Questioning Answers
It’s a failing of mine, especially when I write essays. (Or so I’m told.) I’m supposed to write an answer. But sometimes really all I have are questions.
 |
| I feel so seen. |
In the context of writing an essay, I understand what the person means when I receive this feedback. I need to come to rest at some point late in the essay, even if it’s not a full stop or a final destination. It’s at least a pause, a “so far, here’s what I think“ moment.
Basically, it’s an answer to the reader’s question, “So what?“ Not a “lesson” for them to learn. Just a breath. A “Thanks for spending time with me! See you later!“
In life (the part that isn’t writing, or perhaps writing for publication), I may always have questions. And I really want to ask (myself) the right questions. Good questions—useful to me, and therefore perhaps to others, though that’s not required.
Meanwhile the writing advice—that I’m allowed to know things, that I’m allowed to make choices, that I have insights and don’t need to be afraid to share them—can also apply to my life.
For example: Perhaps I don’t need to read another hot-off-the-zeitgeist book about how our brains are rotting or how we're failing our children. Perhaps I don’t need to know hacks for travelling inexpensively. After all, I live where I want to be.
 |
| Where I want to be-- and luckily, where I live |
Sometimes it’s fruitful to know things. Sometimes it’s more fruitful to challenge what I know. The trick, as Reinhold Niebuhr would perhaps say, is having the wisdom to know the difference.
That’s where I’m landing in this brief essay, today. Thanks for being here.