Friction is the very thing that makes my life exciting.
I recently touched on this idea a few newsletters ago, analyzing a book I enjoyed but didn’t agree with:
“With that being said, this book grated on my nerves with unspeakable force. The ethics and ideologies of it run so against the grain of my own worldview that sparks were flying from the friction. But I’m a firm believer in intentionally engaging with this friction. It’s thought-provoking; eye-opening; imagination-sparking. This very friction is why I sit here now, writing to you….Perhaps this is my next essay: "On Friction.””
I think of friction not in the traditional sense, as unnecessary conflict and strife, but as the challenging push-back of life. The tension of not being in control of what happens next. To some, this feels horrifying (and understandably so). As humans, our instinct is to curate a life of ultimate contentment and comfort – a problem-free reality. But of course, this reality is an illusion. When one storm passes, another brews on the horizon; and throughout it all, we’re boats on the sea, caught in the strange, paradoxal waves of systematic chaos that toss us around.
Just like Fitzgerald says in the haunting last lines of The Great Gatsby: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
The storm is inevitable; chaos is unavoidable; and friction abounds everywhere we look. That’s why fleeing the storm is counterproductive. We’ll just end up entering the storm anyway, unprepared and disillusioned. But if we can found our lives on courage, love, and truth; if we can position ourselves so that we’re steeped in inner peace and stillness while the world rages on around us…the storm loses its power.
But the only way to get to this point is to embrace the friction of daily moments.
Friction in Relationships
When taking Write of Passage this past fall, I had an amazing conversation about writing essays with one guy in particular. He DM’d me after our Zoom call, and here’s what he said:
“You might not like my essay, since it’s a bit antagonistic towards God. Are you Christian?” When I confirmed that I was, he said, “I hope this doesn’t ruin our budding friendship.”
How many judgmental, close-minded Christians had he come into contact with to feel like he needed to say this? People who – after publicly declaring their lives are built on the love of Christ – turned him away, despite the very theology their lives were supposedly centered around. Now, I’m strongly rooted in my Christian faith, and for that very reason this was heartbreaking to me. It felt backwards. I felt like I needed to apologize to him. I promise that Jesus wouldn’t have turned you away.
Our world is teeming with those who only surround themselves with like-minded people. A great fear of mine is this trend will only accelerate: humans will acquire relational tunnel vision, and only desire to consume and converse about that which they agree upon. The scary truth is we are already half-way down this dismal rabbit hole (I’m looking at you, politics and religion). In truth, building connection with people who see the world differently than you is quite beautiful.
Jesus, of course, was a master at it.
He was the Son of God, yet he was kicking it with the most hated people in society: murderers, prostitutes, and tax-collectors. The church arrested him; spit on him; crucified him; and relished in the spilling of his blood; all because he hung out with the wrong people and didn’t think the way they thought he should. He was an outlier – not because he championed the virtues of love, loyalty, and grace (many people can get behind that) – but because he championed these virtues for his enemy.
Boom. Friction.
I often think about how those prostitutes felt when Jesus defended their honor instead of shaming them; how those murderers felt when Jesus engaged them in conversation instead of avoiding eye contact like everyone else in society. I imagine they felt pretty darn grateful that Jesus chose to embrace friction.
See, it’s not about who’s right or who’s wrong in a relationship. It’s about meeting people where they’re at. The beauty of friction in relationships is the willingness to climb into somebody’s hurt and feel it with them.
Friction in the Creative Process
All writers are familiar with Resistance.
Yes, with a capital “R”, because this thing is no joke.
In his book titled The War of Art, Steven Pressfield defines Resistance as “an energy field radiating from a work in-potential. It’s a repelling force. It’s negative. Its aim is to shove us away, distract us, prevent us from doing our work.”
It manifests itself in ugly, self-sabotaging ways: procrastination, rationalization, and just flat-out giving up.
More often than not, sitting down to write my novel feels like this:
Am I good enough? Is this stupid? What if it’s bad? It’s so bad. No one’s gonna care. Maybe this isn’t what I’m meant to be doing. Am I speaking into the abyss? Probably. Maybe I need to take a break. Maybe I’ll work on it tomorrow. Someone out there is probably creating something better anyway.
And from my understanding (compiled from conversations with successful friends and years of studying great writers), this feeling will never, ever leave me. It’s simply a part of the creator contract. My seven-year-old self willingly penned her signature on the dotted line when she decided she wanted to be a writer. Creator agrees to engage in paralyzing episodes of self-doubt, friction, and Resistance. Forever.
But this paralyzing friction is exactly why I keep at it. It means that the stakes are high. That it’s important to me.
“Fear is good,” Pressfield tells us. “Fear tells us what we need to do.” And then: “Resistance is directly proportional to love….The more Resistance you experience, the more important your unmanifested art/project/enterprise is to you – and the more gratification you will feel when you finally do it.”
The reason we’re so captivated by art is yes, the art itself, but the blood, sweat, and tears behind the art – the idea that someone poured their heart and soul into creating something just for us, despite the overwhelming Resistance of it all.
Think of the Sistine Chapel. It’s one of history’s most objectively stunning and impressive works of art – but its most impressive element is how hard it was to bring into the world. Michelangelo spent five years bending backwards and painting over his head, and it permanently damaged his vision. This intense devotion to his craft was not status quo; neither was his art. This is not coincidental.
If we’re honest with ourselves, creating anything (a painting, a novel, a song) would be a dull experience if the stakes weren’t high. Everyone would be doing it, because why not? It would be like driving a car: a previously exemplary feat that lost its novelty somewhere along the way because now, anyone can be behind the wheel. It’s one thing to watch someone with a deep appreciation for cars – how they wash and shine their car by hand, keeping the leather of the seats pristine and slick, how they even shift gears and change lanes with a certain finesse – but it’s another thing entirely to watch the masses swerve around recklessly in their Sedans, littering the floor with Wendy’s to-go cups, ignoring the four different engine lights blinking rapidly on the dashboard.
Nobody weeps at how beautiful this is. There is no Resistance, no painstaking attention to detail, no inner battle being won. Anyone can do it. And with that lack of fear, that lack of love, that lack of a burning desire to get it right, the novelty of it all is lost.
The friction of Resistance protects the novelty of art. It makes for something robust and immensely fulfilling. You’ve got to love the process; or else you don’t deserve the outcome.
Friction in the What’s Next?
This is not an essay about putting on a phony, fake-positive persona and glossing over the fact that I’m terrified. This is an essay about rejecting a disillusioned life and embracing a beautiful one.
Soren Kierkegaard once said, “Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.”
I stress about the future constantly. Making friends with people who are different from me is beyond challenging. Trying to create meaningful art often feels like getting in a fistfight with myself.
But these are good signs. It means I’m on the right path. There’s a visceral beauty in being a competitor in my own life. In loving the process. In having the courage to strap in, embrace the friction, and sail through the adventure of life rather than running from it.
Thanks for reading. :)
If you feel so inclined, share this with someone you think would enjoy it.
See you next week — same place, same time. <3
G
What a wonderful essay Grace!! I will be sharing this with all my Christian friends who need this perspective shift in their lives!! PS: Excited to read what you write for OSV 😄
Superb piece, G. And that Kierkegaard quote is the fulcrum of it all.