapratu, ka nekādi nevaru uzvarēt, un kādu brīdi šī apziņa man lika nopietni apsvērt domu mest to visu pie malas, pārvākties uz laukiem un audzēt korgijus. Bet, pametot rakstīšanu, es zaudētu savu mīļoto nodarbi. Tādēļ es zināju, ka man jāatrod veids, kā uzkurināt iedvesmu nākamajai grāmatai, kaut arī iznākums neizbēgami būs negatīvs. Citiem vārdiem, man bija jāpārliecinās, ka mans radošums pārdzīvos pats savus panākumus. Un beigās es šo iedvesmu atradu, bet atradu to visneticamākajā un neparedzamākajā vietā. Es to atradu mācībās, ko biju guvusi savos agrākajos dzīves gados par to, kā radošums var pārdzīvot pats savas neveiksmes.
So just to back up and explain, the only thing I have ever wanted to be for my whole life was a writer. I wrote all through childhood, all through adolescence, by the time I was a teenager I was sending my very bad stories to The New Yorker, hoping to be discovered. After college, I got a job as a diner waitress, kept working, kept writing, kept trying really hard to get published, and failing at it. I failed at getting published for almost six years. So for almost six years, every single day, I had nothing but rejection letters waiting for me in my mailbox. And it was devastating every single time, and every single time, I had to ask myself if I should just quit while I was behind and give up and spare myself this pain. But then I would find my resolve, and always in the same way, by saying, "I'm not going to quit, I'm going home."
Maza piezīme – vienīgais, par ko es jebkad dzīvē esmu vēlējusies kļūt, ir rakstniece. Es rakstīju gan bērnībā, gan pusaudzes gados. Kā padsmitniece es sūtīju savus ļoti sliktos stāstus žurnālam <i>The New Yorker</i> cerībā, ka mani pamanīs. Pēc koledžas es strādāju par viesmīli – turpināju strādāt, turpināju rakstīt, turpināju censties publicēt savus darbus un turpināju ciest neveiksmi. Man neizdevās publicēties gandrīz sešus gadus. Gandrīz sešus gadus katru dienu pastkastē mani gaidīja tikai un vienīgi atteikuma vēstules. Un katru reizi tas bija mokoši, un katru reizi es sev jautāju, vai nevajadzētu to visu mest pie malas, kamēr vēl varu, padoties un aiztaupīt sev šīs sāpes. Bet tad es atguvu apņēmību, turklāt vienmēr vienā un tajā pašā veidā, atkārtojot sev, ka negrasos padoties, ka es dodos mājās. Saprotiet, ka man atgriešanās mājās nenozīmēja atgriešanos ģimenes fermā.
And you have to understand that for me, going home did not mean returning to my family's farm. For me, going home meant returning to the work of writing because writing was my home, because I loved writing more than I hated failing at writing, which is to say that I loved writing more than I loved my own ego, which is ultimately to say that I loved writing more than I loved myself. And that's how I pushed through it.
Došanās mājās man nozīmēja atgriešanos pie rakstīšanas, jo rakstīšana bija manas mājas, jo es mīlēju rakstīšanu vairāk, nekā es necietu neveiksmes, kas nozīmē, ka es mīlēju rakstīšanu vairāk nekā pati savu ego, kas galu galā nozīmē, ka es mīlēju rakstīšanu vairāk nekā pati sevi. Un tā es tiku tam cauri.
But the weird thing is that 20 years later, during the crazy ride of "Eat, Pray, Love," I found myself identifying all over again with that unpublished young diner waitress who I used to be, thinking about her constantly, and feeling like I was her again, which made no rational sense whatsoever because our lives could not have been more different. She had failed constantly. I had succeeded beyond my wildest expectation. We had nothing in common. Why did I suddenly feel like I was her all over again?
