Approach Writing With Detached Interest
Part 4 of a chess-inspired series
One thing chess and writing have in common is that it requires the entirety of our attention, though in writing at least we have the opportunity to revise. Chess has been a great testing ground for honing my focus, allowing me to know what it feels like to use all of my mental resources to be able to perform effectively at the game.
The chess coach Aiden Rayner recently wrote of a principle he describes as “detached interest,” meaning that one vital aspect of doing well in chess is to try to find ways to curb disruptive thoughts that don’t relate to the game itself. For most people, these thoughts take the form of how a game is affecting our egos, the feelings of triumph when we’re winning and despondence when we’re losing. Ultimately, these thoughts have nothing to do with the game at hand, which is indifferent to how our performance affects our sense of self.
The same is true of writing, which is such a difficult and complicated activity that any brainspace we devote to how we feel about ourselves as we’re doing it is brainspace we’re not devoting to the work itself. Over the years, I’ve devoted a lot of attention to learning to get rid of distractions, mostly by focusing on the craft of writing and the intentional choices I make while I work, and tuning out how the writing might function in the world. Rather than thinking about an audience or broad public, I often imagine the wonderful folks in my writing group, who offer the perfect balance of discernment and support while I write.
But another facet of detached interest for me, one that’s more difficult and perhaps a lifetime’s worth of work, is learning to detach my ego and sense of self-worth from my writing, especially because proving people wrong has been such an intense motivator for me earlier in my career. It has taken many years, writing a memoir, and a lot of therapy, but I’m a lot less attached to needing to be a “successful writer” than I used to be, knowing that writing is just one of many aspects of my life and that my entire self can’t be reduced to this one activity. More importantly, I’ve come to know not just intellectually, but emotionally, that the worth of my life and writing don’t come from the rewards of others, but the deep satisfaction I get in making art and trying to be as good a person as I can.
Apart from detaching self-worth from my writing making me happier in general, one of its other effects has been to improve my work because my attention is less divided while I’m writing. My internal monologue doesn’t get nearly as disrupted with questions about whether I’m good enough, or whether my work will get published, or how many copies my books would sell. Instead, I’ve been able to focus more and more of myself in just the work, trusting that whatever outside rewards come from it is beyond my control.
So here’s a prompt: on your next writing session, notice whether and how often your writing is interrupted with thoughts about yourself or how your writing is perceived by others, rather than the work itself. After the session, reflect on ways you can reduce those thoughts so that you can maintain your full attention on your writing.
Until next time,
Meredith
P.S. If you’re curious about Aiden Rayner’s work, his website “Don’t Move Until You See It” is here, and this is an article he wrote on emotion and cognitive processing.