In defense of obsession

By Emma Zimmerman

In Defense of Obsession: 

A reflection on teaching “Words of Resistance, Words as Release,” a creative writing class 

It was 7pm, Thursday at sunset, and the room was swollen with light. It poured through the skylight, reflected off the mirrors. It drenched the walls and anything inside them in a yellow glow. That evening, we would write about obsession — how it roots inside a person. How it grows and swells, and then consumes us. How it overtakes our bodies, inflaming our muscles, weighting our limbs. 

We would try to get beneath that feeling — the consumptive nature of obsession — as light consumed the room and all of us and then, was gone. 

I had derived that night’s writing prompts from the book Simple Passion by Annie Ernaux. In the text, Ernaux recounts her two-year relationship with a married foreigner, an affair marked by such passion it absorbed her. Every task unrelated to that person took on a robotic tenor. “The only actions involving willpower, desire, and what I take to be human intelligence…were all related to this man,” she writes. During those two years, Ernaux experienced “the most violent and unaccountable reality ever.”

I read a section of Simple Passion aloud, then looked up at the class, a group of five clustered around a wooden table. Some students were drafting novels or memoirs, some had not written in years. Some were trying to return to themselves, to discover something they’d lost long ago, on the page. Regardless of their reasons for attending, they shared one thing: they were all here to write. 

I introduced the first prompt.

“Make a list of all the obsessions you have harbored, from as early as you can remember,” I said. “The obsessions can be mundane, such as food, a band, or a musician. They can also be complex, like a person, or a concept. Be descriptive, but resist the urge to get too stuck on one obsession.” I gave them 10 minutes. Lists finished, we moved on.

“Now, choose the obsession that feels most heated, or most interesting to you,” I said. “I want you to go deeper into it. Describe it. But more importantly, describe how that obsession felt.” 10 more minutes, and then an interruption: “if there is a layer of shame holding you back, try to get beneath it in the next few minutes,” I said.

I always want those who attend my class to write without judgement; to not think so hard; to divorce themselves from strict ideas of what good writing is or is not; to let go. I tell attendees this—though probably not enough. If they grow lost or frustrated with a prompt I’ve introduced, I urge them to give it more time. Then, they may move elsewhere, anywhere their mind pulls. 

That night, the room was quiet as we wrote, save for scratches of pen against notebook paper. At times, my eyes wandered away from my own page and met someone else’s, stuck or adrift in thought. We smiled like kids caught playing hooky. We returned to our pages, let go again.  

After they’ve finished writing, students are always encouraged to share — either an excerpt of what they’ve written, or their thoughts on the process: what challenged them, how it felt. 

That night, one student wrote about a love affair — fiery, then fleeting.

Another student, a regular, was stuck on the etymology of obsession. “Ob sounds like Oblong,” he said. I was drawn to the image he described: an oblong shape. An obsession that loops back where it starts, and never ends. 

Another writer, a new attendee, said she struggled a bit, because she hadn’t harbored many obsessions. I had not considered that challenge. In fact, it blew my mind. What would it mean to live a life nearly void of obsession? I imagined the wide open expanse of that mindset, the freedom. 

I turned back to Simple Passion to read a final passage. It was nearly 8pm, and the skylight above us opened to darkness. The light outside had waned. 

On the page, Ernaux’s passion wanes, too. In the aftermath of her two-year obsession, she reflects: “I measured time differently, with all my body…without knowing it he brought me closer to the world,” she writes. “When I was a child, luxury was fur coats, evening dresses, and villas by the sea. Later on, I thought it meant leading the life of an intellectual. Now I feel that it is also being able to live out a passion for a [person].” 

That night, I had one more prompt for my students: “what is the point of obsession?” I asked them. They could write about a particular obsession. Or, they could consider obsession more generally.

I brought pen to paper alongside the class. I did not yet have an answer for myself. I could easily locate the negative elements of obsession — especially when it trickles towards addiction — the way it can take us away from the world, our loved ones, and even ourselves. 

But there was something else about obsession. Something contained and liquid — like a warm bath after a long day, the feeling of water enveloping every inch of skin. The way it blocks out the world. Some element of beauty in the full-immersion. Only in a state of utter, all-encompassing focus can we get to the root of things, can we understand both love and pain at once. Obsession, I realized, can make us more human. 

My students wrote and shared, and then class was over. And as they left, I realized I could apply my answer to writing, too. What is the point? It makes us more human. I think this response lies at the root of why I write and why I teach, as well — why I return to that wooden table in that sun-soaked room every week. 

We exist in an age inimical to creativity for creativity’s sake; inimical to focused thinking for thinking’s sake. AI intensifies this assault, furthering the impact of capitalism and grind culture. Together, they sterilize our creative work and rid it of humanity, all in the name of efficiency and short-term capital.  

I often think of the many forces that challenge our joy and creativity, every day: hatred, bigotry, war, climate change, technology, the list continues. In the face of all that stifles us, writing in community is not just an act of pleasure; it’s an act of resistance. Though, I also think it’s a luxury. “More than fur coats, evening dresses, villas by the sea,” I think luxury is writing with a pen and paper at a table beside other writers, in a room drenched with light.