Our relationship with the novel is such a fickle thing.
(I’m referring here to to the idea of something new and unusual, not fictitious prose narratives, although you may also have a fickle relationship with the latter.)
On the one hand, we crave novelty at every turn.
We usually approach a new job, new project, new relationship with excitement and vigour, only to have our enthusiasm abate with time, where we then start to feel sluggish and the desire to move on to the next new thing. We change things up and suddenly they become worthwhile again. Novelty keeps us excited; it keeps us from fizzling out.
Even our perception of time is moulded by our experiences of the novel. More novel experiences make time seem longer. Think of your schooling years, or a time period you spent abroad. Perhaps it was only for a year, three months, or just a week-long holiday, but the many novel experiences during that time made it feel much longer than the same amount of “ordinary life” would.
If you’re in your 30s like me, perhaps you’ve reached a point in life where most things are now familiar (and dare I say, boring?) and you wonder if seeking out something new — a new fitness regime, a new career, a new house — will bring more colour to your now grayscale days.
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On the other hand, when we’re faced with a new situation we lack knowledge in or are required to flex a new skill we don’t quite possess, we falter. We hem and haw and then say “I’m not that type” or “it’s not for me” before we even start. Or perhaps we do give it a shot, suck at it, then say to ourselves (and whoever else is listening), “see, I told you I’m bad at it”.
In these cases, we resist the new because of our discomfort in having to face something that we aren’t good at. We prefer to stay within the confines of the old and familiar, because we can rely on muscle memory (yes, the stuff I wrote about in my last newsletter) and our already-accomplished achievements to support the notion that we are successful.
For those of us living in achievement-obsessed Singapore, we’ve been taught to think that if you’re not good at something, it’s not worth your time doing. Outsource it. Pay someone else to do it. Stick to what you’re good at. Maximise efficiency.
And so, most of us aren’t good at doing things we aren’t good at.
While “efficient”, we become stuck in our silos doing the same things over and over, sticking to our specialisations and leaving the rest to the “experts”. Yet, the lack of novelty can make us feel stuck, trapped, and bored.
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We find ourselves in a conundrum. We desire the new and flashy, but only insofar as it’s something familiar and doesn’t require something new of us. Perhaps that’s why it’s easy to rationalise spending money on new things (”it’s just money”) or giving our attention to easy-to-consume media (”doesn’t cost me anything to veg out and watch”).
There is nothing that comes without a price, and even these “easy” new things often come at a much higher cost that we may find hard to quantify (or choose to ignore) — the cost of a lavish lifestyle is perhaps the inability to spend time where it may matter more than in the office, while the incessant media consumption results in poor temperament and a huge loss of time.
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We need to seek out the better new.
The new that is hard. The new that comes at a cost, but a cost that will grow us, rather than deplete us.
Hard is not bad. In fact, most things that are worthwhile are hard. Relationships. Growth. Choosing a government.
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It’s the decisions we make in favour of the hard over the easy that help us to grow in patience in relationships, in our view of the world, and in our ability to cook for our families daily.
Will I choose the easy path for a quick dopamine hit, or am I willing to trudge through the hard, to emerge stronger on the other end?
It’s necessary for us to encounter the new, not just for kicks, but to be kicked in the rear-end.
What new thing will you be doing this week?
Facing our fears together,
P.S. If this email landed in your junk mail, please remember to mark this my email address as “safe” or add to contacts so that it won’t happen again!
From my commonplace
“
This is what stories are for — moving reality from the head to the heart. We must tell and retell the stories of reality to ourselves and our children, lest we continue to live in our bad dreams.
— Justin Whitmel Earley, Habits of the Household
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