Resistance Writer
The most poignant of the unwittingly revealing prefaces of a story that ends badly begins with, “All I wanted was . . . ” This morning, as I was oscillating between the dozing and waking states, there popped into my stream of consciousness the recognition that maybe —just maybe —on a day in which I had nothing else scheduled, I could get some writing done, without interruptions. Fortunately, I’ve a place I can get away to occasionally, as near to a scriptorium as I can hope to find within easy reach. (That fact alone qualifies me for cosmic wrath. Who am I to upset the balance of nature by striving for an unqualified good?)
But I discovered that my nearby writing refuge wasn’t available today. Consequently, I was “all dressed up with no place to go.” That is, my satchel of writing gear was in my hand, my writing ideas were in my mind, and my expectation of a fulfilled desire for writing held the reins of my heart. I was determined not to return home dissatisfied and empty-handed, or in this case, empty-paged. What to do? Answering that question should not have been difficult. All I wanted was a quiet place to write.
The Shops in the Mall
I recalled that I had in my wallet gift cards for various coffee shops. Perhaps a local mall could afford me an opportunity for a little bit of quiet writing? Given my modified and moderate (or so I thought) expectations, the nearby mall offered tantalizing inducements for hope. There were three coffee shops and a tea shop within walking distance of each other. All I needed to do was park the car, order a beverage, and start writing.
At the first coffee shop, the coffee was good, the atmosphere comfortable, and the “music” unbearable. Who sets up a coffee shop with a music scheme suitable for a mosh pit? I was about to write, “You would think that . . . ”, but stopped myself in time.
So I took my coffee outside and sat at a table on the shaded patio. There was traffic noise, but it was at a sufficiently consistent level of din that one could grow accustomed to it without suffering it as an insuperable distraction.
The same couldn’t be said for the young lady seated at the table next to mine, once I had made the careless mistake of making myself comfortable. Given her age, it was no surprise to me when she demonstrated her facility for yelling into her phone, which lay on the table in front of her, while scrolling on the screen with one hand and preening into a mirror held by the other. I continue to marvel (but not wonder) at people who are so very self-conscious while giving no indication of having ever been self-aware.
She spoke both at a high level of volume and in extensive detail about matters of such a nature that I found myself wishing she could soon find the services of a good confessor —as well as the aid of a doctor, pharmacist, therapist, and hygienist. I stayed to finish my coffee, during which time I didn’t attempt to do anything even minimally writerly —not so much as the uncapping of a pen. I scooped up my satchel and set off undaunted (or so I told myself) in search of another writing venue.
The other coffee shops had the same level of musical excess without the benefit of outdoor seating. The tea shop, though promising, had a zeal for local (which is to say, idiosyncratic) Covid mask mandates that precluded my being a customer there for the foreseeable future. All I wanted was a quiet plact to write. Should I accept that the cosmos would deny me this simple good and resign myself to not writing today?
Yet, as I see it, if I have anything of lasting value to offer anyone (including God), it must include words. So I set out again, looking for a place where I could sit down and write.
The Bookstore Café
Soon I found myself driving along quiet and winding roads. I was traveling through the kind of scenery one sees in car commercials. Twists and turns leading to unexpected vistas. Solitary stretches of road where one can enjoy one’s own company and one’s own thoughts.
That magical time suffered the fatal flaw of all forms of magic —it ended.
Now I’m in a bookstore’s café, paper and pens spread before me, an overpriced “health drink” within easy reach. Big Band music descends upon me from overhead speakers. The folkster at the next table, along with his guitar, competes with it for attention. Two more features are needed to complete the tableau.
To my left, a young man has just been joined by a companion. A few years apart in age, these two men apparently have much in common. Devotees of slang would designate them as “incels” (“involuntary celibates”). More neutrally, one might say that these two young men have never, ever learned to care for themselves or to present themselves. There is nothing about them to suggest that a healthy female contemporary might find them attractive.
To my right, two mothers are attempting to bribe their little boys with sugary treats to be “good.” Negotiations seem to be going poorly.
I’m in a bookstore café, and no one around me seems interested in reading or writing.
“All I wanted was . . . ”
Why do I keep saying that?
Why Write?
Today, I’ve seen no one at peace, no one being stilled by wonder or contemplation. Instead, I’ve seen people who seem fully adapted to the manic pace and corrosive qualities of a sick culture. They seem to be like fish accustomed to swimming in dirty water —apparently unaware that this shouldn’t be.
I cannot be the only one gasping for air in this environment, alarmed by its degradation and decadence, but no one else seems to notice. I am now so desperate for any contact with the treasures of the soul that I’m willing to compromise: I’ll take quiet for silence, calmness for stillness, anonymity for solitude. But even these prove elusive, almost inaccessible.
Still, I have spent the day chasing down these desiderata —why? Let’s remember today’s rallying cry: “All I wanted was . . . ” I wanted all these things, but they weren’t all I wanted. I wanted them for the sake of writing. Why?
We’re reminded repeatedly, rightly or wrongly (rightly I fear) that the image has overtaken the word as the primary means of communication. Hence, I’m sitting in a bookstore café that doesn’t facilitate reading, surrounded by people who show no interest in reading. So why write at all?
Flannery O’Connor was once asked, “Why do you write novels?” She replied, “There are things I want to say that I can say only through story. And, I’m good at it.” Adapting O’Connor’s reply for my own case today: “I want to write because there are things I want to say that I can say only through the written word. And I want (need?) to find out if I’m good at it.”
Threefold Defiance
I think I can explain why I want to be good at writing. When I was about fifteen years old, I happened upon a dictionary entry for the word “defiance.” There were three definitions: (1) “open disobedience,” (2) “contempt of opposition,” and (3) “disposition to resist.” I can use all three to account for my stubborn attempts to write.
Writing-as-defiance-as-open-disobedience: I believe that the act (and a fortiori, the habit) of writing is a laudable act of resistance to the common culture. It’s true that airport vendors still sell printed matter, harkening back to a time when people sat and read while waiting or flying. Nowadays, however, most travelers are riveted to their electronics. Reading in such an environment is a silent rebuke: “See —it doesn’t have to be that way! You have options. You don’t have to immerse yourself in your screen.”
Likewise, writing (by hand!) is a jolt and a lifeline to those few who suspect they’re drowning in their electronics, even as they can’t imagine the alternatives they might be wishing for. One might, on impulse, pick up a book or magazine at an airport kiosk. Doing so would remind him, and those still in possession of eyes to see, that we can choose how to spend our time and attention, that we have a wider range of options than the common culture affords.
Writing by hand in public, rather than staring blankly into a screen, makes evident that we can both desire and choose agency rather than passivity. We can choose to be producers rather than consumers.
Writing-as-defiance-as-contempt-of-opposition: I recall Gene Roddenberry stating, “Television exists for just one reason —to sell you things.” Mass consumer culture is more than a vendor. The range of its dynamics is greater than simply facilitating the transfer of wealth from consumer to merchant. Mass culture is a principal venue for propaganda, seduction, illusion, and addiction.
When you’re writing, you’re not actively drinking from the poisoned well of mass culture. Moreover, by writing, you can produce “content” that’s an alternative to the “official narrative.” By making your written words available to others, you can present work that is of greater substance, craft, artistry, wisdom, and truthfulness than what people have grown accustomed to.
An illustration: When I was a new teacher, I resolved to become an excellent teacher. Several factors impelled me toward this goal. One was to pay gladly a debt of gratitude to my great teachers by honoring their good example. Another was my desire (duty?) to repudiate the bad example of my lousy teachers. My commitment to excellence tacitly reproached those who showed no interest in excellence: “See —it didn’t have to be that way! Neither you nor I needed to settle for mediocrity.” Choosing to write truthfully while striving to learn how to write consistently well implies contempt for the low standards of mass consumer culture.
Writing-as-defiance-as-disposition-to-resist: Even if mass culture were benign (or at least morally neutral), I’d want to defy it. The culture’s lack of intelligence, as well as its indifference to excellence and beauty, would compel me to do so. But mass culture for the most part isn’t benign. It’s toxic, corrupting, debilitating —malignant as any metastatic cancer. Deadening the powers of the soul, it isolates us even as it molds us into an undifferentiated mass. I choose to write because I don’t want my enemy to become my captor. That’s why I must write and why I will write.
Invitation & Exhortation
I’ll end with two questions that I have urged my students to ask of everything they read and hear: “So what? Who cares?”
I hope I’ve made clear why I struggled for so many hours today to find a place to sit and write. Even after suffering under the baleful effects of a disapproving cosmos, having repeatedly said, “All I wanted was . . . ”, I persisted. The reasons I did so were sufficient for me. What has that to do with you?
My invitation and exhortation to you is this: Join the resistance! Read slowly and carefully. Read things printed on paper. Read what is true, good, and beautiful. Read and then savor examples of the art and craft of good writing. That’s the first step.
Here’s the next step: Write! Write slowly when you can and quickly when you must. Care enough about your content, craft, and audience to rewrite. Then rewrite some more. Write defiantly. Prove wrong by the act and results of your writing the lie that there are no alternatives to the purported inevitability, universality, and sufficiency of mass culture.
Some politically minded people like to call themselves “rebels” but are merely vandals. Some religiously minded people like to call themselves “prophets” but are merely shills. Let’s learn from their bad example. We can choose instead to become defiant writers, committed to the truth, committed to excellence. Let the cosmos beware!
Robert McTeigue is host of The Catholic Current, airing on The Station of the Cross Catholic Media Network. His latest books from Ignatius Press are Real Philosophy for Real People: Tools for Truthful Living (2020) and Christendom Lost and Found: Meditations for a Post Post-Christian Era (2022).
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