George is trying to figure out who he is. He’s trying really hard. But when he tries to explain his behaviors and thoughts in terms of larger patterns that could answer the question, they inevitably sound suspiciously revisionist and self-serving, like he’s conveniently forgetting some parts and artificially inflating others. He thinks he’s generous, fun at parties, a great family man, loyal, easygoing. George decides that what he needs to do is catch what he’s thinking at the moment he’s thinking it, honestly and irrevocably, so he’ll have an uncorrupted data set to work with. He fires up a word processor and starts typing, stream of consciousness. For a few paragraphs, it’s mostly “here I am, writing what I think” and “this is kind of dumb, I wonder if anything will come of it”, but eventually that gets old, and content starts to come out. Soon George has a few minutes of inner monologue written down. He writes the congratulatory things he thinks about himself, but also notes in parentheses the times he’s acted contrary to these nice patterns (he took three helpings of cake that one time when there were fewer slices than guests, he spent half of the office celebration on his cellphone instead of participating, he missed his daughter’s last birthday, he dropped a friend over a sports rivalry, he blew up when a co-worker reminded him one too many times to finish that spreadsheet). George writes the bad habits and vices he demonstrates, too. Most importantly, he resists the urge to hit backspace, although he freely contradicts himself if there’s something he wants to correct. Then he saves the document, squirrels it away in a folder, and waits a week. The following Tuesday, he goes over it like a stranger had written it and notes what he’d think of this stranger, and what he’d advise him to do.
Cross-posted from Seven Shiny Stories
4. Typing
George is trying to figure out who he is. He’s trying really hard. But when he tries to explain his behaviors and thoughts in terms of larger patterns that could answer the question, they inevitably sound suspiciously revisionist and self-serving, like he’s conveniently forgetting some parts and artificially inflating others. He thinks he’s generous, fun at parties, a great family man, loyal, easygoing. George decides that what he needs to do is catch what he’s thinking at the moment he’s thinking it, honestly and irrevocably, so he’ll have an uncorrupted data set to work with. He fires up a word processor and starts typing, stream of consciousness. For a few paragraphs, it’s mostly “here I am, writing what I think” and “this is kind of dumb, I wonder if anything will come of it”, but eventually that gets old, and content starts to come out. Soon George has a few minutes of inner monologue written down. He writes the congratulatory things he thinks about himself, but also notes in parentheses the times he’s acted contrary to these nice patterns (he took three helpings of cake that one time when there were fewer slices than guests, he spent half of the office celebration on his cellphone instead of participating, he missed his daughter’s last birthday, he dropped a friend over a sports rivalry, he blew up when a co-worker reminded him one too many times to finish that spreadsheet). George writes the bad habits and vices he demonstrates, too. Most importantly, he resists the urge to hit backspace, although he freely contradicts himself if there’s something he wants to correct. Then he saves the document, squirrels it away in a folder, and waits a week. The following Tuesday, he goes over it like a stranger had written it and notes what he’d think of this stranger, and what he’d advise him to do.