Welcome to Language Barriers, Pt. 2.
Part 1 featured A Normal Conversation and a Greek-Jewish-American spin on an Italian-American tradition. Read it here, if you haven’t already.
Genuine Minutiae
I’m at a birthday party. I know Birthday Person well. I’ve hung out with Birthday Person’s roommate and best friend, a couple times each. I’ve met one couple very briefly, at a poetry reading many weeks prior, in which our conversation consisted of “nice to meet you” and “I really liked the second-to-last speaker, the one reciting spoken word over that untz-untz back-beat” and “yeah, she was good”. The other ten-or-so partygoers I met for the first time minutes ago.
I’m sitting on the couch, talking to another writer, a Professional Writer with a Master’s Degree, who works for a reputable Magazine. I came to this party with no agenda—it’s a party, after all—but, based on what little I’ve learned about the partygoers, if there’s one person I, Unsure Writer, am hoping to spark friendship with, it’s Professional Writer.
Here we are—me and Professional Writer—sitting on the couch, talking. Here’s my shot. One opportunity. To seize everything I ever wanted. In one moment. Will I capture it, or just let it slip?1
In situations like this—besides internally reciting Eminem lyrics—my gut has me asking lots of questions. The normal ones first: where are you from, where do you live, what do you do for work, how do you all know each other, etc. And then, depending on the answers I find most interesting, follow-up questions: what was that like, how did you make that decision, what was your favorite part—or what surprised you most—etc. (listing these out on a page, I get the queasy feeling that I’ve been conducting a lot of second-rate, first-round job interviews instead of conversing with fellow partygoers.)
A lot of the time I am genuinely curious learning the Lilliputian minutiae of my Conversation Partner’s life—it’s one of few characteristics I think makes me a good candidate for becoming a Good Writer someday.
Some times, though, asking Conversation Partner so many questions is a defense mechanism, a way for me to deflect the inevitable “and, so, what about you?” of it all. Maybe, I think, if I keep Conversation Partner talking long enough, we’ll be interrupted and I’ll never have to tell Conversation Partner about myself; I’ll remain an Enigma, or, at least, not oust myself as a Fool.
Some times, it’s not a defense mechanism. Rather, a way to size up Conversation Partner, to evaluate what, and how much, I want to reveal. What type of conversation are we gearing up for? What exciting detours might lie ahead on this temporary journey? Is Conversation Partner one to entertain detours or does Conversation Partner follow directions unflinchingly, the conversation-equivalent of an autonomous vehicle.
Here on the couch is a conversation of Genuine Minutiae—I really did want to hear about Professional Writer’s life, job, school, relationship, apartment, upbringing, etc. I want to know what it’s like to be Professional Writer—what struggles, triumphs, pleasures, bloodshed lay ahead, on the path to becoming Professional Writer? Plus, Professional Writer is a close friend of Birthday Person, which means we’ll likely cross conversation paths again. And, me being Unsure Writer, making friends with Professional Writer could, somehow, be of benefit to my Career (Networking, and all).
Professional Writer indulges my inquisition, granting me several minutes of responses without making me say much of anything myself.
But now time has come. Professional Writer wants to know about me.
“So, what are you up to right now?” The cross-examining has begun.
My heart stops. I hate this question. I never know how to answer it. How much do you say right off the bat?
Even when I had a Real Job, I didn’t know how to answer. Do birthday party Conversation Partners know what a Product Manager is? When I tell them I work at a Startup, will they automatically assume: Tech Bro or Enterprising Sellout or, simply, Nerd? Do I explain what it is a Product Manager does—how we’re responsible for communicating with Stakeholders, taking in Business Objectives, translating them into Product Requirements & Specifications for the Developers to deliver, that we prioritize Epics and User Stories according to a Product Roadmap, maintain a Backlog of eventual work, perpetually try to evaluate and quantify Tasks so as to maximize Value and minimize Effort, that we’re accountable for the final Product though we do almost none of the actual work (coding)—or should I simply say “I sit between Business and Engineering” and hope Conversation Partner understands or doesn’t care enough to ask follow-up questions?
That dilemma doesn’t matter anymore. I’m no longer Product Manager at Tech Startup. I am Unsure Writer.
Now, the question is even more difficult to answer because, well, what am I doing? I write this measly Periodic Newsletter/Journal/Column/Internet Thing. I do some tutoring. I do some freelance work. I continue working on Stories and Poems in the hopes of Writing A Book or Getting An MFA or some other vague sense of Accomplishment, but this usually ends in distraction—Instagram Reels of men grilling meat, mostly—or curses and self-criticism, wishing I had better ideas or that they would come to life more vividly on my page (e.g. Thing #2). I’m also trying to do all those other things many of us try to do: be outside, go on adventures, exercise, cook, develop my meditation practice and nurture my Buddha Nature, spend time with loved ones, watch all the Oscar Noms, and read both Classic and Contemporary Literature. The problem is, even without a real Job Title, there’s still only 24 hours in a day, so most of this is purely aspirational.
But I can’t say all that. That’s a mouthful. Oh, maybe I should say just that: “I’m a mouthful.”
No, Sam, obviously don’t say that. “I’m a mouthful” sounds pretentious, dismissive, self-righteous, and… oddly erotic? Not an appropriate response in casual birthday party conversation with Professional Writer.
“So, what are you up to right now?” Crap, I still haven’t answered the question.
“Right now,” I start, then avert my eyes to my seat, a final scramble for some Acceptable Answer. In my lap, I find sudden inspiration. I look up and say, “Right now, I’m sitting on the couch.”
It’s a nonsensical answer to a logical question. Ok, sure—maybe it’s an anxious deflection. But also, “right now”, in this exact moment, it’s the unequivocal truth. I am sitting on the couch, trying to make conversation with Professional Writer.
