My Hobby Is Learning
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
" data-medium-file="https://i0.wp.com/jamierubin.net/wp-c..." data-large-file="https://i0.wp.com/jamierubin.net/wp-c..." src="https://i0.wp.com/jamierubin.net/wp-c..." alt="person holding magnifying glass pointing on book" class="wp-image-24911" srcset="https://i0.wp.com/jamierubin.net/wp-c... 1440w, https://i0.wp.com/jamierubin.net/wp-c... 400w, https://i0.wp.com/jamierubin.net/wp-c... 550w, https://i0.wp.com/jamierubin.net/wp-c... 768w, https://i0.wp.com/jamierubin.net/wp-c... 1200w" sizes="(max-width: 900px) 100vw, 900px" />Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.comI. The Wrong HobbyFor as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a writer of some kind. I didn’t start writing with the idea of submitting and selling pieces until my junior year in college. But even before then, I wrote. In third grade, I wrote a story about two friends who explore Moscow (this was 1980 and we were reading about Russia in social studies). In junior high school, I wrote a long, involved story about a guy named Steve, almost none of which I remember–except that I wrote it in AppleWorks on an Apple ][e computer. In high school, my friend Eric and I collaborated on a series of stories that we began writing on the brown paper bag book covers that covered our chemistry textbooks. Ultimately, we typed up those stories, printed, and distributed them among fellow students and they proved pretty popular. But it wasn’t until college that I got serious about writing.
Looking back, it wasn’t that serious. It couldn’t have been; it took me 14 years of occasional writing, submitting, collecting rejections, resubmitting, and writing anew before I sold my first story. Sales came faster after that, but not as quickly as they might have if I wrote more often. That should have been the first clue on this journey of discovery.
Fast-forward to December 2023. I was on vacation with the family in Florida. For some reason, I was thinking about my career, and realizing that I was getting close to the end. I did some math in my head and figured I was about 100 months away from retiring. What then? I told myself I wanted to write. But I’d struggled writing fiction since about 2015 or so. But an idea hit me like lightning: what if I tried to write a 100 stories between now and the time I retired? It would amount to about a story a month. The idea caught fire with me. I could barely sleep; I was so excited by it. I decided I’d tackle it the way I tackle big projects in my day job. If it was well-organized, it would go a long way toward succeeding. I made plans, I put together spreadsheets to help me set and track the right pace. I clarified my goals. I was a little worried that I’d be able to come up with a good idea each month, but one problem at a time. And then, lightning struck again, and I had an idea for a story I was excited to write.
On January 1, 2024, I sat down for my first fiction writing session in a long time. The story moved quickly. On January 5, I’d completed the first draft. The second draft took longer, but it was done on January 11. In early February, my writers group critiqued the story and gave me good feedback. On Valentine’s Day, I mailed off the story to a magazine, my first unsolicited submission in more than 11 years. It felt great. I immediately moved on to story number 2.
And hit a wall.
I made a discovery, or perhaps, was finally willing to admit something I’d suspected for a long time. There are some fiction writers out there who are incredibly prolific. I am not one of them. There is a feeling I get about a story and it drives me forward. If I don’t have that feeling, there is no drive. I had it for the first story, but not the second. The flaw in this great plan of mine was not the plan itself. It was the idea that I could find inspiration once a month. For fiction, at least, that just isn’t something I can do. In the past, this would have bothered me, but today I am okay with that. Because along the way, I made another discovery.
II. The Right HobbyWriting fiction is hard. Writing fiction is work. With rare exceptions (like this most recent story in January) writing fiction doesn’t make me happy. It frustrates me. It makes me feel inadequate. I find myself browsing books and thinking, How is it all of these people managed to get published?
I don’t mind hard work. Indeed, I thrive on it. But I’ve also been lucky enough to do work that generally makes me happy. Was there some hobby besides writing fiction that made me happy? Writing for the blog makes me happy, and I’ve certainly been remiss in that regard recently. The more I thought about it, however, the more I realized that there was a hobby that made me happy. It was a hobby that has made me happy for as long as I’ve been able to do it.
Reading.
And not just reading, but learning. Over the years, I’ve trended away from reading fiction and toward nonfiction not because I don’t like fiction, but because nonfiction teaches me things. I try to take practical knowledge from everything I read. I want to know about everything. I want to know how the universe works at the macroscopic level and the microscopic level. I want to know everything in between. Everything I read captures my interest in some way or another.
What is the point of all of this knowledge I get from reading? I’ll admit it makes me feel good when I can answer a question or provide an insight, although I try hard to prevent coming off as a know-it-all. That’s not difficult because I know far from all. But now and then, while dozing off, I wonder about what good this knowledge really is. One day, my power will go out and all of this accumulated knowledge in my head will vanish like erased bits in random access memory. So what is the point?
It was something that Edward Gibbon wrote before he penned The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. He wrote:
The history of empires is that of the misery of man. The history of knowledge is that of his greatness and happiness.
The history of knowledge is that of his greatness and happiness.
I think that was all I needed to hear. If knowledge brings happiness, no other justification is needed.
III. My Hobby is LearningI have altered my 100-month plan. I’ve taken off the 100-month cap. My goal is to continue to learn as much as I can, to continue to read widely, learn new things, revisit old favorites, find new connections. I am happy to write about this hobby of mine–witness my new series, Shelf-Life–since, unlike fiction, this type of writing comes much more easily to me. If lightning strikes and a story idea catches fire with me, I’ll take the time to write that, too.
Otherwise, learning is my hobby. It is the hobby that makes me most happy. It is the hobby that first caught fire with me when I wandered with my mom through the stacks of books in the Franklin Township Public Library and came across a copy of a book called The Nine Planets by Franklyn M. Branley. I still remember the thrill I got reading that book. Why not? After all, it is the same thrill I get when I turn to the first page of any book I pick up and begin to read.
Post Scripts
In full transparency, I wrote this post back in the spring of 2024. Despite being Tuesday, I had a busy day yesterday and completely ran out of time to write something new. Fortunately, I have a few pieces in reserve that I never finished, so I was able to wrap this one up and get it out today. Hopefully, today, I’ll have some time to write for later in the week.Did you enjoy this post?
If so, consider subscribing to the blog using the form below or clicking on the button below to follow the blog. And consider telling a friend about it. Already a reader or subscriber to the blog? Thanks for reading!
