Hobby goggles

When you’re passionate about a hobby, it filters over your whole world. You pay attention to things that you’ve overlooked up to that point, and suddenly they become points of interest.

When I got really into rock climbing, I’d note boulders as I drive past them on the highway. Same bunch of rocks I’d passed literal thousands of times before, except now, I’d think of how I’d approach them in a climb, where the best angle of attack was and how long I think it would take. When I became serious about piano, I’d see music in a new light. I’d hear a song and challenge myself to figure it out on the keys. No sheet music or YouTube tutorial, just sitting down, getting it wrong until I get it right.

It activated my imagination. Normally I’d spend car rides where thinking about groceries or whatever inane thing was important in office politics. But now I was daydreaming about that note, and I could wait to get home, and test out a new theory.

And it strikes me that I don’t do that with writing, which is decidedly odd, for an alleged author. So, sitting in traffic yesterday, I decided to give it a go. I picked out rusted roadsigns, and cracked sidewalks where leaves rode rivulets to clump up at the storm drains. Now, I am not perceptive. I don’t notice what cars people drive, what clothes they wear, or what clothes I wear, for that matter. And to force-feed myself this much sensory information was a hazard to my actual driving. It was an overwhelming shift from my normal near-auto-pilot drive while I daydream.

Because I spend my life in my own head more than in my vicinity.

And even if I’m worried about whether pushing myself to new sensory heights is technically safe, it’s good to know what I’m missing. I’m developing my craft, and knowing there’s something to practise is good. Maybe just not in the middle of Hong Kong rain traffic.