The talk that could have killed me

Presentations seem to be hit-or-miss affairs for me.

My first talk on evolutionary computation, which I gave during the opening session of the Third Annual Conference on Evolutionary Programming (1994), was a hit. Hans-Paul Schwefel, one of the inventors of the evolution strategy, joined me for lunch that day. Prior to the conference banquet, I was buttonholed by a guy whose name I did not recognize from the EC literature. He was obviously very bright, and he complimented me on my work. Furthermore, he seemed to know a lot about directed evolution. I kept stealing glances at his name tag, wondering, "Who is this guy?" To be honest, if I had known how to break away politely, we’d have spoken for 5 minutes instead of 20. In the end, one of the conference organizers approached him to say, “We’re about ready to start now.” And he walked to the table at the front of the room with the “reserved” placard. After dinner, he gave the most brilliant talk I’ve ever heard. His name was Gerry Joyce. Many of you know of the sensational result, “Self-Sustained Replication of an RNA Enzyme,” that he and his student Tracey Lincoln published last year (see PZ Myers' explanation). The conference got even better for me on the last day, when David Fogel, last year’s president of the IEEE Computational Intelligence Society, asked me to serve as co-chair, with Thomas Bäck and Pete Angeline, of the technical program for the following year’s meeting. (Unfortunately, I had to resign that position due to illness.)

The “disbelief discourse” I recently gave to the Oklahoma Atheists was a miss, no matter that I put a huge amount of time into preparing it. Driving to the venue, I took two wrong turns. I arrived at precisely the time I was supposed to begin, with my anxiety sky-high. It turned out that the guy with the projector and screen showed up just when I did, but that didn't make me feel any better. Then it turned out that my Apple laptop would not connect to the projector. So I converted my presentation to PDF and, with two tries, got it onto a thumb drive. I plugged the thumb drive into a backup laptop that was perched on a chair, rather than the podium where I was supposed to stand (and where there was a microphone, as well as a voice recorder for the planned podcast). At that point, I was totally discombobulated. I needed to stand in front of the podium to deal with the laptop. The screen, to which I wanted to point, was well behind me, and I caught myself talking over my shoulder several times. The microphone stand was directly behind my foot, and I bumped into it several times. Worst of all, I occasionally dared to look into the faces in front of me, and saw clearly that things were not going well. “Must press on” was all that I could think. The bright side of the experience was the Q&A. There were some good questions, and I had a lot of fun answering them. I hope that some of you who were there will believe that I’m usually the guy you saw in the end. It was an embarrassing experience for me.

So how could this have killed me? Well, the following day, I felt some pain behind my right knee. I thought I had sat wrong while finishing my slides. Indeed I had, but there was more to the story than that. Several days later, I was admitted to the hospital with extensive clotting in my leg, and with three pulmonary emboli. At present, it appears that an autoimmune response is making my blood sticky (i.e., antibodies are attaching to hemoglobin cells).

Perhaps you can understand now why I started by reminiscing about a time when everything went well.

Perfectionism and writer's anxiety

I used to think that I could learn to toss off remarks on the Internet. This post is my 20th at Bounded Science. But I have 24 un-posted drafts.

I recall ever-so-clearly copying sentences from the board when I was in the first grade. The other students had finished all ten, and I was on my fifth. The anxiety and shame I felt were incredible. I’ve since studied psychology and had some counseling. But I cannot begin to explain what was going on with that little guy.

I took the Scholastic Aptitude Tests back when there was no penalty for wrong answers. Although I knew to stop agonizing and start guessing when time was running out, I could not bring myself to do it. I left fairly large numbers of questions unanswered, and ended up with high (“DaveScot”) scores anyway.

Please don’t take this as backhanded bragging. My birthday is coming soon, and how little I’ve produced is weighing heavily on me. “To those whom much is given, much is expected.” I might have another 20 or 30 years in which my brain works well, and I’m wondering how to turn my life around.

The greater the scrutiny I expect a piece of writing to receive, the greater the problems I have with it. Writing for a journal ties me in knots. No matter that I see mediocre stuff in journals all the time, I can’t let go the notion that my own submission has to be absolutely fabulous.

The more I struggle to make my work fabulous, the worse it gets. The best prose I’ve turned out is, unfortunately, my dissertation (1990). What made it different? After gathering data compulsively, I had only a month to do the writing. There was a job in the offing, and my wife and son were depending on me. So I forced out a certain number of pages each day, revising little. Every now and then, I flip the book open, and find myself asking, “Is that really my work?”

I get annoyed when people like Dembski weigh my c.v. I’m well aware of my horribly low output. But anybody who attempts to diminish me when I speak about the area of research I’ve focused upon for 15 years has problems greater than my own.

I’ve begun writing a special post — a highly accessible presentation of my current understanding of “no free lunch” in optimization. Dembski and Marks are pushing an interpretation of the classic NFL theorem that is precisely backwards, and my goal is to get most of you to understand it better than they do. But let’s plan on my post being far from perfect, and on its improving with feedback from you.