THE MYTH OF THE PROXIMITY EFFECT
I did not want to wake up someday to understand I had become J. Alfred Prufrock*, with his muttering retreats. So, I went to the right school, lived in the right neighborhood, wore the right leather jacket, went to the right rooftop parties — they all felt like tickets I was exchanging for more than big ideas and good times. I actually believed I had bought into a circle of influence, a mafia.A friend wrote to me and drew on the term “the proximity effect” the other day and I found myself nodding with wild recognition, alone in our Moscow living room. The assumption that classmates and acquaintances, collaborators and friends will all find a way to include you in their success — it is a complete myth.
I remember those salad days in New York, when everyone seemed to be playing a form of mental math. “That person owes me (x) for (a).” Or “I owe this person (y) for (b).” And then there were the angry, self-righteous happy hours when we griped over cheap beers about betrayal, after our fantastical math went wrong. The phrase “they owe me” was threaded through all of them. Later in life, I look back and my head shakes with complete embarrassment. Those habits, that headstrong ego, that inflated self-image, those paper tigers — they were fierce obstacles, but at one point they all had to be removed.
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
The thing is, the proximity effect is not a complete fairy tale. Of course there are moments in life when people do each other favors (often for mutually beneficial reasons). If it isn’t out of sheer charity, then it is just good business to reach out and connect. The trouble lies in the naïve assumption that favors can be expected or worse, required.That is the drop of poison. Favors are like birds that somehow fly through an open window. You cannot expect them. If you want to be the bird and help someone else, how and when you decide to do that may best be left as an enigma. Just last week, I helped a young Russian filmmaker, and spent an hour on the phone as we plotted a course for him to find work in Moscow. “I owe you!” he said, more than once. I found myself dismissing him. “You owe me nothing.” I explained. I found the emptiness, the distinct lack of a transaction to be a complete relief. Helping another human being is its own reward unto itself.
I think that when we surrender to myth, we are just finding a way to waste time and point our finger (quite brilliantly) towards outside forces. When people blame a scarcity of mafia favors for their perceived failures and a stagnant career — they have really just fallen prey to some ultra-complicated fear. I say this with all kindness. It is not a condemnation. The ability to live in the future is a brilliant way to avoid confronting your fears (and please show me a person without fear). How we decide to manage them is the only thing that makes us different. Have you ever said something like “Once my kids go to college…” or “Once I save enough money…” or “Once this job is over and I have more time…”. These catch-phrases trigger sympathy and understanding from anyone you share them with. Misery loves company — that is no myth. We all have that story about the job, the part, the film, the gallery show that got away. We all have life commitments, families and practical needs. They take up time and attention. They also keep us from facing our creative fears. Lost in the work of putting a roof over your head and food on the table, every single one of us runs the risk of becoming Prufrock.
How to get around this? Vigilance and commitment. Living on borrowed time is a scam we play on ourselves. We will never, ever get back that time. And in the same breath, here is something unexpected. All of that lost time, all of that pain and heartache, all of that fumbling in the dark — it is raw experience you can borrow from. If it ends up in a song or a scene, a story or a performance — it can find a home in your return to the creative process. It is far, far better to be Eliot writing about hollow, desperate Prufrock than to be Prufrock. Write what you know, today.
