Whine. Sob. I can't write. Sob. Sob.

I can't seem to get myself to write, and I have no idea why that is. I'm trying to stream one of my virtual coffee shops to see if that helps. Maybe it does, a little. But the fundamental problem remains. Getting going is hard. Keeping going is hard. For some reason, I can't write.

Well, of course, that's not true. Obviously I can, or you wouldn't be reading this. But It's January 31st right now, rather than January 21, the date I backdated this to. I wrote most of this on that day, whining about my inability to write. But it took me another ten days to figure it out, and finish it, and to post it, assuming that I finish and post it today.

So, to continue my whining:

When I can't write, the one thing I seem to be able to write about is why I can't write. Seems like there's always something to say about that, and sometimes something to learn. This time I think I've put together some pieces of the larger puzzle.

Per Marvin Minsky and others, including me, the mind can be looked at as a society. The voices in our heads are spokespeople for factions that have formed. And sometimes a segment of society takes over control and thus we have behavior. Sometimes the behavior is consistent with what leading spokespeople in the society of mind have announced. And sometimes it's different.

We'll call the members of the society of mind "agents." Agents can combine to form larger agents. Sometimes we'll call them agents, and sometimes as agencies, depending on which metaphor makes the most sense. And sometimes it's voices, political parties, factions. Ultimately, all the same kind of thing.

Like everything else in the universe, the society of mind is ultimately governed by power. The agents with the most power, at any moment, get to decide what the body that is attached to the mind will do.

Agents get power based on reward and punishment mechanisms. Some come are built-in and hard-wired. And some are socially constructed, but ultimately resting on the built-in set. 

Just as politicians have learned to trick voters into voting for things that are no good for them, agents in the society of mind have learned to trick the mind into transcending its hard-wiring. And a good thing that is, too: otherwise we'd spend our time doing nothing but eating, sleeping, and having sex--all hard-wired--and never do any blogging.

Minds are wired so that successful agents get more power, and so that success is a moving target, defined, in part, by the agents that succeed. Feedback, but with hard-wired rate-limits of many kinds. Agents that are unsuccessful, lose power. 

When you exercise your muscles they gain strength over the long run (up to hard-wired limits) but when they tire they lose strength in the short run. So agents when able to exercise whatever power they have gain power in the long run (if successful) but also lose power temporarily when they tire.

Agents operate at different levels. As I write, some low-level agents are responsible for moving my fingers. Higher-level agents are responsible for turning ideas into words and either they, or other higher-level agents direct the lower-level finger agents to produce the correct letters. Still higher-level agents are responsible for choosing ideas, and some are responsible for making the decision to write, ensuring that I sit down, start writing, and hopefully to stay there, no matter the distraction, until something is written. 

Those highest level agents are most interesting to me. They take in data from the world, assess problems, come up with explanations of the world, set goals, and create strategies to achieve these goals. And at the top of the agent hierarchy is the boss agent: the one I call "me." "Me" has some control, but it's not unlimited. "I" can direct the rest of the mind and body to do something that "I" have decided that "I" want, but if "I" directly exercise control for a while, "I" lose strength, and some other agent can step in and take over.

This is true of all agents, so the formula for an agent's success is: "Get another agent to do the work."

So what does it mean when I say: "I can't write?" 

As I construct the world, it means that "I" has decided to write, but doesn't have the power to get the necessary set of agents working to get the writing done. "I" can't just give the order and make it happen. If "I" am going to make it happen, I have to resort to some indirect means, possibly even trickery to get the result that I want to get.

In the meanwhile some other agent is taking advantage of this lapse. 

When I say: "I can't write," it's not "me" saying it. "I" know goddamned well that I can write. And "I" want to. But some other agent comes along and says: "I'm not writing, and it's because I can't write." And why is that? Because that agent is trying to use the mind's machinery to gain power.

The mind is a survival machine designed to make judgments and decisions and giving power to agents that make good judgements and decisions. Saying "I can't write" is an easy way for an agent that wants power to get some. "I can't write" is a correct statement at the moment it is stated, providing, of course, that one is not writing at that very moment.

So that agent gets rewarded for having created an "explanation" for what's going on. What's going on is "I'm not writing." The explanation is: "I can't write." The agent has not explained why "I can't write," but it doesn't need to. It just needs to keep pointing out that "I'm not writing," and keep explaining "I can't write."

Since both are correct, or at least not provably false, the agent making those statements increases its power. Other agents, seeing an agent that's being "successful" give it more power.

If that agent has enough power to block writing efforts, or enough to distract efforts away from writing then it will gain more power. And with more power comes more ability to block and distract.

When an agent observes that there is no writing going on and says "I can't write" it's made a decision: it's chosen between "I'm not writing, but I can write, I just haven't figured out how," and "I can't write," and it's decided "I can't write." Worse, "I can't write" is not an ordinary a decision, it's a conclusion. When an agent makes a decision it's reached a fork in the road and chosen one branch. 

When it draws a conclusion, it's chosen a dead end. There is no going forward.

Except now, ten days after the fact, it's clear how I might be able to deal with this.

Back then I sat down and started writing about the one thing that I could write about: how I was unable to write. It was whiney and victimy, but it worked. But only to a degree. Now, seeing the mechanism at work, I think I can do a better job. It's a matter of strategy, or, if you will, of trickery.

So the answer to "I can't write," is to write something, anything at all. And then say: "Fuck you! I can write." And then keep writing. That keeps the "I can't write" agent from gaining more power. That takes power away from it. And pretty soon I've got something written.

Well, a week later.

But dammit! I can write.