Mad Fixation

I obsess.

Not all the time. The obsessions come in waves. Every so often – for days or for weeks – I’ll get really, really into a subject or a fandom to the extent that I spent much of my time every day thinking about it, creating it, watching it, playing it, reading about it. Kings, mobsters, books, video games. Let’s talk about Al Capone. Let’s talk about Scrooge McDuck, and Dragon Age, and vikings.

I’ll daydream about a subject for hours. I’ll think about it when I’m commuting, when I’m shopping, when I’m going for a run. In a way I like the focus; it’s nice to have something my brain is doing when the rest of me does something else, and there’s still room in my head for those little bits of information like your bus stop is coming up or you need to buy socks.

But I resent it when something else really intrudes on my bubble of obsession. I’ll get annoyed when I have to devote my time and my brain to something that is not the subject du jour. “You need to write a blog post.” OK, cool, but first I am going to read 15 wikipedia pages, fuck, now it’s 5am. Like when you can’t put down a really good book, only after you reach the end, you keep thinking about it. And then when you wake up, you think about it some more. People talk to you, and you want to talk about the thing. Even if they know enough about it to have some sort of interest in what you’re saying, you’re going to bore them quickly or scare them off with your runaway passion.

I don’t know whether everyone does this, or if this is really some sort of pathological behaviour. Maybe it is a writer thing? I mean, why else would you spend three hours in the middle of the night writing down the pictures inside your head? And then going back and rereading it, and then editing a bit, and then writing more, and suddenly there’s 20,000 words you didn’t have a week or so ago which is good, but also fuck, because instead of spending every waking moment thinking about this thing you are doing you have to go to stupid university and learn things that, right now, seem utterly banal.

Ideally, I’d have a job where I did something menial with my hands for 8 hours a day for people who didn’t mind if I had to go and write furiously for 15 minutes every so often. Well, I mean, ideally I’d just get paid for the writing part. Life goals.

 

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