Bet dīvainākais ir tas, ka pēc 20 gadiem, trakajā <i>Ēd, lūdzies, mīli</i> piedzīvojumā, es atkal sajutos kā tā jaunā, nepublicētā viesmīle, kāda es reiz biju. Es visu laiku par viņu domāju, un man šķita, ka es atkal esmu viņa; tam nav nekāda racionāla izskaidrojuma, jo mūsu dzīves nevarētu būt atšķirīgākas. Viņa pastāvīgi cieta neveiksmi, es biju guvusi neiedomājamus panākumus. Mums nebija nekā kopīga. Kāpēc es atkal jutos, it kā es būtu viņa?
And it was only when I was trying to unthread that that I finally began to comprehend the strange and unlikely psychological connection in our lives between the way we experience great failure and the way we experience great success. So think of it like this: For most of your life, you live out your existence here in the middle of the chain of human experience where everything is normal and reassuring and regular, but failure catapults you abruptly way out over here into the blinding darkness of disappointment. Success catapults you just as abruptly but just as far way out over here into the equally blinding glare of fame and recognition and praise. And one of these fates is objectively seen by the world as bad, and the other one is objectively seen by the world as good, but your subconscious is completely incapable of discerning the difference between bad and good. The only thing that it is capable of feeling is the absolute value of this emotional equation, the exact distance that you have been flung from yourself. And there's a real equal danger in both cases of getting lost out there in the hinterlands of the psyche.
Un tikai tad, kad centos to atšķetināt, es beidzot sāku apjēgt dīvaino un mazticamo psiholoģisko saikni, kas mūs vieno, saikni starp to, kā mēs uztveram milzīgu neveiksmi un kā – milzīgus panākumus. Padomājiet par to šādi: lielāko daļu dzīves jūs pavadāt cilvēciskas pieredzes ķēdē, kur viss ir normāls un nomierinošs, un pazīstams, bet neveiksme jūs pēkšņi katapultē tālu prom, tieši aklajā vilšanās tumsā. Panākumi jūs katapultē tikpat pēkšņi un tikpat tālu tikpat žilbinošajā slavas un atzinības gaismā. Vienu no šiem pavērsieniem pasaulē objektīvi uzskata par sliktu un otru – par labu, bet jūsu zemapziņa nespēj saredzēt atšķirību starp ļauno un labo. Vienīgais, ko tā spēj sajust, ir šī emocionālā vienādojuma absolūtā vērtība, tiešais attālums, cik tālu prom no sevis jūs esat aizlidināti. Un abos gadījumos ir vienlīdz bīstami apmaldīties tur, psihes dziļumos.
But in both cases, it turns out that there is also the same remedy for self-restoration, and that is that you have got to find your way back home again as swiftly and smoothly as you can, and if you're wondering what your home is, here's a hint: Your home is whatever in this world you love more than you love yourself. So that might be creativity, it might be family, it might be invention, adventure, faith, service, it might be raising corgis, I don't know, your home is that thing to which you can dedicate your energies with such singular devotion that the ultimate results become inconsequential.
Bet izrādās, ka abos gadījumos ir viens un tas pats pašatjaunošanās veids – jums ir atkal jāatrod ceļš mājās, cik vien žigli un veikli iespējams, un, ja prātojat, kur gan ir jūsu mājas, lūk, norāde: jūsu mājas ir tas, ko šajā pasaulē mīlat vairāk nekā paši sevi. Tas var būt radošums, tā var būt ģimene, tie var būt izgudrojumi, piedzīvojumi, ticība, kalpošana, tā var būt korgiju audzēšana, es nezinu, bet jūsu mājas ir tā lieta, kurai varat veltīt savas pūles ar tik pilnīgu atdevi, ka gala iznākumam nav nozīmes.
