At the show, I started to see my build for the achievement it was. But, in my conversations with these other enthusiasts, they kept asking this one question, a question that made my stomach churn: “So, what are you going to build next?” Why do we fear “what’s next?” The first time someone asked me this question at the show, I was blindsided. I’d barely finished this build, and I was already supposed to be thinking about the next one? And in the unlikely event you reach the end of your Facebook newsfeed, you’ll find yourself greeted with more pages to like, more “friends” to add. Probably, you took a moment to let it soak in, to feel the full effect of the book and reflect on how it made you feel. The nothingness at the end of an experience — whether it’s a book, a movie, or a two-year-long motorcycle project — gives us time to reflect, to absorb the full experience. When you try to keep up with the cultural hunger for “new,” you give other people too much power over your creative life. Of course it feels good to have new ideas, opportunities, and experiences. As for me and my motorcycle, I’ve decided that, for now, I’m not going to worry about the next build. When I’m ready to build another motorcycle, the ideas will come.
A few months ago, I had the immense good fortune to get invited to display my first motorcycle project at a popular show where I live in Portland.
Just finishing the bike was a huge accomplishment for me, so this invitation to the show was a dream come true.
In the weeks leading up to the event, I stressed over the details. I worried that people would see through the glossy paint and realize I didn’t actually know what I was doing.
But when the show finally arrived, it was better than I could have imagined.
People who had followed my build online sought me out to congratulate me, and I met several builders I admired. At the show, I started to see my build for the achievement it was.
But, in my conversations with these other enthusiasts, they kept asking this one question, a question that made my stomach churn:
“So, what are you going to build next?”
Why do we fear “what’s next?”
The first time someone asked me this question at the show, I was blindsided. I’d barely finished this build, and I was already supposed to be thinking about the next one?
I babbled a response about having “so many ideas!” But inside, I panicked.
Would a real builder already have her next big idea?
What would I do next?
At face value, it’s a simple question. But as I thought about it, and my reaction to it, I found a lot to unpack.
First, simply being asked the question is flattering. It means that, to some extent, the asker enjoyed my work and would be interested in seeing more of it. For that, I’m grateful and humbled.
But, despite the intent, this question triggered a flood of worry, and I wanted to know why.
Living in a “what’s next” world
When an experience comes to an end, it’s human to look to the next thing.
We tend to prefer the optimism of beginnings to the loss and goodbyes of endings.
But lately, I’ve started to notice that digital technologies have begun to preempt the question, assuming that we’ll ask it about even the smallest and most trivial things.
When you’ve reached the end of a series or movie, Netflix chooses something new for you, and auto-plays the trailer. After your music ends, Spotify keeps going with its own auto-generated playlist that’s supposed to match the mood.
Amazon tries to provide helpful ideas about what to buy next, even…
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