After having written a few personal essays laying the foundation for a memoir, I was uncertain whether the story of my life – a government scientist who had never suffered adversity or injustice – would have an audience. This question resurfaced in a different format in a discussion with colleagues in creative areas, when I was confronted with the question, “What’s success?”

The nature of success seemed buried in my effort to attract interest in my memoir, which I am polishing at the moment. Success generates interest – everyone likes success – and that typically involves a compelling story of conquest of one sort or another, such as rising from poverty to riches, or from loser to winner. But that was not my story. What to do?

Marcel Proust gave me confidence to write a memoir. His autobiographical novel portraying the literary salons, anti-Semitism and social dynamics in the aristocratic French society some hundred years ago didn’t depend on elaborate plots, harrowing events or world-changing events to be compelling. Proust made writing about life as it unfolded in his era interesting because, apart from the gifted prose and imagery, he filtered the story through his creative mind.

Proust told me that my challenge of making a memoir interesting depended more on reflections than on obstacles.

And so, back to the related question, “What’s success?” Who determines success: the performer or the audience?

My colleagues viewed success in creativity in some ways like an athlete would: success was winning, whatever the game. I can’t deny that, yet the contrary cliché that success was not winning, but how you played the game, didn’t hold much water for me. Stated as such, success – a subjective concept – seemed like a consolation prize.

“I would define success as having significant sales of my book,” said the writer.

“For me, success is a tenured university position,” said the academic scientist.

“Well, yes,” said another, “but I think success means a steady income.”

They were cautious to not sound greedy or hungry for power, framed their view of success in socially acceptable terms, and modestly linked success to winning the game they were playing.

My colleagues looked at me. My turn; there was no escape. What did I think success was?

The usual measures of success in science, which dominated my professional life, flashed through my mind. Making discoveries came first, but I had to admit that was only the foundation. If I thought a discovery interesting, yet was rejected by the scientific journals, I felt more frustrated than successful. Success needed recognition. For a scientist that meant publications, lecture invitations, awards and a well supported laboratory.

Proust made writing about life as it unfolded in his era interesting because, apart from the gifted prose and imagery, he filtered the story through his creative mind.

But, wasn’t that defining success, once again, by winning the game?

Then I thought of writing, my present focus. Producing compelling books matched making discoveries for a scientist. Finding an agent and publisher was equivalent to publications in scientific journals, and advance acceptances for publication might be considered comparable to tenure at a university for a basic scientist. Receiving positive reviews and going on book tours was an author’s counterpart of being sought for advisory panels and keynote lectures at conferences. Winning awards was the same for writers and scientists.

Once more, I was defining success, or having the ingredients for an interesting memoir, by society’s benchmarks. So what bothered me about that; it was commonly accepted and true.

The gnawing problem was that I had punted: I kicked the definition of success to the opinions of others. Every criterion for success was external, letting someone else determine whether I was a success. With respect to a memoir, this meant letting publishers and readers decide whether I had anything interesting to say and whether my life was noteworthy. I disregarded the reality that these external judges would necessarily have conflict of interests with respect to their own professional success.

I was letting success be defined by proxy amongst strangers.

I searched my mind for a common denominator to define success in science and writing – my two creative fields with different orientations. Proust’s voice of internal reflections came once again to the rescue, and I had the following thought:

Success for a scientist and writer was an invisible cannibal.

“What are you talking about?” asked my internal Devil’s Advocate, who has been a pain all my life. I call him DA.

My answer was, “Success is when you don’t have time to worry about it. You’re too busy creating. Success devours itself.”

I took this idea one step further and said, “To be successful, hire an overcommitted person, because he or she is the one generating ideas.”

DA looked skeptical, so I told him how this might apply to me. “I felt successful as a scientist when research preoccupied my every moment, day and night, and when I felt compelled to follow the glimmer of light wherever it flickered, to overcommit myself. In a sense, success submitted to the work itself. Today, I feel successful as a writer when I’m engrossed in trying to express ideas in words that sing, not when I’m concerned with my audience’s reaction. I define success as generation, not reception.”

“Get a grip, Joram. You’ve had your share of recognitions in one form or other, so of course you can get away by taking the high road.”

Success is when you don’t have time to worry about it. You’re too busy creating. Success devours itself.

Yikes, DA has a good point. It’s very easy to be above it all when things go your way.

But then again I know that when questions blurred and research lagged, I didn’t feel successful as a scientist. And when I’m depleted of ideas and floundering in a mental void, I feel as a failure as a writer.

“I’m not shunning recognitions – god forbid – we all need that,” I told DA. “I’m giving myself some responsibility to define success. After all, isn’t success largely an internal feeling?”

DA disappeared, presumably tired of this self-indulgent discussion.

So, I take responsibility for my memoir, which reflects part of my life, not all of it, for that would be as impossible as undesirable. But I still hope others will be interested.