What passes for information? Today I’ve Googled “London train stations,” “Bombay train stations,” (no, I’m not writing about trains, but am researching “transport hubs”) “karate,” “Rocky and Bullwinkle,” “the Stans” (as in the countries of central Asia) and “plastic.” These are the Googles I remember. I’m sure I’ve searched for more today.
I learned today that my son has an ankle sprain. He’s on crutches for a few days, delaying the start of his soccer season tomorrow. Last year, I shredded my ankle, tearing all the ligaments, and went from crutches to what I called an “ankle bra” and then a thick sock. When the accident occurred, the pain was absolutely tremendous, the kind of pain that makes one hallucinate and recoil and ill. Seeing my son’s little sprained ankle brought all that back to me. I can feel a twinge in my ankle right now. Information.
There’s a passage in one of my stories: Ignorance may be bliss but it sure isn’t fun. That’s the character talking. I think ignorance in this day and age is kind of interesting. It’s almost a luxury. Yes, ignorance can lead to awful, hurtful things. Don’t get me wrong. But I kind of like the thought of not knowing. We live in information overload. Not knowing is an idea with a certain appeal.
When I was writing my book, and I suppose this is true of all writers, the blank pages in my notepad were pages of possibility, pages of potential, scrims of ignorance waiting for the information. The Information. After the day I’ve spent, in meetings (I had three long meetings today), working, Googling “London train stations,” not knowing is bourbon at the end of a long day. I’m a big fan of bourbon.