I will do the thing I do. But not the other.
A phrase I uttered in my sleep a long time ago is a perfect way to talk about the magic of a writing prompt.
On a typical day I get more than a hundred emails, and at least 90% of them are not of the praise-worthy, old-fashioned sort.
As I scrolled through the batch that came in Friday night into Saturday morning, deleting almost all of the spam, promotions and gibberish immediately, a subject line stopped me:
Your awaited privilege is here.
What could this be? A missive from a reader or listener who didn’t like something I made? An uninvited but readable diatribe about the state of being in 2024? An interesting inquiry?
(I opened it, and sadly it was just a bogus announcement that I won a tool set).
The real gift, though, was reminding me of the power of a writing prompt.
The e-mail made me remember a half-finished pieced I had tucked away on the nature of privilege. Whether I ever finish is unclear at this point because it needs more focus, but it’s one of countless ideas in various states of progress.
Most of the initial concepts, no more than 10 to 20 words apiece, sit in a cluttered and nonsensical to everyone (but me) Word document that I started a year ago. Revisiting that file on Saturday morning reminded me of this:
I will do the thing I do. But not the other.
Sometime in a past life — OK, actually my own lived current life that seems like a long time ago now — I am told that I said that exact phrase.
My wife was awake for it, but I was somewhere between awake and asleep as I am sometimes when I apparently said it.
She told me about it the next morning, and it has become one of those unforgettable catchphrases that has followed us through our now more than two decades together.
When I was getting back into creative writing again and making plans for this site, she suggested it could be a fun writing prompt to build around.
Another similarly memorable phrase from our history: We took a trip to Glacier National Park in 2003. Both of us were novice hikers, but as we set up camp the first night I showed my wife a few different options for an initial hike the next day. The one I thought made the most sense was about six miles. She pointed to a much longer route, and as I added it up the total was about 25 miles. I told her that didn’t seem like a very good idea.
“I just don’t understand why you would want to limit yourself,” she said.
We did the shorter hike and learned that it was plenty strenuous, but a phrase was born.
Both of those utterances took on a life of their own because, I would now say in retrospect, they both reveal truths about us. My wife is not afraid to test and push past limits, which almost always serves her well (except when it could get us stranded in the dark in bear country).
In the best light, my sense that “I will do the thing I do. But not the other,” is a sort of unrelenting belief in myself, a path or a purpose. We are going this way (or doing this thing), not going that way (or doing that thing).
It’s a confidence and self-assuredness, a “follow me, this is the right way, I’ve worked it all out in my head” mentality that again usually works as a strong guiding force in my life, work and art.
That it sometimes presents as stubbornness and inflexibility is something of which I have become increasingly aware in recent years — the other side of the same coin.
If I think I’m right, I have a hard time coming off that path. At least I have (sort of) learned to stop fact-checking disagreements with my wife in real-time.
I’ve learned this through self-reflection, but also through seeing pieces of it reflected back on me by our children.
Our oldest, now 10, was being stubborn when she was 3 (not uncommon for that age, which is far worse than the “terrible twos,” don’t let anyone tell you differently), and I was trying to reason with her. I said hey, I have a lot of life experience. I’m not just telling you to do something. I have seen how this might play out, and I want to help you if you’ll just listen.
I’ll never forget how she thought for a minute and said: “I only have to listen to myself,” an attitude she still carries (while being far more reasonable now).
Our middle child had some challenges transitioning to kindergarten, and might have been sent to the principal’s office for purposely knocking over a chair in frustration.
Those edges largely have been smoothed out, and she thrived the rest of that year and now in first grade as well, but I’ll never forget her kindergarten teacher analyzing her (correctly) and saying something to the effect of: “She’s just very particular. Her self-belief is going to serve her very well, and she’s going to be a wonderful adult. But right now it’s hard.”
Our youngest is 4, and he also displays some of these traits. He is unyielding in his belief that every day needs to be special, which I have to admit is admirable but also exhausting.
“What fun thing are we going to do today?” he often asks, whether it’s the beginning of a sunny Saturday in May or near the end of a dreary Wednesday in January, and it’s hard to be the one to disappoint him.
Why shouldn’t every day have something fun, new, interesting, or all of the above?
He is by far the most attentive of our three children while we are in the car, often eschewing any activity beyond just looking out the window even while we are on long trips. I get the sense that he wants to learn everything, and that he already knows a lot.
He is curious about relative size, often asking if a whale (he loves sea creatures) is bigger than various large things like buildings and cars. And he is fascinated by age, life and death, mostly in a curious and innocent way.
Earlier this week, when it was just the two of us driving on an errand, he started asking me if various things were alive.
Is a truck alive? No.
Am I alive? Yes.
Is a tree alive? Short pause, but yes.
Is water alive?
Long pause. Still going.
Well, I started, that’s a good question. Water isn’t born and doesn’t die like an animal or a plant. But it is made up of elements — two molecules of hydrogen, one of oxygen — and it is fundamental to life. So I suppose you might say —
Is fire alive?
The 4-year-old didn’t even wait, and he had me on the ropes.
Is wind alive?
I wanted to pull the car over and check his factory settings to see if he was actually a robot sent to ask me complicated questions.
After gathering myself, I went back to my original answer. A lot of those things are sort of like water, I said. They’re not alive like we are or even like plants are. They aren’t born and they don’t die. They don’t feel or think, as far as I know. But I guess it depends on what you think of as alive.
Are dinosaurs alive?
Thank goodness. Dinosaurs used to be alive, but now they’re extinct. You know that, buddy.
We talked for a while about what it would be like if dinosaurs and humans were both alive at the same time, and how that would definitely increase his chances of being eaten and therefore no longer alive — definitely not his preference, nor mine.
Is dirt alive?
Hmmm, good question. Let me think about that a little more, but now we’re home. Do you want to press the button for the garage?
Classic redirection, which works almost every time even on smart 4-year-olds.
He doesn’t need to learn yet that it’s hard for me to admit things that I’m not sure about, and that I’ll always give him an answer.
I will know the thing I know and do the thing I do. But not the other.