My nonsense response amuses me. I start to pat myself on the back—figuratively speaking, of course—thinking I’ve just inadvertently given a demonstration of Not-Answering: a twist on the Buddhist principle of Not-Knowing. My response might be a koan of sort, a metaphysical confrontation to the modern Western obsession with Status and Success. More people should answer questions like this, I think.
Professional Writer, in conversation with me for the first time, doesn’t know my nonsense sense of humor.
“I hear you,” Professional Writer responds, “Before I started my Master’s I was also sitting on the couch for a while.”
Huh?
“It can be hard,” Professional Writer continues, “figuring out what to do, what to write about. It requires a lot of patience. I’m sure you’re doing fine. Even if it doesn’t feel like you’re doing much every day, you’re still making progress.”
Oh no. Professional Writer has misunderstood me. Professional Writer took my answer very seriously, interpreted “sitting on the couch” as a metaphor for “being lazy”, not as an intellectual joke, a figurative play on the literal context of “right now”.
Suddenly the conversation has changed. My grin is gone.
Experiencing Professional Writer’s sympathy, kindness, encouragement, I now feel like a clown, trying to be all witty while Professional Writer is trying to connect as humans. Professional Writer is looking for my Genuine Minutiae—those bits that make me tick—just like I was, moments ago. I was trying to be funny, probably to cover up the insecurity of not having an Acceptable Answer like “Oh, you know, I’m just over 65,000 words into my Manuscript and I have a meeting with my Editor next month before we present the first half of the book to the Publisher, month after that. Goal is to submit for final approval by November 1 in anticipation of a Q2 2023 release. But you know how these things go…”
Is that how these things go? I don’t know. I don’t have 65,000 words. Or a book deal. Not even an Editor.
I very quickly go into Therapist Brain: You didn’t say “talking with you, Professional Writer”, or “at a birthday party”, or “nervous because I’m meeting most of my girlfriend’s best friends for the first time”, or even the “well, I’m a mouthful” bit, which might have been taken as intentional humor—maybe. You said, “I’m sitting on the couch.” Wasn’t it just this morning you were kicking yourself for slacking on your Internet Thing? And didn’t you say you’re more than a week behind on some of that freelance work? I know you aren’t exactly churning out Stories or Poems regularly—that’s all we ever talk about, Sam. Do you see where I’m getting? Are you seeing any connection to the specific words you chose in this moment? Do you maybe feel like you are “sitting on the couch”, metaphorically speaking?
Shut up, Therapist Brain. Not right now. I’m at a party. I’m trying to talk to—oh god, did Professional Writer just say something?
Please, can someone save these two skaz’s from this conversation?
Skaz-Brain
Have you ever heard the term skaz? I hadn’t either.
It was introduced to me in George Saunders’ A Swim in a Pond in the Rain: In Which Four Russians Give a Master Class on Writing, Reading and Life. Saunders defines skaz as a “particular Russian form of unreliable first-person narration” that, according to writer and translator Val Vinokur, results in a story distorted by “improper narrative emphasis” and “misplaced assumption”.2
“Every story is narrated by someone,” Saunders says, “and since everyone has a viewpoint, every story is misnarrated (narrated subjectively).”3 It’s like Einstein’s Theory of Relativity: nothing is absolute, it’s all relative to one’s frame of reference. It’s why you hear two different stories when you ask two people about a fight that broke out at a party. Both people observed the same event but, Skaz-Brain 1 experiences something somewhat different than Skaz-Brain 2. Skaz-Brain 1 and Skaz-Brain 2 have different Viewpoints (identity, experience, beliefs, etc.) and Vantage Points: Skaz-Brain 1 saw the fight break out while Skaz-Brain 2 was bored, scrolling on her phone; Skaz-Brain 1, daughter to an abusive father, has a flashback of a violent childhood memory and excuses herself to the bathroom before having a panic attack; Skaz-Brain 2 inches closer to film the fight for social media, wondering where her friend ran off to.
Here’s the crux of Saunders’ lecture, which superbly envelopes this phenomenon.
Douglas Unger, one of my professors at Syracuse years ago, offered a model for how people communicate in the world.
When two people are talking, Doug suggested, each has a cartoon bubble overhead, full of his or her private hopes and projections and fears and preexisting worries and so on. Person A talks, Person B listens, waiting to respond, but as what Person A is saying passes into Person B’s cartoon bubble, it gets mangled.
Say Person B’s bubble is full of guilt because, after she forgot to call her mother on her birthday, her brother chidingly texted her about it. When Person A says, “I have to give a speech next week,” Person B, thinking of the rude things her brother just texted, replies (out of her bubble), “People can be so harsh.” Person A, his bubble full of anxiety about this forthcoming speech, hears: “it’s true, you’ll probably blow it,” and frowns. Person B thinks, “Oh, great, Person A is frowning at me because he sees that I’m the kind of jerk who forgets her mother’s birthday.”
There is no world save the one we make with our minds, and the mind’s predisposition determines the type of world we see.4
Remind you of anyone?
My skaz-brain reads this then cuts to Joaquin Phoenix as The Joker, running around the asylum all bloody, singing Sinatra’s “That’s Life”.5
Let’s end with a joke (quote), shall we?
What is the mind like if it’s not occupied with plans and schemes, and fears that the plans and schemes will fail?6
That’s life. Funny as it may seem….
Not-so-loosely lifted from the opening lyrics of “Lose Yourself” by Eminem.
George Saunders, A Swim in a Pond in the Rain (New York, Random House, 2021), 281.
Saunders, 282
Saunders, 283
John Tarant, Bring Me the Rhinoceros (New York, Harmony Books, 2004), 30.