Journal: “great writers…always obsessed with something”
Yesterday the sun was clear and golden in the afternoon, and shining at that angle that said “fall is coming.” Today the sun is partly filmed over with occasional clouds, and the breeze is cool. Maybe even chilly. And the temperature is in that in-between place that says “fall is here.” Forget the calendar; the weather wins (at 8,500’).
I was taking advantage of the weather to clean the van—to smell it up with Pine Sol with the doors open, and to have the cab doors open while I wiped everything down. Some of it seemed largely irrelevant to me. Not the mopping—I was glad to have that done. But trying to get the dust out of the nooks and crannies of the AC outlets? Cleaning out the map pocket? I had a very middle class voice in my head, talking to me about, in essence, pride. Fear of judgment? Keeping up appearances? Maintaining standards? Doing things because they’re The Way Things Ought To Be Done? Not sure, but I know it didn’t come from me.
And I really felt it like a class/image pressure. It made me angry. I’m not in the middle class and don’t want to be held to its standards. My standards: hygiene and sanitation; sanity/clutter/tidiness; repairs as needed for functionality/longevity of the thing. Everything else is gravy. Appearance? Yes, in the sense of harmony. But I don’t care whether the dashboard gleams. I can see the instrument panel. I can reach everything I need. There’s no spilled food or drink. I am genuinely glad that those two dead miller moths are out of the map pocket. (Why do I have maps in the map pocket??? Do I still need those?) But nothing except some mild reorganizing will make a lick of difference to my everyday life. The energy spent compared to the pleasure gained—or satisfaction, I suppose—is way out of proportion.
For some reason this is connected to one of the quotes Etan at BearBlog posted: something to the effect that writers are obsessed with something or other—but not with writing. It was like the C. S. Lewis advice: to be interested in things, because if you’re primarily interested in writing you won’t have anything to write about. I’m not disagreeing with the advice—in fact, I think it’s good on principle. Whenever I say, “I want to write,” I come to a dead stop. Whenever I want to explore something, writing is my instinctive means of choice.
I wonder if “obsessed” is culturally loaded, though—that, I think, is the connection to cleaning the van and middle class values. Obsession is like passion—the word du jour for intensity, because intensity is always assumed to be good. There’s a “more, bigger, better” vibe to it—something caffeine fueled. It goes along with 4x4 commercials that show people always pushing the edge while electric guitars wail in the background. There’s pressure in the word obsessed. Poor Lewis’s mere interest looks awfully mild and tea-drinking and pipe-smoking by comparison. Tweed-wearing. Tut.
I don’t believe in it, though. It smacks to me of trying to look big. That doesn’t mean it always is. But if I were to take the advice, that’s how I’d feel—like I had to try to “pass,” just like I still feel pressure to pass as middle class or able-bodied.
Suffice it to say that something other than writing is useful as a spur to writing. Engagement, interest, participation, love, appreciation, perplexity—I resist obsession on principle.
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(Note: this isn’t a dig at Etan! I always get a kick out of the quotes he shares. I’m just trying the ideas on for size.)