I was thinking a little about what makes me write, continuing the thought of the last entry. Especially what makes me write things like this series of explorations, or the “Piece of Writing” series that gained me moderate fame in high school.
It also occurred to me that a great deal of the scholarship in history, literature, religion, the arts, and philosophy stems from the fact that we either
• Don’t have a record of what the original creator or thinker stated or thought about their production or deeds
• If we do have such a record, it is unclear or debatable in meaning.
I was thinking this was deeply rooted to my need for verbose explication of my intentions and meanings. Sure, vague is fun, but I also find it intensely enjoyable to speak or write at length on a simple phrase or sentence that I feel is either vague or can be interpreted in more than one way.
On a side note, this rarely applies to when I attempt to be ridiculously funny, where I expect that if people don’t understand it or misinterpret it they simply have no sense of humor. Or being perverse (or dense). In none of those cases, do I usually feel I have the time or energy to deal with them.
Anyway, as I was saying, there’s a connection. I write because I don’t want someone in a thousand years to be debating about what I said or believed. Every thing, especially things I say, deserves exegesis. Careful exegesis. Exegesis to death. (I can imaging the people of Athens condemning Socrates to death by exegesis, except that it would probably kill many of them long before it began to phase that distinguished pedant).
Being misunderstood is one of the greatest fears I have. Which is a problem, because I live with it constantly. I once stated (if you’re going to cite someone, cite the best) that no one is truly understood, but that each person is probably has more emotional, motivational, and/or intellectual depth than they’re usually given credit for. I think I regard that as a tragedy. I even stated that one of the traits I’d demand in a wife were that she understand me. In the end, I believed I settled for wanted to understand me and tries to do so. Which is much more reasonable since, as I said, we don’t understand each other as people.
So we don’t have understanding, yet I fear not having it. So I must live in perpetual fear. Well, not really. More like perpetual frustration. I say something and I’m misunderstood, but I go on living. And hence I continue to write. Because I have this theory that the more I say, the easier it will be to understand me. Though I suppose it’s possible that I’m just providing more to be misunderstood. I think that’s the less likely of the two because I talk most about things I’ve already said.
On the other hand, another contending theory for my behavior is that I’m an egoist and just like to hear (or see) myself talk. This is also possible. I like to think there’s a mixture of the two. Am I making myself clear?
Or do I need to write another 550 words?