I spent last weekend listening to education podcasts. Thinkers with interesting, important things to say. The best guests were those whose words were married into stories of their own eclectic experiences. Off the back of this, I started to read the articles and thinkpieces they’d penned. Carefully curated ideas that spark curiosity, afterthoughts, reflection. I would love the ability to be able to do this; to speak with the fluency and flow of those with something important and interesting to say. That’s the kind of person I would like to be.
One of tells of a good writer and thinker is in their ability to tell a good story. I’m hopeless at telling stories. I find myself getting bored of my own meandering and weaving and tend to get straight to the point. You get the gist of what happened. Bam. Point made. Time to move onto something else. Something more interesting. I imagine I’m fairly boring to have a conversation with sometimes.
I get impatient very easily in conversation, especially when I’m listening to others in their refusal to come up for air. They will tell me the intricacies of their weekends, often without prompt, and I’ll slowly start to zone out. My brain exploring tangents. Okay, I get it, you went out at weekend, you had a nice time and I’m happy for you. It goes on. I can feel myself getting quite overwhelmed by this constant wall of noise. And on. This isn’t a reciprocal conversation. And on. 20 minutes has passed and I fear I will be stuck here forever…
This zoning out isn’t intentional rudeness on my part. I have a particular flavour of brain that is constantly searching for novelty and intrigue, but perhaps overvalues a certain kind of depth that isn’t always available in casual conversation. In short, I get bored easily. Sorry.
Half the issue is because I’ve already processed the points they were getting at. Their meandering and weaving hasn’t offered me anything new in terms of information or knowledge and I’m simply not hooked. Like an article or book I’m not particular enamoured with, I will speed read to the end of the paragraph before they’re two sentences in. I’ll never let onto my disinterest or impatience. I have learnt to smile politely, nod my head affirmingly and offer words of [insert emotion I’m supposed to convey here] whilst they carefully curate what they believe is a really interesting story.
Then there are those who I could listen to all day. Whose words I could read and always return to. Whose voices I value and whose thoughts I care deeply about. It’s the MSG equivalence of interaction. My brain flips as it savours and hangs off every iteration. I crave it constantly. Tell me more. Give me more. In recognising this about myself, I have come to the astonishingly obvious conclusion: 1. some people just like the sound of their own voice and 2. some people genuinely have something interesting to say. But this is where I get myself mixed up.
There are those who use a lot of words to say very little, and those who say very little for emphasis. I’m certainly not the former, not in-person anyway. And on my quest to become a better writer and thinker, I’ve been stuck in perpetual analysis paralysis. Self-evaluation to the point of torture.
I’ve recognised that whilst I’m selective in the words I choose, who I speak to and who knows what – I very rarely share my truly interesting stories. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I don’t think they’re that interesting so don’t bother. Instead, my words morph into generic whinging, complaints or barely humorous observations. Tinged with shame, sadness and anger. By which point, the rot in my brain has set in and I’ve decided that I cannot write and I no longer like myself, so what’s the point in anything. A fantastic conclusion. If self-indulgent depression was a recipe, I’m a gourmet.
It’s unfortunate that I tend to lean towards the heavier thoughts and feelings when there have been so many inflections of joy and goodness in my life recently. As much as I’m overcome with gratitude, I never allow myself the peace that should come with it. I’m quite contented in the moment, and it’s as though nothing else in the world matters. I’m present and I’m free. I’m everything I want to be, and all those other nauseating clichés. But as soon as the excitement stops, I begin to drown.
I’ve decided to return to what 17-year-old me used to do. I will arduously practice my writing in the moment to capture those interesting stories in the hope that they will override the narratives I insist on returning to whenever life quietens down. That’s the intention anyway. Try to inject a bit of intrigue in a somewhat brave attempt to showcase my truly interesting stories. And I promise, I’ll do my best to park the teenage angst which has now turned into curmudgeon early-thirties cynicism. Wish me luck.