the case for being completely obsessed

no more Living In The Present

Hey, stranger.

The first book I ever fell in love with was The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart. According to my mom, I struggled in school when it came to reading but the second I started that series, I was hooked. My reading comprehension was below what was required so we started by listening to the audiobook. Then I started reading along with the narrator. Before long, I flew through the rest of the series, finishing it all on my own. It was the first book that I daydreamed about and it was the first time I remember being totally and completely obsessed.

I still read like that, all-consuming sprints through a series before fading back to around a book a week. Waxing and waning, my reading habits. But my affinity for obsession has only transferred. At work I often end the day looking up, bleary eyed, from my computer— my brain disoriented after spending hours turning over a problem until I find a solution. My writing process starts upstairs, my inner monologue fine tuning the words over and over and over again until they fit just so. When I get a new design project, or an idea for the magazine, all I want to talk about is how I’m going to create it. I just simply can’t focus on anything else, least of all what’s happening around me.

The thing is, reader, I do my best work when I’m entirely consumed by something. My best designs, my most elegant code, my favorite writing— it’s all a product of an addict, one entirely dedicated to the act of building something out of nothing. In fact, I think most people are consumed by something or other. Something that once it gets in your brain, it’s impossible to shake. My dad, for example, is obsessed with fishing. Can’t wait for for a long weekend where he can be entirely unbothered by anything else. My mom loves to redesign spaces and will make us reorganize furniture until its to her liking. Rachel spends 3 hours cleaning on the weekend. Sadie can spend hours and hours on the floor, crafting.

I think finding what makes you lose track of time is a lovely thing. Creative people, which I assume is most of us, can create best when they are consumed by something. It’s why writers write even when it’s a notoriously difficult profession to make a living in. It’s the same for painting and music and dance. If no one found a profound comfort in being completely enamored by their work then we wouldn’t have any of the beautiful art around us.

This is the idea that I chew on whenever I feel odd for how into projects I get. This is normal, I tell myself, after spending 3 hours completely in the dark, not noticing the sun had set.

Right now, I’m writing to you while in the midst of a particularly strong burn out. I’m burnt out, and don’t laugh, because I’ve been gloriously, wonderfully present the past few months. I’ve succeeded in living in the moment, finally. It turns out that being awake for moments as they happen makes you happy. Who knew! I have been able to cultivate friendships and say yes to opportunities and experience new memories because of my present-ness. The self help books and therapy speeches were right. But I’ve found that being present is almost a direct antithesis to the obsessive flow state in which I do my best work.

My life has felt like walking a tight rope, on one side is being completely in the moment and the other, the pursuit of original work. Instead of balancing precariously in the middle, I’ve fallen and tangled my ankle and now swing back and forth between the two like a maddening pendulum. It’s worked out for me thus far but I can feel my brain fraying on the edges slightly. When I am busy in my day to day life with, well, real life, my writing or my design work suffers. When all I think about is my creative projects, my relationships with people feel impossible to maintain. It’s a frightening balancing act, one that I can’t imagine how people find a way to succeed at.

When I was young, reading the first few chapters of The Mysterious Benedict Society, I fell in love with my brain when it was wrapped up in a story. When I could see the characters and old house they lived in and the dreary, rainy streets of Stonetown within my own mind, it changed my life as I knew it. Who would want to live in reality when the wonderful worlds in books existed? When I have an idea for a shoot, why wouldn’t I want to obsess over every detail so that it can turn out perfectly? Who wouldn’t want to see an idea rolling around in their head become fully realized on paper? The act of creating is a beautiful thing. So is being alive. The both are entirely addicting for their own reasons and I am hopelessly trying to find a way to balance the two.

xoxo,

Evie

me, being very present listening to mae ling’s gossip