Living in the Ethereal World

“I doubt you can ever trust an author not to make an ass of himself.” P.G. Wodehouse, Joy in the Morning.

Wodehouse was a damn good author, so I'll presume he knew of what he spoke. I like to see it as a bit of true confession. Certainly applies in my case.

Writing is one of the few areas of my life in which I feel confidently competent. I have a good ear, a large vocabulary, a broad education, and once I get going I’m absorbed by the process. Judging by the feedback I get, more times than not the results are not so bad, sometimes even pretty good. (If I were the boastful type I'd put here that one time a respected colleague to me I "write like an angel." But since I'm not boastful, I won't put it here. Damn, I already did. Just ignore it.)

In any event, in most other areas, the jury is still out (or has brought in a negative verdict). A lot of day-to-day modern life seems to be beyond my abilities. I can mess up lots of things, make decisions and take actions that make little sense when reviewed after the fact. Like refusing to verify my assumptions against the calendared event, resulting in missed appointments. Repeatedly. Looking back it’s obvious I’ve jumped to conclusions or wrongly evaluated options, sometimes alienated people, certainly made things harder than they should have been.

I don’t think it’s because of my lack of resources -- most of the attributes that go into writing should apply to the rest of life, too. Careful attention and making good use of available materials and opportunities should be useful and productive in all areas of life, from relationships to real estate. But it rarely works that way for me.

I think it has to do with focus. I spend a lot of time absorbed in the world of words and ideas, making me almost the stereotypical absent-minded author. It’s been a lifelong lifestyle, this presumption that things are a certain way because I think so, without making an even rudimentary investigation. Like, to use a rudimentary but sadly true example, when I was in grade school I always carefully avoided sliding my fingers along the underside of my lift-top desk, convinced that it was unfinished and therefore covered with sharp slivers of wood -- and I clung to this conviction despite the fact that several times every day I lifted up the top to my desk to pull out books and supplies, and could, if I’d bothered to look, have verified that the underside was as smoothly polished as the top. Or, since I suppose I did look, could have bothered to make that basic comparison between my mental image and cold hard facts.

But I didn’t make that connection until years later in a sort of “aha” moment -- or maybe more a “doh!” moment. But, sadly, that aha has never become automatic; I still make untested assumptions and run my life accordingly. Something which often drives other people, most notably my scientifically-oriented wife, bonkers.
When she was younger, my youngest daughter was fond of saying that we all have our special talents, and I like to think that grade-school sentiment hit the point. We can’t be all things, so we need to be good at some, and let others excel at the others.

So I’ll run with that. I’m a good writer and I should focus on that. It beats the alternative of admitting I’m a sort of ivory-tower intellectual who more often than not needs a thump of common sense from my keepers and more down-to-earth companions.

I wonder if the underside of this kitchen table has sharp splinters. Since the top doesn't lift up, I suppose I'll never know, and will, in an overabundance of caution, be sure to keep my hands on top.