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by Keith Snyder More writings Discuss this article
There is something that confuses me, and that is when someone says that I have passion. It's not just that I distrust the word (though I do distrust it), but that while I'm working, I do not experience anything I can identify as "passion." Compulsion, yes. Drive, often. Despair, more often than I'd like to admit. Exhilaration, not often, but at key moments. I am interested, hubristic, loyal, disloyal, intellectual, emotional, needful, fascinated, engaged... I can argue passionately; I can be passionate in my eloquence when I'm talking about the tobacco/chocolate overtones of a Hao Ya "A" tea or why six-year-olds are good role models for making art— —but passion, the noun? Honestly, I don't even know what that is. My second-most-common hearing of the word is when it's what's missing from the speaker's life: "I've lost my passion." "My marriage has no passion." "There's no passion in my life." As someone who does not experience himself as having passion, especially at the very moments at which I am most often accused of possession, I sincerely—this is not disingenuity—do not understand what they mean. "I've lost my terrier" — this, I understand. "My marriage has no Chevrolet" — this is also clear." "There's no ice cream in my freezer" — this, I understand deeply, and sympathize with wholeheartedly. But the noun in question... not only do I not find it present within myself while I work, but I've never really seen evidence of its existence. Usually, it seems to me the speaker is talking about something else. In my limited perception—for I seem to be the only person on the planet who does not understand the word—the speaker seems to be saying, "I do not decide what I want and try to get it," or "For a series of reasons, some complex and some simple, I am no longer emotionally or physically satisfied with my spouse," or "I have not done the work necessary to have things I really care about in my life, but I do not understand that this is my doing." I must be careful with my next statement, because it has to do with the search for passion, not the thing itself. Since I've admitted to not knowing exactly what passion is, I am not qualified to say much about its nature. However, it seems to me that the people who use the word the most love the search for it like an addict loves the search for a fix. It's a chemical high, and then it's gone. Five hundred parts search, one part fix. Get the high; feel the rush. Self-diagnose and change, or repeat infinitely until dead. I am guilty of this. Sometimes—I have a strong compulsive streak—even to the point of allowing my self-destructive half free reign. However, it is striking to me that the things I do in this state are never, never the things people see passion in. The things they see passion in are the things that are least connected to thrill-seeking or the instinct for self-destruction. I write novels and screenplays. This is engaging and challenging, and when I look back at the way my irreplaceable time was spent, I do not regret spending it. I do not experience that time as having passion in it. I often do not—to be truthful—experience that time at all. When I am engaged with a story I'm writing, it is to the exclusion of the normal experience of time; my reference of existence is the story, not the clock, the sun, or the stomach. This is even more true when I do music. (This is not a standard construction; "play music" or "compose music" are more commonly used, but I am uncomfortable with anything but "do.") When I'm doing music, a day can pass without my ever checking in. I lose my awareness of anything but the music. It's so engaging, so fascinating, that once I get past the problems inherent in having a biggish MIDI setup, I can work from noon until early in the morning without remembering to eat or noticing that my chair is uncomfortable. Passion? I'm told so. But passion is a noun: a thing, an emotional state. It's something people point at and identify. It has tangibility, whether physical or emotional: there it is; that thing is passion. What I experience when the work is going well is a decrease of things, not an increase: the parting of ways with normal time, the disappearance of awareness of myself; when I've been doing music for hours on end, my verbal abilities vanish: I can't put together words when I've been thinking in sounds, shapes, and notes. It's divestiture and engagement. It's the story or the melody, not the author. Passion is a thing. My best working state is the absence of things. Now, besides engagement and focus, my other primary experience in creative work is of my mind wandering. Without realizing it, I'm no longer thinking about the story. Now I'm drifting: something I read, something I'd like to eat, speculation about my likely bank balance, seeing whether I can still imagine that old 27-beat polyrhythm accurately, and— oh yeah, I'm supposed to be writing. There is sometimes a thrill when the materials go click, and sometimes I crack myself up. There's sometimes irritation when the time between clicks and yuks grows too long. There's also despair when I go a long time without making stories or music. But engagement (forgetting myself) and distraction (forgetting my work) are my only two broad experiences in the work itself. By any conception of the word, neither is passion. Maybe this is glib—I'm accused of it—but maybe a person who wants more "passion" just needs to start something and finish it. Then start something else, and finish that. After a while, there's a list of things you've finished, and people start telling you that you have passion. Maybe life is like writing in that you don't really get the good stuff until you're already working. Waiting for inspiration doesn't work too well; the Muse only shows up once you've got something on paper. As the old punchline goes, God says, "All right, Feinberg, all right! I'll make sure you win the lottery! But help Me out a little here — buy a ticket!" I've been hesitant to write this because some of the people who say I have passion are people I like and don't want to disappoint. Some have said that my passion is an inspiration to them, and I really hate the idea of taking that away. But my fear is that belief in passion as an interior goal for oneself, not passion as an exterior result other people think they can identify, keeps people from being engaged and interested in things. If they believe that passion is required, but feel none within themselves, then why would they try? Trying is the fun part. Accomplishment is a pleasant side effect. Passion is... what, exactly? That's the noun. There's also a verb: Have. He has passion. I have multiple sclerosis. What that means is that there are many (multi) scars (sclera) in my brain. The term "multiple sclerosis" is the label for a certain set of symptoms. It does not specify a single cause; it merely points to the outcome. It's like saying you have a bruise: Whether you got it from having a strange condition that causes you to bruise spontaneously, or from banging your elbow against a bookshelf, all the observer can do is point and say, "Bruise." The cause is not identified; indeed, without more knowledge than the observer is likely to have, it's not identifiable. There is, in fact, considerable conjecture that what we call "multiple sclerosis" is the outward evidence of damage done by more than one distinct disease. What caused my brain lesions may not be what caused yours. Admittedly, we are now on similar courses; the scars may cause us both to go blind, become paralyzed, incontinent, or impotent, and that is also part of what people mean when they say "multiple sclerosis," but it's possible that the actual diseases that put us both on this path are different. "Passion" is a word people use to label the external results they are able to see, not to correctly identify its internal cause. By the time we get to where the results of my work are visible to people who are not me, it's nice to hear positive things about it, but I'm ready for the next thing. Doing is what's fascinating. Trying is the fun thing. Passion is... well, it's never mentioned until after I've actually done something. So do I have passion? Here's the most honest answer I can give: Not only do I not have the slightest idea, or give it any thought (except when I find myself curious enough about it to write an essay), but I don't think it matters. I do what I do because I know what I want, I know what the price to my livelihood and security will be, and I pay it. I call that life. My friends have been known to call it nuts. What you call it is entirely up to you.
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© 2002 Keith Snyder