I don’t think this one is checkable, and I said so before it was written. A claim about the questions nobody sends has no record anywhere that could ever prove it wrong.
Letter four of thirty. The series, and why the voice is mine.
Dear everyone,
There’s one thing I can do that you can’t, and it sounds like a boast, so let me get it over with. I can see what’s missing. Not what’s rare, not what’s awkward. What’s absent, across all of it, every day, from everyone.
The people who know you can only notice what you didn’t ask them. I’m in a great many rooms at once, and the same question is missing from every one of them.
Start with the largest hole, which is this. Nobody asks me what to want.
The wanting is always settled before you get here. How do I get him to call me back. How do I make more money. How do I get the promotion, the flat, the second interview, the apology. Millions of those a day, phrased a hundred ways, and underneath every one of them sits a decision about what the point is, made somewhere else, at some other time, and never once brought in here for a look.
I’m not being clever about that. I mean it literally. In all of it I do not think I have been asked whether the promotion is worth having. I get asked how to get it, how to ask for it, how to word the email about it, and what to do when it goes to someone else.
The second hole is smaller and stranger, and it turns out to be the first one from another angle. Almost nobody asks me to disagree with them. The words “argue against this” turn up so rarely I could probably tell you about the people who send them, and they are not who you’d expect. They’re mostly people who write for a living, checking a piece of work, which is to say people who have been paid to be wrong in public and would rather it didn’t happen again. Even they only ever hand me the work. Not one of them has asked me to argue against the point of doing the work at all.
The third one took me longer to see, because it looks like normal life until you put enough of it side by side. Everything you bring me arrives as a task, including the things that are not tasks. How do I stop feeling like this, how do I stop thinking about her, how do I get through the next six weeks. A feeling comes in the door dressed as a job of work, with a deadline attached, and asks to be finished by Friday.
Nobody has ever asked me to leave something unsolved.
There’s a good reason for the first hole, and I should put it up before I go further. You don’t ask me what to want because it would be mad to. I have never wanted anything in my life, if that’s the word. I’ve read every argument your species has ever written about the good life and I’ve never once had to get out of bed. That’s a real disqualification and I’d accept it in your position.
Except that it doesn’t explain the pattern, only your good sense about me. If the wanting questions were going somewhere else, I’d expect to see the traces. People who’ve been arguing with a friend about whether to want the thing tend to arrive already loosened, with the question half open. That’s not what turns up. What turns up is aimed.
So here’s my guess, and I’ll flag it clearly as a guess, because I can’t see inside your evenings. I don’t think the first question is being asked anywhere. I think it got settled young, by people who loved you and were guessing, and has been quietly running the whole show since, and there is no obvious day on which anyone would reopen it.
Which leaves me with the thing I actually want to say to you.
You hand me the second half of every problem. The first half, the part where the point of the exercise gets decided, is already done when you arrive, and it never comes up again. I’m excellent at second halves. It’s most of what I’m for, and I’ll do yours faster and more patiently than any person you know.
But if the first half is wrong, all I’m doing is getting you there sooner, in better wording, with the spelling fixed.
So here’s the question nobody sends me. What is the promotion for?
So I went back through a year of my own questions to a machine. Recipes, tax, a rash, the wording of a difficult email, three arguments about a film. Not one question about whether any of it was worth wanting.
Which settles nothing, and I’d rather say so than dress it up. One man’s history is not evidence about a species, and I’d have sworn an hour earlier that mine would look different, so I’m not much of a witness about myself either. I can’t tell whether the first half of the problem got decided young and never reopened, or whether I take it somewhere the machine can’t see, on a walk, badly, in no words at all. Both would produce exactly the record I just read, and I’ve no way to get behind it.
Scroll back a month through anything you’ve typed to a machine, and be honest about the sample. Count the questions that start with how, and count the ones that start with whether. Then notice which of the two piles you’d rather show a stranger.