Writerly Things

I have been thinking recently about the world depicted in novels. Is the world truly that way and writers are more perceptive or is it the idea that writers are perceptive which makes us accept their categorization of the world?

In chemistry, the observation of an object at the atomic level can change it so much that there’s this thing called the observer effect. I’m parsing and paraphrasing for my analogy a bit but it basically says that when you look at something it undergoes a change so that it is no longer the same as what you were trying to observe. An electron becomes changed when we try to see it, try to qualitatively observe it so that we can describe other electrons.

Bringing this back from the depths of quantum mechanics, is the macro-cosmic world the same? Is there something about the writer’s remarks which means that they are not entirely true?

For one, it takes a very certain type of person to dedicate their life to sitting by themselves and punching laptop keys for a living. As a writer, as a chronicler, you are meant to be able to sift through the world in such a way as to comment on it and to change it. That is our goal, to find something we don’t like, identify that and then use the talent God gave us, our writerly abilities, to say why we don’t like this thing and you, dear Reader, shouldn’t either.

But, what separates me from the stockbroker, the doctor or the professor? All these people make important decisions, they foresee things or at least try to. People in these trades have all tasked themselves with benefiting something, with doing something.

All I do is comment on things and it’s a very odd feeling. I’m apart from everyone because I do not think in terms of weeks and months but rather something more cyclical. I remember things from books written long ago and see people continuing to do the same. The cycle of the world is to make a mistake, feel bad about that mistake and then forget it ever happened.

I can see that, and I accept that the way things are is just the way things are. I am happy with myself and my writing but I also feel as though the world is less interesting as a result of this. I search constantly instead of accepting what’s around and taking stock.

Probably the greatest thing in my life at the moment is my newspaper job because it allows me to write but also feel more connected to the people around me than I have before. I am learning to be interested in things I never thought I would, like people’s dating history, housemate drama and stupid shit that I ultimately know is entirely inconsequential to my life.

These things exist so separate of me and yet I cannot help but feel interested for the first time in a long while in other people’s lives. I care more about those around me than I have before because of this job and so well, I guess I just am quite happy with that.

It’s not an overall happiness but a contentment, I don’t know if the transience of student life is something I enjoy all that much because it gives everything an artificial end date. But such is life, I just look forward to living life as a writer.

It’s something so intrinsic to my being. I am a writer – few people understand how important and monumental of a thing that is for me, for my life and my worldview.




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