Blissful ignorance is a bridge too far.
I’m not a “critical observer of human nature” or anything so overwrought, I simply fail to see the simple side of things. Forgetting anything is difficult as well. This is neither a learned skill nor acquired taste, just a piece of my personality with which I’ve made peace. It doesn’t show off (too much) to the general public, though it has been known to drive my wife crazy on occasion (interviewed separately, she may up the frequency). Mostly it makes for a “normal” life with a few more details to liven up each scene. It’s a blessing…and a curse.
My radar is always up. Seeing more than I need to function leads to an informational and emotional overload which often results in awkwardness. It is surprisingly difficult to have a bland conversation when you are attuned to so many signals and every phrase (at least in your mind) is freighted with hidden meanings. I am quite introverted, but even some who know me well are surprised to discover this, since I tend to respond to that overload by talking too much rather than by retreating into myself.
Compartmentalizing inputs and outputs seldom works either. I soak up whatever happens nearby and start carrying it, and all these things refuse to stay put, dissolving mental barriers to slosh together in one central tank. Don’t ask me to start anything new if there are unresolved issues afloat.
None of this is in any way unique to me, I see it in other friends and family members, too. When my daughter exhibits this same bent, I remind her to stop worrying or to focus on the task, though I fear she comes by the trait honestly.
All this risks sounding like an old trope, parading out stereotypes of writers standing aloof from routine experience, sifting minutiae into meaning. Indeed, seeing and storing complexity is probably the root of my desire to write. To get all the swirling complexities out of my head, I fling them at paper. That’s the first step at least…truth be told, editing comes easier to me than writing, so polishing up those ramblings into legible prose is the better part of the work.
The funny thing, though, is that these quirks (habits?) often work against any decent writing. Controlling the flow is sometimes a battle against Niagara. What usually comes out is light on meaning and long on words–following a coherent thread through rambling asides does not come easy. That is, of course, if anything comes out at all. An all-too-common result is that I talk myself out of writing anything at all while wrestling through ideas.
The bottom line for “overinterpreters” like me is discipline. I keep telling myself that the difference between writers and non-writers is that writers write. Sometimes you just have to sit down and do it. I seldom regret this, and often find the solutions to the questions jostling in my head flowing out as I type. As for the rest of life, I really can’t thank my wife enough for keeping me grounded. She is loyal and patient to a fault, but takes no guff from me when I let my anxious wanderings stand in for making a decision and taking action.
So why post this here (“He said, suddenly acutely aware of the number of first-person pronouns throughout this site”)? I’m not sure. I suppose somebody like this might make a good character in a story someday, and he’ll always be my default narrator. Perhaps also I am hedging against anyone losing interest in my blog if it goes for a spell un-updated. I can always just post a link back to this piece as explanation. The words are inbound, they’re just trying to come up for air.