Kamikaze Writing
Yesterday, I played golf with a Japanese family. I didn't ask to be put with them, but I was a single golfer and they were a threesome. It was just how the rice cakes crumbled. There was Dad, Mom and Son. The Son was about 24 but looked about 12. The Dad and Mom were in their late forties but looked about 12.
They didn't introduce themselves on the first tee. It wasn't until we approached the first green that anyone spoke; I was the anyone. When I spoke to the Dad, he replied in three-word sentences spoken so softly I had to ask him to repeat himself. When I asked their names, they smiled. So I asked again. The Dad said, "Call me Moon." And I said, "And let me guess: they're Sun and Star?" Okay, only in my mind. They didn't ask me my name, so to make them feel at home, I introduced myself as Tomika Yamaguchi. "Just call me Tom." And then I found out on the 15th tee that they actually live right here in my town. This was after I grabbed the son by his skinny little neck and told him, "You're supposed to have fun on your vacation!" Okay, only in my mind.
I play golf for two reasons. First, I can't help it. I love the game. And I am addicted to being humbled. Second, I like the social aspect of the game. Mostly with friends. But I like meeting new people on the course, too. Not yesterday, though.
This Japanese family said 26 words the whole day. Yes, I counted them. I had more putts than they spoke words. They only smiled when I asked them a question. They never whooped when they made a good shot. No arm pumps from these three. They didn't congratulate each other. They didn't show any frustration when they knocked the ball out-of-bounds, or into the lakes or the sand traps, which, to my impatient chagrin, they did with frequency. They didn't walk together unless they had to search for their balls in the same rough.
Golf for them was only a bridge to their destination: home. Walk, hit, walk, hit, next hole. No enjoyment. Or if they were enjoying themselves or even being with each other, it was top secret information. Were they planning a surprise attack of excitement? Would Mr. Moon suddenly execute a kamikaze charge at me with his push cart? "Banzai! We're having fuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnn!"
Throughout the day, I tried to have fun and be social. I said things like, "Great shot, Moon!" and "Mrs. Moon! Nice triple bogey!" and "I don't mind waiting while you clean all your clubs for the fourth time!" I asked Moon if he worked locally. He said, "Yes." I waited for more. Nothing. I asked his son if he was in school. The son said, "I graduated," and then kept walking. They seemed to have no interest in me or themselves, so I lost interest in them.
I wanted to believe it was something cultural, but I've played golf before with Japanese people with a socially enjoyable experience, so I concluded it had to be me. So I sniffed my arm pits. Yeah, possibly. They were really thin; I'm overweight. Could it be they didn't trust fat people? Maybe they didn't like getting their little asses beat by a fat guy who could actually par a hole and never four-putted. All these possibilities didn't seem to make sense, though. Because they were nice people and they were acting the same way to each other as with me.
I concluded that, for this family, golf was a labor of labor. Their life was likely a labor of labor. They'd enjoy going to the bakery to smell bread as much as playing a round of golf. Going to Von's grocery store and watching them unload was as stimulating as sinking a 30-foot putt. Their "passion" was in the work of walking and finishing 18 holes. In a labor of love, the journey is more important than the destination. For this family, the destination was everything.
So what's this got to do with writing? Well, on the 10th tee, they all three pulled a banana out of their respective golf bags and began eating. It was a scheduled event. And I started to see a correlation between how disinterested the Moons were to their golf experience to the six-part series I recently wrote about the comma (The Ten Commandments: Comma or Coma?), where I experienced something that I rarely do. After Part Three of that series, my labor of love became a labor of labor. I lost interest. And the writing concept slackened. My enthusiasm left my writing--and I think it showed. When I sat down to write, it was all about the destination: finishing. The journey was as routine as flossing, as uninspiring as erectile dysfunction, and as disappointing as...erectile dysfunction.
If writing for me became like golf was to the Moons, I'd take up not being a writer. If they'd listen, I'd tell them to take up not playing golf. I'd like to tell the Moons, sell your clubs and just take walks around your block. That way the rest of us don't have to walk your boring-ass journey.
If there is no passion to do something, why do it? I learned a lesson on the Comma Series: it's okay to say, "Yeah, I know there are ten commandments and we're only on number six, but you'll have to figure out the rest of them; I've lost interest." It's okay, Mr. Moon, to say, "Yeah, I know there are 18 holes, but walking six is just as worthy."
This rant is not about quitting. It's about not dragging other people across your bridge to Nowhere. It's about figuring out and admitting you're boring. It's about knowing when to stop!
> It's about not dragging other people across your bridge to Nowhere.
What a great way to put it. We all know folks like your golf partners. Would love to hear all of the thoughts you had during those long 18 holes -- especially the ones you kept in.
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Mainly, I kept asking myself, "How can these people do this to themselves?" It was worse than waterboarding.
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Great entry, Tom. We've all had our run-ins with folks like the Moon family. It is frustrating and disheartening, no doubt. One wants to grab them by the collar and shake them and say, "are you alive or aren't you." I'm surprised you didn't.
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If I'd grabbed them by the collars, shaken them and said, "Are you alive or aren't you?" they would have just smiled.
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