After I learned that my grandfather had my grandmother sterilized without her knowledge, after I investigated multiple aspects of that story, after I met up with my 84-year old mother and her slightly older brother (they had no other siblings due to the sterilization), on that final night in Billings, Uncle Stan declared at the end of a long family story about a moonshiner great-uncle, “And that’s why Kenneth became a serial killer.”
I set out to fact-check Uncle Stan’s statement, following my nose and, and no matter how clear my plan, each day I get lost down some research rabbit hole, court documents or family tree branches, enthusiastically chasing clues. Not finishing.
I used to be a demon finisher. In a time of hyper-ranking and measurement of children–the 1960s–I was in the top percentile, the 2nd fastest girl runner in my grade, good at everything school-related except self-control. SRA was perfect for me: read someone else’s paragraph and tick off the multiple-choice answers. Finite, do-able, no need for any creativity. If, out of my peripheral vision, I saw Gary Mills begin to stand up, I stood up. Holding the SRA card and my pencil, race-walking against Gary’s longer strides, I completed it on the way to the box.
There’s no Gary Mills in my creative life. And competition never helped me meet deadlines that mattered, whether it was delivering a baby or an essay. Wondering and speculating–about motives, causality, fate–is part of the game. I don’t like it. It’s the opposite of finishing. Languishing, lollygagging, lie-a-bed.
Enthusiasm means a lively interest, a desire to be deeply involved in a particular activity or topic. Etymologically it’s literally to be filled with god, the ultimate creative wind. Maybe I’m doomed to wait for that powerful energy source and to trust that form will come, just in time. Stay tuned.