Golf and Writing

The golf bug bit again during a trip to northern Michigan. I only played nine holes the whole time, but just breathing the area air and seeing the billboards for gorgeous courses along the highway seemed to have an effect. I lapsed into old habits; phantom swinging in front of the mirror, an urgent follow-up session at the driving range after the round. I thought I was over this after graduating from college a few years ago and being too busy for the game. But golf isn't so easily passed from your system.

So I tried to justify the apparent relapse of my obsession. What was it that was drawing me to golf, despite all the rational reasons not to play (its snooty country club ethos, the complex and elusive physics of properly hitting a ball, the time, energy, and expense that could be put toward better things.) Soon I realized what the issue was: golf is like writing. I'm a writer. And relatedly, I'm a golfer.

Writing requires intense concentration, finicky perfectionism, constant revision, endless practice, nagging flaws, steady patience, and a passion for the occasional satisfying result. So does golf.

Maybe the analogies justify this sibling obsession. Then again, maybe I have enough neuroses in my life.