Writing About Writing
Starting this blog has given me a strong incentive to organize my thoughts. I’ve long had a shoddy network of different values, maxims, and metaphors floating around in my mind. Within that network each node is arranged in a way that ultimately creates some sort of latent image of how I see the world. However, when it comes time to describe that image I have no clue on where to start. When put on the spot, I don’t see myself as a reliable narrator.
Part of the goal of the blog is to take that image and put it out into the world — to try to describe it, piece by piece. In part this gives me a better understanding of how I see the world myself, and I want others to see that too. Not necessarily to convince them of my wise ways, but more so in an attempt to create a shared language with people I might meet.
Each post can be thought of as a node in the network, but what I’m realizing is that the nodes are not as well-defined as I thought. They are much more entangled, like a crappy ball of yarn. Attempting to pull on a single thread and write about it brings the whole ball of yarn with it. Each node, it feels, paradoxically, is upstream of each other1.
When it comes time for me to write about whatever topic of interest, I have trouble defining the edges, untangling the threads. For every essay I publish on here about eight are started. I mix metaphors constantly. I reference things that my audience has no context for. I do a bad job of pointing toward the load-bearing pillars of my own mind. Each draft seems to step on other drafts. And with no true sense on how to start to untangle them, I end up contributing to further entanglement.
My goal is to focus on one thing at a time. I want to keep it high-level, un-sequential, so that any one can read any post and have takeaways from it. But in pursuit of that goal, I, instead, feel left with a final version that barely scratches the surface of what I’m hoping to convey. Some of this is just a general skill issue, I am simply not a good enough writer yet. But the immensity of the task is not lost on me either, how does one effectively download their brain to others.
If we think of the brain as a Large Language Model, such as GPT, I’ve consumed years and years worth of training information — life experiences, schooling, books, etc. — that combine to shape the embeddings of who I am2. When prompted in a certain way, a certain output can be expected. It’s not perfect, but there are certain characteristics and latent information present in the system that define who I am. Infinite tiles forming a single mosaic.
If someone asks me what I think about learning — a very open-ended prompt — a million thoughts may flash through my brain in a second. This prompt, one that I think would require mountains and mountains of nuance and discussion, may return, at its peak, my answer of “Given enough time and effort, anyone can learn anything.” This seems way too straight-forward even to me. So when it comes time to explain that answer(and how I arrived at it) to others, I don’t know how to illustrate that long story of my experiences that have led me to that answer. It’s difficult to point to a single part of the image that will properly explain the entire picture. So, instead, I sort of gesture haphazardly at it.
It’s interesting, part of me thinks that I just need to keep writing and publishing, and eventually all of the pieces will magically fit together. But I get hyper-focused on making sure the image that I’m creating for myself here matches the one in my head.
I’ve always had some fear of being perceived in a way I wouldn’t want, which probably contributes to my constant re-writing. I wouldn’t judge an entire book based on a single page, and I worry that someone might attempt that with a single entry here. I don’t want someone to think I have some immovable opinion on a topic. There are fundamental things I strongly believe in, but the form they take on downstream — how they might present themselves in the real world — can be a bit different depending on the context. One of the fundamental things I believe in is the ability to shift my thoughts and opinions over time.
Writing feels much more final. I don’t have the ability to sit there while people read these things and clarify each ambiguous or vague sentence. Once I hit publish, for the most part, I lose my ability to control how people interpret things. The stakes feel much higher, and I want to represent myself properly. But at some point I have to release the final version.
Stanley Kubrick attributed a quote to T.S. Eliot that I think helps illustrate the proper mindset, “I meant what it said. If I could have said it any differently, I would have.”3
In any medium of art, the artist never has as much ability to control people’s interpretation as they might wish. And I think that is something so fundamental to what makes art art. An artist handholding each individual through any of their work — film, music, photography — damages the individual’s ability to truly experience it, to see it through their own eyes, to ultimately find meaning in it. You would be putting your thumb on the scale, creating a dishonest measurement.
Exact knowledge of how anyone thinks or means, absolutely, is next to impossible. We can never know for sure. We only can guess to the best of our knowledge. I want each blog post I make here to serve as an answer to people’s guesses. Answers in the form of “Hotter” or “Colder”. And over time — if I write enough — people will hopefully dial in their guesses enough to have a decent idea of who I am in their heads. At least I can hope.
In reality everything flows from my values. But in terms of writing, things don’t always feel that clear
Please, please go easy on me and my inability to accurately phrase this metaphor correctly. If you’re smart enough to know how I messed this up, then you’re smart enough to know what I am getting at here.
Most likely he pulled it from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock