developing taste

It feels like I’m entering a new phase in life. Among other things, I’ve moved to a different town, and I have a lot of impressions that I might write about someday if I don’t forget about them. It was hard to find time for writing since moving takes a lot of time and energy. But, on the other hand, I enjoyed not being productive. I enjoyed not having the constant background stress of tasks to be completed or side projects to be released. It’s funny how I feel guilty when I don’t work a lot, but when I work in an unhealthy and unsustainable way, my conscience is clear.

My days were filled with choosing and assembling furniture, a lot of lawn mowing (because grass grows like crazy when it’s raining this much), short stories by Ted Chiang, chopping and burning deadwood from the orchard, random songs from Parcels, beautiful essays (not mine), searching Soundcloud (it’s still alive apparently) for that band I can’t remember the name of, regretting that I don’t have a list of essays I liked anywhere, realizing that orchard work is therapy for a decade of software development.

What I wanted to focus on this past month was developing taste. I wanted to know what kind of writing resonates with me, which will help me decide how I would like to write.

There’s something very charming in Rick Rubin saying that he doesn’t know to play any instrument and only knows what he likes and doesn’t like. He is the consultant to some of the most popular musicians on the planet, and his taste is one of the most valued, yet that’s what he has to say about it. “I know what I like and what I don’t like.”

I love when people don’t pretend like that. When they say what they think without wrapping it in intellectual alufoil. I would expect an expert in taste to have something very complicated to say about it because he would probably like to appear as someone intelligent and refined. Yet he says the simplest sentence possible. I like that.

There are many ways to pretend, and writing that pretends annoys me more than unskilled writing. I would much rather be regarded as someone who lacks skill than as someone who is bullshitting himself and, consequently, others. Maybe I’ve been doing editing all wrong, and the goal should’ve been just removing that which pretends, which leaves that which is honest.

One of the recent examples of pretending that annoys me slightly is: “I think about this all the time.” No, you don’t. You think about it every day, every hour, or even every minute, but you don’t think about it all the time.

Another example of pretending that annoys me more is writing that is, of course, overly snobbish. Perhaps one would be able to detect it if one is offered a sentence that sounds written at least a hundred, nay, two hundred, years prior, that is often very lengthy and clearly demonstrates a high level of literary refinement of its creator, not to be mistaken with a creator that uses plain, everyday sentences in his or hers writing. Alas!

But maybe that’s just me. I run from people like Tom Wambsgans from Succession. I find snobbishness one of the most appalling traits overall. I don’t know if there’s a worse way to pretend: pretending that you’re above everyone else.

I love this take on reading from Montaigne: “If I encounter difficulties in reading, I do not gnaw my nails over them: I leave them there, after making one or two attacks on them.” It reveals his honesty and a low tolerance for bullshit. I remember that whenever reading a book feels like a chore. When I try reading some of the books, I’m supposed to have read. Like Anna Karenina. Like Atlas Shrugged. Even if many close friends have recommended it and were disappointed by my decision — if I’m not enjoying reading it, I quit it. Even when a writer I admire says that it’s a must-read. If I’m reading it just to be able to tell that I have read it, I know I’m bullshitting myself.

Here’s one aspect of writing I like. My favorite writers are not those who travel the world, live exciting lives, and then write about it. My favorite writers are those who live what appears to be a boring life but make it extremely exciting. That’s why “finding beauty in the mundane” is great advice. When you start noticing every small thing that’s beautiful, the world becomes a more beautiful place.

I think I can learn a lot about myself by just paying attention to what kind of writing I like and what I don’t like. Do I like that just because I’m supposed to, or would I still like it if no one did?

One of the reasons visible metrics annoy me on both Twitter and Substack: they push me to like things because other people have liked them. “Social proof”. More like social coercion and a small step towards forgetting my taste. I love discovering Substack essays that don’t have a lot of likes yet are beautiful and better written than those with hundreds of likes. It reminds me I have taste.