When I was twenty-three, a buddy of mine took me out for lunch, and attempted, over oysters, to prove I am not intense.
“I hate intense people,” he said. ”You’re not intense. You’re pragmatic. You’re a pragmatic artist. You seem intense because people don’t know the difference.”
What kind of argument is that, exactly? And what is the problem with intensity? Why is intensity scary?
It may have something to do with focus. And will. Something unrelenting, and dark. Predators are intense. Prey are not.
And why did he feel the need to argue the point with me? Whom did he intend to convince, himself, or me?
I think every driven artist worries about her intensity. Her inability to balance. Her unwillingness to compromise. I let him have his argument that afternoon. Listened as though it didn’t matter. His spurious claims. His flawed theorems.
Partly, I never wanted to own it. The foundling on the steps. And partly, I cherish it. The mountain on fire. The air filled with ash. The burnout.
I think what you describe is scary as a default. When that’s your baseline, where do you go from there? And how can you harness it — how do you control it?
I don’t, always, control it. And that, of course, is the scary part. But I don’t know another way to live — without intensity, I mean. And at this point, I wouldn’t give it up if I could.