For me, that home has always been writing. So after the weird, disorienting success that I went through with "Eat, Pray, Love," I realized that all I had to do was exactly the same thing that I used to have to do all the time when I was an equally disoriented failure. I had to get my ass back to work, and that's what I did, and that's how, in 2010, I was able to publish the dreaded follow-up to "Eat, Pray, Love." And you know what happened with that book? It bombed, and I was fine. Actually, I kind of felt bulletproof, because I knew that I had broken the spell and I had found my way back home to writing for the sheer devotion of it. And I stayed in my home of writing after that, and I wrote another book that just came out last year and that one was really beautifully received, which is very nice, but not my point. My point is that I'm writing another one now, and I'll write another book after that and another and another and another and many of them will fail, and some of them might succeed, but I will always be safe from the random hurricanes of outcome as long as I never forget where I rightfully live.
Man šīs mājas vienmēr ir bijusi rakstīšana. Tādēļ pēc dīvainajiem, mulsinošajiem <i>Ēd, lūdzies, mīli</i> panākumiem, es sapratu, ka man jādara, tas pats, ko esmu darījusi vienmēr, kad cietu tikpat mulsinošu neveiksmi. Man atkal jāķeras pie darba, un tieši to es arī darīju, un tā 2010. gadā es varēju izdot <i>Ēd, lūdzies, mīli</i> turpinājumu, no kura tā baidījos. Un ziniet, kas notika ar šo grāmatu? Tā izgāzās, un ar mani viss bija kārtībā. Patiesībā es sajutos neuzvarama, jo es zināju, ka esmu salauzusi burvestību un atradusi ceļu atpakaļ mājās pie rakstīšanas tīra prieka pēc. Un pēc tam es paliku savās rakstīšanas mājās un pagājušogad izdevu vēl vienu grāmatu, tā tika brīnišķīgi uzņemta, kas ir jauki, bet tas nav svarīgi. Svarīgi ir tas, ka tagad rakstu vēl vienu un pēcāk rakstīšu vēl vienu un tad vēl un vēl, un vēl. Daudzas no tām neizdosies, dažas varbūt gūs panākumus, bet es vienmēr būšu pasargāta no neparedzamajām iznākuma vētrām, kamēr vien neaizmirsīšu, kur ir manas īstās mājas.
Look, I don't know where you rightfully live, but I know that there's something in this world that you love more than you love yourself. Something worthy, by the way, so addiction and infatuation don't count, because we all know that those are not safe places to live. Right? The only trick is that you've got to identify the best, worthiest thing that you love most, and then build your house right on top of it and don't budge from it. And if you should someday, somehow get vaulted out of your home by either great failure or great success, then your job is to fight your way back to that home the only way that it has ever been done, by putting your head down and performing with diligence and devotion and respect and reverence whatever the task is that love is calling forth from you next. You just do that, and keep doing that again and again and again, and I can absolutely promise you, from long personal experience in every direction, I can assure you that it's all going to be okay. Thank you. (Applause)
Es nezinu, kur jūsu mājas, bet zinu, ka šajā pasaulē ir kas tāds, ko mīlat vairāk nekā sevi pašu. Kaut kas vērtīgs, starp citu, tā ka atkarība un apmātība neskaitās, jo mēs visi zinām, ka tās nav drošas dzīvesvietas, vai ne? Vienīgais āķis ir saprast, kas ir tas vislabākais, visvērtīgākais, vismīļākais, uz kā celt savu māju, un tad nekustēties ne no vietas. Un, ja jūs kādreiz vai nu lielas neveiksmes, vai lielas veiksmes dēļ izmet no šīm mājām, jūsu pienākums ir izlauzt ceļu atpakaļ mājup vienīgajā veidā, kā to var izdarīt, – noliecot galvu un ķeroties pie darba ar rūpību un atdevi, ar cieņu un godbijību, lai kas arī būtu tas, ko mīlestība liek jums darīt tālāk. Vienkārši dariet to un turpiniet to darīt atkal un atkal, un atkal, un no savas personīgās pieredzes es jums varu pilnībā apsolīt, es varu apliecināt, ka viss būs kārtībā. Paldies. (Aplausi)