On Memoirs and Motivation

Last night in bed, I was thinking about what I'd written yesterday, all those reasons I love running. I remembered reading "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" (Haruki Murakami, English publication 2008) and the joy which came from hearing my own heart's delight echoed in Murakami's reflections.

I was very lucky to have picked up that book when I did; one of my sisters had given it to me a few months earlier, and it had sat on my To Read pile for a while. The timing was fortunate because I'd just finished Anna Goldsworthy's "Piano Lessons".

Goldsworthy's book is another memoir, of her piano lessons with an extraordinary teacher. A musical friend had gushed at the evocative language she used, and Goldsworthy certainly has a way with words; I wish I had the book in front of me to provide examples - but I wouldn't trust my memory to do her justice! It certainly was a very well written book, about music, obsession, achievement, anxiety, and the life-giving relationship it's possible to have with a fantastic mentor.

Perhaps those are the reasons that, while I was reading it, I kept thinking: "This is the most wonderful book I've read in ages! She speaks to my condition, my passion, my loves. This one's going on the Favourites list."

But after I'd finished reading and in the days following, I noticed a dip in my mood. I found myself looking at my life and noticing the shortfalls between its reality and the idealized version in my head; instead of finding this amusing, the gap seemed to loom large; it grated. Thankfully, at this point I picked up Murakami's book, and the cause of my malaise was made clear.

It comes down to motivation. Both Murakami and Goldsworthy are driven by obsession ... but what is fuelling their obsession? They are both passionate ... but wherein lies the roots of that passion?

Clearly, having met neither of these people (though I wish I could!), what I am about to say is predicated only on their writings - i.e. highly constructed versions of themselves; and my response to it - necessarily idiosyncratic. But after reading Murakami I felt uplifted, alive, motivated to go out and do more of the things I loved. After reading Goldsworthy I found myself measuring my life's achievements against hers and thinking, "We're two women of roughly the same age, with roughly the same background (private-school education in Adelaide, doctor fathers) and interests (music, academia); how did her life turn out so differently to mine?"

I wonder whether the difference lies in the locus of their motivation - Murakami: internal, Goldsworthy: external? Or whether their goals in pursuing their passions were different; one of my favourite psychologists comes to mind again (Edward Deci) and his writings about motivation which I mentioned briefly in a previous blog. Murakami's obsession is perhaps focussed more on process, Goldsworthy's on ends; Murakami's on living/"being" the good life, Goldsworthy's on "doing" the good life ... if that makes sense.

Having been a devout Christian, and pondering my reactions, the words of Matthew 7:16 come to mind ("By their fruits shall ye know them ..."). I guess the bottom line is this: I read two excellent memoirs; one left me feeling flat and focussed on real or imagined deficits in my life, the other left me feeling uplifted and encouraged me in my pursuit of "more than ordinary moment[s] of existence" (Robert Henri).

Thank you, Murakami, for nurturing the desire for The Good Life within me.