by Gayle Towell
Recently, I tried to join a book group. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to indulge in my love for literature while fostering meaningful connections with fellow book enthusiasts. After all, we are social animals, and being around like-minded people who can mirror our thoughts and ideas feels comforting. Unfortunately, the reality of the experience turned out more alienating than connective.
The reasons were primarily a “me problem” as my oldest child is fond of saying. Most of it boils down to my passion for writing, which previously led me to obsessively study the craft. As I read the book chosen by the group, I felt like I could too easily see the “man behind the curtain.” Like I had a sixth sense of what earlier drafts looked like, why certain choices were made, what editorial feedback was received during the process, and how the end result came about. I also had a ton of thoughts related to the feedback I would have given if I’d had the chance, and it would have been…let’s call it “thorough.” The end result was that I was unimpressed by the book and felt like it failed on many fronts, and I gained nothing from reading it but disappointment.
How the Book Club Went
When the book club discussions began, I was part curious what others would say, and part ready to point out all the contrived choices and resulting storytelling flaws. Alas, I found myself surrounded by surface-level comments and inane observations. It was as if I was witnessing the story from an entirely different vantage point. The disconnection left me feeling so out of place, part of me wanted to run from the room. It was so uncomfortable. Like, how could no one else see what I saw? I held back from sharing my thoughts because I could only imagine they’d be perceived as unnecessarily critical or pretentious.
There was discussion also on the next book that would be read. And my friends, I can only classify it as “chick lit” which, sure, has its place, but I couldn’t even.
Why Am I Like This?
I took this as an opportunity to reflect on my general inclination to seek out flaws and dissect nuances – not just in books, but in just about anything. When I was deep into the world of fiction writing and workshopping, it was an integral part of my growth. I also found at that time that different people perceived my somewhat vicious feedback differently. Some were extremely hurt or turned off by it, while others sought it out. I, in turn, sought out critiques that were blunt and challenging more than those which felt like empty praise. And I feel very strongly that this led to rapid growth.
I often take this approach when learning new skills or diving into a new situation. I dissect, look for critical feedback, dig, obsess, ask way too many questions, start pointing out flaws in others or in processes, and on and on, because I not only want to understand, but I want to optimize and perfect.
But then I struggle with this strange duality where I feel like I want meaningful connection with others, but my tendency to point out flaws, disagree with fine points, and seek deeper exploration leads to alienation. It’s like the features of myself that make me who I am – that drive me toward growth, improvement, and understanding – are the very features that make others view me as weird and toxic.
The Challenge of Connecting
As social animals, we crave connections with others who resonate with our thoughts and ideas. Human interactions often involve mirroring, where we seek validation through shared perspectives. It’s a comforting feeling when someone mirrors our thoughts, and it validates our beliefs, providing a sense of belonging and acceptance.
Striking the right balance between expressing constructive criticism and fostering meaningful connections can be a delicate task, and it’s one that I continue to navigate. This internal struggle can be frustrating at times, leaving me questioning my approach to human interactions.
I suppose this is one of the reasons Feral Polymaths was created. Surely there must be other socially volatile obsessives out there I can connect with! But it also provides an outlet for exploring the roots of my weirdness. I could be conceited and just say it’s because I’m oh so smart. But I’m sure some serious insecurities underlie it as well. Like: Perhaps I always want to be as accurate and precise and clear as possible so that no one can refute my reasoning or my handle on reality. Or something like that…
Feral Polymaths 