Sometimes I ponder the ancient Greeks and their esoteric mystery cults. We have some connection to these ancient practices in our latter days, through organizations like the Freemasons, and through college fraternities. Nevertheless, it remains important to recall just how effing weird the Greek mystery cults really were.
For example, I have heard it told that the ancient Cult of Pythagoras (yes, that Pythagoras—the guy with the triangles) involved a five-year initiation ritual, most of which was spent with the neophyte sitting in absolute silence, and being subjected to daily lectures on philosophy and mathematics. At the end of this long period of indoctrination, the neophyte was given a test.
Little did the would-be Pythagoreans know at the time, but the test involved a mathematical problem that could not be solved. They were left alone in the ritual chambers with their silence, the (unbeknownst to them, unsolvable) math problem, and a bowl of hemlock—which, Steve Martin aside, everyone knows will kill you if you drink it.
The Pythagoreans were hardcore, and their ritual was designed to make the neophyte confront a basic human question: What do you do when you fail?
I was thinking of the Pythagoreans lately while my family and I have been passing COVID time watching The Great British Baking Show. If you’ve not seen it, it is a charming BBC production that is exactly as its title suggests: a multi-week competition where a dozen contestants go through a series of challenges, week to week. Each episode ends with one contestant being crowned ‘Star Baker,’ and one contestant leaving the show.
It is a very gentle and lovely show, and I recommend it highly.
What made me think of Pythagoras, however, was a particular episode where one of the bakers has what can only be described as a total nervous breakdown.
The baker, named Ian, has a series of mishaps occur with a complex assignment—a baked Alaska—that involved not only needing to bake but also to whip up some ice cream from scratch. Ian’s timing gets off, the ice cream won’t set properly, and he grows more and more frustrated.
Then, in a moment of madness, he takes the entire thing and hurls it in the trash.
On a show this gentle, the action was unprecedented. It completely disrupts the flow of things, and it ends with Ian leaving the show.
But before he does, he participates in the judging of the bakes. Where all the other contestants bring up their finished Alaskas, Ian simply brings up the rubbish bin.
We’ve all been there, right? We’ve all been involved in a project that just won’t come together. We’ve all had something that blows the deadline, or can’t meet the standard, or just flat out doesn’t work.
In short, we’ve all been Ian at one time or another. Lord knows I have.
So the question that faces each of us, just as it faced Ian and those would-be Pythagoreans all those years ago, is what do you do when things go horribly, horribly wrong?
And this is not just a question for the end of a project. I look at the manuscript I’m working on for my book, and there are many days I simply want to through it in the rubbish bin.
So I’ve been thinking about Ian, and how the judges react to his choice. They remind him that he has effectively removed himself from the very possibility of further participation. He could have brought his bake forward, even knowing it was a failure.
As Paul, the male judge, says at one point, doing that would have allowed them to judge the entry, even if harshly. It would have still given them some way to include Ian in the culture of the place.
But as it was, Ian eliminated himself from the culture.
I think this is very important, and it hearkens back to some of the core principles I involve in my own creative process: If something is worth doing, it is worth doing badly. Sucking in public is awful, but it keeps you connected to the culture, and you can get better.
Throwing your project in the bin removes you from the culture, and eliminates the immediate sting of failure, but it also eliminates the possibility of improvement.
In our home, this moment with Ian has become a rally cry for parents and children alike. When things get tough and frustrating, you will hear us encourage one another by reminding the one in travail, “Don’t bin your bake!”
The going will get tough. You will hate the thing you are working on. You will want to destroy it, in fear that it might destroy you.
As much as you can, press on. Try to stick with it. Trust that something good is in there, and worth saving.
Don’t bin your bake.