When I think about a topic, it’s almost always in the form of how I would explain my views to a hypothetical other person. Then I imagine how it would sound to the other person and judge the worthiness of my thought that way. Thoughts without words are just feelings, and hard to trust. But if a thought is easy to describe, there’s a fighting chance it makes some sense.
My hypothetical other person is sometimes a group (such as yourselves), and sometimes a person. In a prior post I talked about explaining modern technology to a hypothetical caveman. Many of you commented that you do the same thing, more often with Ben Franklin than anyone else. If no one has written a doctoral thesis on the prevalence of imaginary conversations with Ben Franklin, someone really should.
I also use friends and acquaintances in the imaginary listener role. Occasionally an incumbent will serve in my imagination for several years before being rotated out. I don’t tell a person he or she is my hypothetical listener because that conversation would turn awkward. “Hey, Bruce, I was imagining you for 18 hours yesterday, as I do every day.”
For specific types of thinking I use specific types of listeners. When I write humor, I usually imagine telling a story to my older brother whose sense of humor is almost identical to my own. It also keeps my writing simple because that’s how you talk to a sibling. And humor is 90% simplicity.
Now I’m married to Shelly. That means that all of my stories of “things I did today” are practiced in my head with an imaginary Shelly. That way I am spring-loaded for when I see her. I love my wife, and having her in my head is a good arrangement. The only downside is that many of the things I do during the day make perfect sense in every context EXCEPT when explained to a wife.
For example, if I explained my day yesterday it would sound like this: “I spearheaded a presidential campaign for a man who can’t get elected, won’t run for office, and in all likelihood has already hired mercenaries to kill me.”
I also have a hard time explaining why writers need lots of naps and alone time. It comes off sounding like this: “I was going to ask if you could go to lunch with me today but instead I spent that time in the garage bouncing a ping pong ball and thinking about a caveman.” To a wife, that doesn’t seem like the right tradeoff.
Last night we were having some quality time alone at home and I made the mistake of writing myself a note while Shelly was still talking. She asked me what the note was about. I proudly told her it was about Vladimir Putin and how two of his critics were recently poisoned. It would make a great blog topic. I was quite pleased with myself, until Shelly asked, “Is that what you were thinking about while I was talking?”
Now let me explain something to the single men out there. If you think there’s an easy way to explain to your wife why you were thinking of Vladimir Putin while she is telling you about her feelings, you would be totally wrong. And I hadn’t practiced that conversation so I was caught unprepared. I think I said something along the lines of “I only think of Russian politics during the gaps between your words.” But apparently I’m supposed to be using that time just waiting around.
My brother will laugh at that last paragraph.