I am not feeling like I am personally interesting enough, or like I am having interesting enough ideas about anything, to justify writing in a blog on the internet right now. On the one hand, I believe this awareness is to my credit; on the other hand, here I am, writing a blog entry nonetheless.
A good friend is visiting, and the other night we (friend, me, old man) had a long conversation about the various problems we face specifically as writers. It was weirdly illuminating. Friend and the old man are very similar in their particular psychological dysfunction, while I am equally dysfunctional but in a completely different way. Those two can not write for fear of imperfection, or for fear that what they write might not be meaningful enough to be worth writing. This perfectionism and heightened awareness of potential reception issues paralyzes them. For me, I could not give less of a shit about writing something perfect, and I do not care that what I write will be interesting to only a vanishingly small fraction of the population. I have cynically accepted the necessity that I must write in order to keep my job; thus, I write, as much and as fast as I can, without much thought of posterity or brilliance. I write incessantly and easily (the other day I wrote 10,000 words in one sitting) but because I have no sense of perfectionism whatsoever–and because I write mostly out of fear–almost everything I write is unusable garbage, not worthy even of revising or editing into something real.
And so, even though our psychologies are precisely opposites, we all end up in the same place: no publications.
Later, we played Super Mario Bros., and my friend pointed out that our playing styles exactly mirror our respective writing styles: she plays slowly, methodically, taking an actually painful amount of time to move cautiously through the world (to the point where the clock ran out on her several times, like even on world 1-1, if you can imagine), getting every coin, pursuing every potential brick block, trying to get the maximum number of points (doing that thing where if you don’t get a good enough running start before jumping on the flag, you back up and start again), and going so slowly that it actually hinders her, for example when leaping over pits and you need to hold down B; when it’s my turn, I race as fast as possible from left to right, literally just holding down B for the entire length of play, ignoring almost all coins and opportunities for points, simply grabbing mushrooms and firepowers where I already know they are, then leaping onto the flag with a sense of panicked relief. She dies before reaching the end of the level due to being too methodical; I get a cartoonishly small number of points due to not being methodical enough, also I often die due to rash decisions and going too fast. We basically died laughing.
While I think there are great reasons to get professional help for specific issues, I confess I am not really into this thing where everybody is in therapy forever for ill-defined reasons and with nebulous results (my aversion to therapy, like most of my aversions, stems from reading about how our cultural relationship to it has been conditioned by the commercialization of every aspect of life) but sometimes I do feel I would benefit from being psychoanalyzed. Like, old-school style, with the couch and the bearded analyst with the notebook filled with penis drawings. I would like to know what psychodramas rage within.
It is the end of July, horribly. The summer is more than halfway over, and I am starting to feel the adrenaline and dread creeping back in. I am so far doing a better job of keeping it at bay than I did last year. I practice mindfulness and compartmentalization of tasks. I trust more in the shrug that says “I’m sure it will work out somehow.” I am also trying to trust in my accumulated skills–I know how to teach a class, write a syllabus, go to a meeting, grade, sleep at night. I am trying to keep alive a spirit of curiosity about what will happen next. Also, I am trying to remember that there are a million ways to get through this life, a million things you can do, a million unexpected windfalls or tragedies that you can’t predict. I’ve got to live in the present and just do one thing at a time, and trust that somehow it will eventually add up to some sort of success. And if it doesn’t, then I will move to Costa Rica and start a treehouse yoga resort.
I harbor a secret desire to purchase a Wii so that I can play the new Zeldas. I have played all the Zeldas I currently have access to, to the point that the joy of discovery and exploration has been mostly wrung out of them. I have never seen or touched a Wii and the idea of purchasing a new video game console at age 38 seems weird for some reason, although early middle age never stopped me from doing anything before (except skateboarding). I find specifically the Zelda games to be intensely relaxing. It might be a worthwhile investment. I will have to talk to my financial adviser (husband).
Enjoying my home and my new adopted town/land. The weather has been delightful. We have been experimenting with a half-assed macrobiotic diet, interspersed with periodic pizza parties.
God bless you
I think they’ve put off the Zelda release for a while, so you have time. I’m planning to buy it and then either return it or sell it on Craigslist.
Welcome back!
My friend – a professor of applied music – has this thing she says about how people can only play (their instrument) how they are, as a person. Like, if you’re really uptight and trapped in your brain, that’s the way you’re going to play. If you’re really flakey and dreamy but determined (like me) that’s how you play. So lessons are just as much about becoming a more whole person as they are about becoming a more whole musician. It’s a lot like psychotherapy and seems a little fishy to me but is so true, a lot of the time. We express who we are at every turn.
that is delightful and thought-provoking!